Perhaps six months from now, none of this will feel particularly remarkable. The house will be settled enough. Soccer will simply be what we do three nights a week. I will understand the rhythms of the board and will have finished my class, and I will no longer need to think quite so hard about every ordinary piece of our days.

When I first became a military spouse, I thought being supportive meant saying yes to everything. Yes to meal trains. Yes to volunteering. Yes to planning events, hosting gatherings, and filling every gap I saw. It felt like the only way to prove I belonged, the only way to carry my share of the load. But here is the hard truth: that version of “support” was not sustainable. It left me exhausted, resentful, and teetering on the edge of burnout.