A Letter on Starting Over, Again
My Dearest Friend,
PCS season always brings with it that peculiar mixture of exhaustion and anticipation. For the first time in a long while, my own family was not on the road this summer, yet the rhythm of those moves is still fresh in my mind. The trucks come and go, the boxes are (mostly) unpacked, and the first wave of goodbyes fades into memory. And then comes the quieter, and often harder, part—settling in and beginning to put down new roots.
After six PCSes, four of them in the span of just six years, I know this season well. The frenzy of moving gives way to stillness, and in that stillness, questions rise. Will Bun find his place among new classmates? Will Bean discover playmates as spirited as she? Will I, myself, find friends here? No matter how seasoned we become, walking into a new community demands courage all over again.
Why This Season Feels So Hard
When the last box is broken down, you realize you are not only unpacking belongings—you are unpacking your whole self. With every new introduction, you must decide how much of your story to share, and how much to hold back until trust is earned. It is a vulnerable thing, to present yourself over and over as the newcomer.
The loneliness creeps in not only from being unknown here, but also from watching friends at your last duty station continue life without you. Photos of their gatherings appear, and you recall when you, too, were part of those circles. Now you look on from afar, reminded that while they carry on together, you are beginning again. It is the ache of starting over while others are moving forward.
What Has Helped Me
Over time, I have learned to take small, deliberate steps:
Go where your people might be. Sometimes that has been the library, other times a playground, or even the TLF picnic tables when I could no longer bear the hotel walls. Those are the places where I met others who were just as eager for connection.
Say yes to one thing. Not every invitation—just one. A coffee, a spouse meet-up, a unit event. One “yes” can open a door to the friendship you most need.
Be willing to host something simple. Some of my most treasured bonds began at my own table, gathered for a casual game night or a pot of tea. Hospitality does not need to be grand; often it is the act of opening the door that matters most. And when I carry small traditions from place to place—like our annual holiday cookie decorating party, a holdover from my own Air Force Brat childhood—it helps transform a new house into a home and roots us more quickly in unfamiliar soil.
What Hasn’t Worked
I have also learned that rushing in too quickly—saying yes to everything—leads to exhaustion. In those early days, I believed that filling my calendar would fill the emptiness I felt inside. But after weeks of overcommitting, I was left with nothing but weariness. The truth is, busyness is not the same as belonging. What nourishes me are not a dozen shallow ties, but one or two steady friendships that hold fast and allow me to show up as my whole self.
The Lesson
This season, after the movers have left and the initial chaos has quieted, is where the true work begins. Community does not grow overnight, nor does it arrive fully formed at your doorstep. It takes patience, courage, and gentleness—with yourself and with others. I have had to learn, again and again, that it is perfectly all right to feel awkward at first, to stumble through introductions, to sit quietly at gatherings until the conversation opens. Even now, a decade into this life, I must remind myself: it is all right to be new, to take things slowly, to let friendships form in their own time. Roots take hold quietly, almost invisibly, until one day you realize you have been planted all along.
To the Spouse in the Aftermath of PCS Season
If you are standing in this season now, know this: you are not alone. The ache of newness is one we all carry at some point. We are all relearning how to begin, move after move, year after year. Start small. Say yes once. Open your door, even if it is only to one neighbor or one new acquaintance. Allow the roots to grow slowly but surely, until one day you look around and realize—you belong here, too. And when that day comes, your presence will be the steadying hand for the next newcomer who feels as uncertain as you do now.
