I was standing in my office when my servicemember walked out the door to pick up his DD214. It was April 1, 2021, and we had just had a good laugh.
Picking up your DD214 on April Fool’s Day is ripe for jokes. Wouldn’t it be funny, I said, if he showed up and his certificate said, “Jokes on you, Chief Larson. Twenty-four years wasn’t enough. Welcome back.”
It was the height of COVID-19 and before he walked out the door I helped him adjust his mask so nobody would see the full beard he’d grown. Why bother to shave it off?
No retirement ceremony. No party. The pandemic had made a lot of things feel like too much. After more than two decades of service, he was finishing his active duty military career with a 20-minute drive to pick up two manila envelopes at the headquarters building.
Watching him get into his car and leave, something changed. I broke down—the kind of emotional breakdown that doesn’t come with warning signs or dramatic music. Just a pause. A question. One of those simple, ridiculous-sounding thoughts that somehow cracks everything open:
“Can I still use my on-post library card?”
That’s what got me. Not the end of BAH. Not changing our healthcare. Not even the retirement paperwork and 5 footlockers of “need to turn this in” gear that had taken over our living room for weeks.
It was the library.
Our on-post library—the one that had become a second home during all our years of homeschooling. We spent hours there every week. Storytime, reading challenges, seasonal activities with friends, hunting for books together. The librarians knew us by name. It wasn’t just a building. It was our rhythm, our reset button, our little slice of community.
And now, I wasn’t sure if we were still allowed to be part of it.
The Slow Fade of Familiar Things
The kids and I had stepped away from our library routine during transition to accommodate all the appointments, decisions, and mental gymnastics our servicemember was managing. VA claims, medical records, TAP classes, COVID check-ins—it all took up space, physically and emotionally. So many little things quietly dropped off the calendar so we could prioritize “the big stuff.”
Because of COVID-19 there was no TAP option for me. Space available and 6 feet of personal space meant no room for spouses. Everything was either canceled, limited, or service member-only. At the time, I figured, It’s fine. I’ll catch up later. I always do. Later came while standing in my office, staring out the window, feeling panicked, and realizing I was out of time.
Because here’s the part that doesn’t get said enough: service members aren’t the only ones who transition. Military spouses do too—and we’re often doing it in the margins.
And because no one hands us a DD214 or puts our names on the out-processing checklist, it’s easy to say to ourselves that we can “wing it.” We can figure this out on our own.
That moment in my office? That feeling of not knowing where I belonged anymore? That was transition. Mine. And I wasn’t doing it very well.
Why We Need To Be Part of the Conversation
Military spouses are not afterthoughts. We’re not the “supporting role.” We are essential voices in the transition process—not just emotionally, but strategically. And when the military spouse’s voice is considered, everyone in the family transitions better—servicemember, spouse, and children.
When spouses are included in the conversation:
- Planning becomes more holistic. It’s not just about job offers—it’s about location, childcare, family schedules, community support, cost of living, healthcare access, and yes—mental health for everyone involved.
- Spouse goals get a seat at the table. For many of us, the active-duty years involved career sacrifices, paused ambitions, and constant restarts. Transition is a critical time to ask: What do I want to do next? That deserves space. That deserves a conversation. That deserves support.
- Old assumptions get challenged. For years, the default may have been: the service member is gone, the spouse holds everything down. But transition is an opportunity to reimagine how responsibilities are shared when time, roles, and routines change. If we don’t talk about it, we risk defaulting to dynamics that no longer serve anyone.
- Resources change and become obsolete or more accessible. So many spouses rely on resources that no longer are available when active duty military life is over. There’s a growing network of programs, grants, career support, and communities available to spouses during and after transition, but if we’re not in the room, we don’t get looped in.
- The emotional load gets lighter. When spouses are informed, involved, and acknowledged, it makes the whole process feel less isolating. And when we’re part of the plan, we’re not left building our identity back from scratch.
Let’s Talk About the Identity Shift
Here’s what’s tricky about identity during transition: most spouses don’t think it’s going to be a problem.
We know we’re more than “just” military spouses. We say it all the time—and it’s true. We’re professionals, parents, creators, volunteers, caregivers, entrepreneurs, community leaders. We hold multitudes.
So when people start talking about how hard it can be to “lose your military spouse identity,” a lot of us think, That’s not me. I’ve always had my own thing going on.
And yet—even for those of us who did maintain careers, passions, and a clear sense of self outside the military—it can still feel devastating to let go of this one specific part of who we were.
I didn’t see it coming either.
I’d built a whole life around the rhythm of active-duty life—juggling deployments, managing PCS chaos, homeschooling on the fly, making things work in places where I knew no one. And somewhere in all of that, even though I wasn’t only a military spouse, being one had become a deeply embedded part of my identity.
Then one day, it was gone.
Remember when I said I figured I’d deal with my side of transition later? Well, “later” turned into me standing in my office, trying to figure out if I still had access to the on-post library, and realizing it wasn’t about the card—it was about the fact that I didn’t know who I was in this new version of life.
So Why Does It Feel So Disorienting?
Psychologically, identity is closely tied to our sense of stability and belonging. When we lose even a piece of a known identity—especially one that gave us structure, community, or purpose—it can trigger a grief response, even if we were “ready” to move on.
According to identity theory in social psychology, our roles (like “military spouse,” “teacher,” “caregiver”) become internalized parts of how we see ourselves. These roles are linked to behavioral routines, relationships, and the feedback we get from others. When one of those roles ends or shifts dramatically, our sense of self can feel unsettled—even fractured.
And here’s the kicker: even small triggers—like losing access to a library, changing your ID card, or realizing you’re no longer “in the loop” for on-post happenings—can set off that identity disruption. Because it’s not about the card or the meeting or the parking sticker. It’s about what it represents—a past version of life where you felt oriented and known.
Losing that piece of your identity doesn’t mean you’ve lost yourself. It just means you’re in that awkward middle ground between who you were and who you’re becoming. This moment—however disorienting—is also an invitation to:
- Revisit old passions that got shelved for military life.
- Build new routines that center your goals and dreams.
- Reclaim your time, your boundaries, your direction.
- Redefine what “community” means on your own terms.
You’re not starting from scratch. You’re building from experience. And if a library card is what opens the door to that realization? Then let’s stop underestimating the power of the small stuff. Because sometimes, the little things are what remind us we’re ready for something new.
Don’t Wait to Be Invited—Take Your Seat
If you’ve been quietly waiting for the right time to focus on your transition, consider this your sign. Too often, military spouses get left out of the transition process—not out of malice, but out of habit. Systems weren’t built with us in mind. That’s why we have to speak up. Ask the questions. Push back when we’re sidelined. And sometimes? We have to demand our seat at the table.
Because this next chapter affects you too—your future, your finances, your identity, your family rhythms, your career, your mental load, your life.
So don’t leave it to assumption. Don’t let it all be about what the service member is doing next. Be curious. Be vocal. Be relentless about making sure you are included—and not just in conversations about “how to support them,” but in conversations about how to support you, too.
This isn’t selfish. This is strategic. And it’s necessary.
Grab our Free Download: Military Spouse All-In-One Transition Checklist.
The MilSpouse Transition team has a mission to give to transitioning military spouse all the things we wish someone had handed us at the beginning of our own transitions—questions to ask, conversations to have, resources to explore, and space to name what you need next.
Grab your free copy of the Military Spouse All-In-One Transition Checklist and start taking your transition into your own hands—on your terms.
Or take a peek at our series featuring the Military Spouse All-In-One Transition Checklist starting with Part One: The Big Questions.
