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.

Resilience is not the absence of struggle, but the understanding that struggle and goodness are not mutually exclusive. A moment can hold grief without being emptied of joy; something can be hard without being wholly bad. It is learning to sit with what is real, even when it is uncomfortable, and to return, again and again, to what is still within reach.

I have done this for over a decade. I have weathered months-long TDYs and half-year deployments. I know the rhythm of it — the suitcase tucked quietly into the garage, the louder-than-intended "I love you" thrown over the sound of crying, the first night that feels both too quiet and somehow still too loud. I know the choreography of goodbye.

There is a specific weight to the small years that is hard to explain unless you are living inside them. It is not the tired of a long day or a busy season—it is the tired that settles into your bones and stays. The kind built from interrupted sleep, sticky hands, endless questions, and the quiet weight of shaping a tiny human into someone who will one day walk out into the world on their own.

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.