The most challenging 12 months of my life began in the summer of 2024, the final year at our duty station in Yuma, Arizona. I was newly pregnant after a traumatic loss just a few months before, leaving me anxious and sick. My full-time, high-intensity job didn’t make things any easier. When I wasn’t at work, my 3-year-old, the chaotic joy that he is, demanded all my attention and what little energy I had.
One day, I noticed our wood floors were buckling. Within a week, a massive HVAC leak was discovered. The floors were ripped up, a wall was torn down, and our house was fumigated. Then began the conflict-riddled renovation. We moved into a hotel room just in time for the fall Marine Corps Weapons and Tactics Instructor course to begin. For two months, my instructor husband belonged completely to WTI, coming home only to sleep. I was on my own to deal with it all.
In stepped Katy.
Katy was married to another WTI instructor, and our sons were in the same base day care class. We were friendly; our families spent an RV Thanksgiving together, but we were still getting to know each other. I confided in her what was going on. What happened next felt organic, but in hindsight, it’s clear Katy came to my rescue.
She asked if she could pick up my son around 3 p.m., two hours earlier than I could leave work, so the boys could play at the neighborhood playground.
When I finally arrived, Katy suggested we hang out for a bit. Then she said I should stay for dinner since our husbands weren’t around anyway. Before I knew it, she was handing me a container of chicken soup to take back with me.
When I tried to thank her and apologize for not being able to reciprocate, since my house was in shambles, she waved me off. She explained that when she had two tiny kids, other military spouses helped her.
We started doing this multiple times a week. I’d show up at Katy’s house to find her and the kids at the playground or building a fort in her living room. I’d unload the dishwasher (her least favorite chore) while she made dinner, chatting away to the soundtrack of our kids’ laughter.
One day, she decided to make tacos for all the WTI moms who usually came to the playground. I helped her carry a crockpot of taco meat, bags of chips and all the fixings to the picnic table. She saved a whole group of us from facing dinner and cleanup on our own. When spring WTI rolled around with me big and pregnant and developing shingles (my daughter was born the day after WTI graduation — talk about timing), Katy again brought me into her home. Throughout a hard year, she provided a daily bright spot.
At the time I befriended Katy, I’d only been in the military spouse community for four years. Between the pandemic and our assignment in Yuma to a nontraditional, nonoperational squadron, I’d only met a handful of military spouses, so I was still very much learning what it even meant to be a military spouse. I certainly knew about military service, but Katy showed me military spouse service. Manning the homefront isn’t just getting your family through hard times, it’s helping others as well.
Now at our new duty station, I’ve found that Katy, while remarkably selfless, is not actually a unicorn. Military spouses quietly serve each other every day. When my husband was unexpectedly gone for several weeks after Christmas, a new military spouse friend volunteered to sit with my baby so I could take an hour for myself. I see another friend, the commanding officer’s wife, provide the first meal train meal for every new baby under her husband’s command.
I still feel in the trenches of early motherhood and likely receive more service than I can give, but I’ve learned to watch where I can step in — to pick up a friend’s child from pre-K or host a chili night while our husbands travel. The service may look simple to outsiders, but for military spouses, we know the effect is immeasurable.
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