Because it has not happened once; it has happened every time. Every move has rearranged the details of my life, and every time, without fail, I have found myself rebuilding the same kinds of things—not the same rooms or the same routines or the same relationships, but the same patterns underneath them: the same desire for rhythm, the same instinct to gather, the same need to create something that feels like steadiness even when everything else is shifting.

That is the rhythm of this life: new roads, new places, new beginnings, over and over again, until the unfamiliar becomes familiar and then, just as quickly, becomes something we carry away with us.

And then, every so often, there are these roads—the ones that do not ask to be learned again, the ones that do not need a GPS, the ones that have held you before you ever thought to question whether you belonged there.

This life asks us to begin at the beginning over and over again. We walk into new places and offer our names, our stories, the pieces of ourselves that make sense in the moment. We explain who we are, clarify how we fit, and build understanding from the ground up, one conversation at a time, until something like familiarity begins to take shape. We become practiced at it—learning how to connect quickly, how to find our footing, how to create something meaningful even when we know it may not last forever.

Military life asks this of us more often than most: to exist in spaces that are temporary, to find ourselves between beginnings and endings, to carry on in seasons that feel unfinished. The instinct, at least for me, is to move through it quickly. To fill the time. To look ahead. To prepare for what comes next.

But there is very little to prepare for here.

I am ready for what comes next. I need to say that plainly, because readiness and sadness are so often mistaken for opposites. I am ready for the adventure ahead.

And still, I want to end this well. Not perfectly. Perfectly is too heavy a word to place on a PCS, or on a family, or on a heart already holding too many lists.

Anticipation before anything happens, and not the dramatic packout days later when everything is wrapped and carried out and the house begins to look less like yours with every passing hour. This is quieter than that. This is the middle stage, the one where life still looks mostly normal while pieces of it quietly become inaccessible.

Little by little, part of your life begins orienting itself toward the future long before you physically arrive there. The next chapter starts introducing its characters and plotlines early, slipping bits of foreshadowing into the pages of the life you are still living now.

And if you are not careful, it becomes very easy to start reading ahead instead of remaining where you are.

You, my darling Bun and Bean, have packed up your worlds and carried them across miles to places most children only dream of. You have said goodbye to friends and classrooms, to homes that held your laughter, and to places that were once ours. And each time, you have stepped forward, not without fear, but with courage that shines brighter than your uncertainty.

As we begin the slow work of preparing for another move, I am reminded that our homes are made of more than what movers can wrap and label. Beyond the cardboard and the checklists lies something deeper: the visible keepsakes that tell our stories, and the invisible weights and wonders that shape our days. It is these pieces of history, these fragments of memory, and these treasures that anchor us to who we are.

Home is not always something we return to. It is something we recreate. In lives that are constantly moving, our traditions, rituals, and repeated ways of gathering become our anchors. They allow our roots to grow wide instead of deep.

We have never lived in a house that fit us seamlessly. Not in size, not in layout, not in the way a dream home is described in glossy language. Given the nature of this career, we may not for many years to come. But I have come to understand that there is a subtle difference between acknowledging limitation and living in quiet resistance to it.

There is a particular relief that comes from knowing where you are meant to stand in a day. Not because the day is easy or especially gentle, but because it is known. The constant decision-making quiets. The internal bargaining softens. You are no longer asking yourself, at every turn, what comes next.

Tradition, I’ve learned, is where memory becomes motion — a continuity of light passed hand to hand, glowing differently in each new keeper’s palm. It honors where we come from and welcomes what we discover along the way.

There is no right answer to the question of where you “should” be this December. There is only the truth of what your family needs, and the quiet courage it takes to honor that.

The holidays never sweep in all at once; they arrive gently, on tiptoe. For us, the beginning is marked by a carton of eggnog waiting in the fridge until Black Friday, by music humming through the kitchen, and by the tree rising in its corner while the children scatter boxes of ornaments like treasure.

Over time, I have come to understand that traditions, too, must gently yield as life demands. Some years we embrace them fully, reveling in every detail. Other years, like the one when I was heavy with Bean and carrying the weight of a long TDY alone, tradition meant nothing more than spreading pumpkin butter on bread and calling it enough. And it was.

Some days, joy does not arrive in sweeping gestures or perfectly framed photographs—it slips quietly into the edges of our lives. It comes in the squeal of laughter when Bean demands another round of “spins,” her curls flying as she twirls around the kitchen in my arms or Beloved’s. It lingers in the weight of Bun pressed against me as his voice insists, "just one more chapter before bed," and I relent because I know he won’t be little forever and all too soon he will stop asking me to read to him all together.

One of the quiet gifts of this life is how often neighbors become more than acquaintances. They become the people your children run to after school, the ones who walk into your kitchen without knocking, the ones who slip into your days until you cannot imagine living without them. In a world where change is constant, neighbors have so often been the steadying presence that made each new duty station feel like home.

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.

There are seasons in this life when you do not pack a single box, yet you still feel as though you are starting over. The movers never came, the walls never changed, but suddenly all your people are gone—sent on their next adventure while you remain behind. The neighborhood grows quiet, the familiar faces vanish from school pick-up lines, and gatherings that once filled your calendar are no longer yours to attend. It is a different kind of ache, one that whispers: everyone else is moving forward, and you are standing still.