The Real Cost of Moving as a Military Family

Miller kids flying to Germany in 2011

My husband has been in the military for nearly twenty-two years. We got married young, sixteen and eighteen, and moved to our first duty station when I was just seventeen. From that point on, it became our norm to move every three years or so. The longest we stayed put was at our most recent duty station: South Korea. We loved it so much we kept extending our time there until we felt like we should finally come back to America. We missed our family. We missed Target and Chick-fil-A. Well... joke's on us. We miss Korea every day. The irony is comical and painful all at once.

Moving sounds glamorous on paper: new places, new experiences, new people. But what people don’t see is what gets left behind every time you pack up. As a military family, we don’t choose where we live. The Army tells us. Sometimes we get a wish list; you know, just to spice up the illusion of control. Ultimately, they send us where we’re needed, not wanted. With my husband’s MOS, our options have always been limited. We’ve lived almost everywhere we could... except Hawaii and Japan. We almost went to Japan after Korea, but decided it was time to be near family again. Our kids were growing up without knowing their cousins, and my parents weren't getting any younger.

One of the biggest costs of moving? Letting go. As a military spouse, every move means giving up my job, my friends, my home, and the fragile sense of stability I might have finally started to build. Our first overseas move was to Germany. I was twenty-three, and we had three kids: ages 2, 5, and 7. I was thriving in North Carolina. I had a job I loved, I was acting (yes, ACTING!), and I was working at Hooters (don’t judge; still my favorite job). Life was flowing. Then, boom- the Germany dream.

My husband had always wanted to go. He told me this was likely a once-in-a-lifetime chance. He was right. We couldn’t afford to fly our family of five to Europe on our own dime. I prayed. I cried. I let go. And we moved. That was the fastest the Army ever moved, almost suspiciously fast. Before I could even process the idea, I was already packing our lives into boxes.

I was excited, but also terrified. I had finally found myself again, and suddenly it felt like I was being erased. Germany was hard at first. I fell into a deep depression. So much change, so fast. My husband was swamped with work , and I felt invisible. It was one of the darkest times in my life. But then... light. I met my best friend. I got a job…yes, at Hooters, internationally. (Check that off the bucket list.) I enrolled in college. I traveled more than I ever dreamed. I stopped being co-dependent and started becoming Angela again.

And then came Texas. Y’all... no. Just no. I had just left the highlight reel of my life and was plopped into what felt like a rejected sitcom set. We hated it. All of us. We survived, but part of us stayed behind in Germany. That duty station still owns a piece of our hearts.

Next came South Korea. Finally, a move we asked for and were thrilled about. And Korea delivered. My daughter met her husband there. Our twins were born there. I finished my Master’s degree, started teaching, made forever friends, and we traveled like crazy. I grew into someone I didn’t know I could be. Korea became home. Leaving it felt like being ripped from a warm hug into a cold slap of reality.

Coming back to the States was... rough. Like, imagine leaving a Gucci store and being dumped into a dimly lit Walmart. That dramatic. We thought we missed America, but turns out, nostalgia is a liar. The food is salty and oversized. The convenience stores are inconvenient. The scenery? Meh. Even driving became a depressing event. We just looked around like, “Why though?”

Once again, I gave up everything for a move. It was good for my husband’s health and career, but at the cost of mine. If Germany was a dark time, this was pitch black. I hit the ground running with teaching, competing as Mrs. Fayetteville America, building a home, and being close to family. Everything looked great... on the outside. But I felt so disconnected, so detached. Like I was wearing someone else’s life.

And when the pageant ended, the spiral began. I had nothing grounding me anymore. That’s when I realized: imposter syndrome had moved in and unpacked its bags. I was burning out, drowning, running on fumes. I had been running at hyper speed since Korea with no gas in the tank.

Now, I’m finally climbing out. Slowly. Carefully. I’m learning what I need, what I value, and how to stop living in the shadow of someone else's schedule. For over twenty years, the military controlled my address, my timeline, and my career. My dreams of acting, singing, and being in the spotlight were shelved so my husband could shine. And yes, I resent that sometimes. I mourn what could have been.

But I’m also thankful. I’m proud. I’m wiser. I have an amazing family, and I’m doing the hard work of becoming the woman I was always meant to be. I’m an Army wife, teacher, pageant queen, and mother to five (including toddler twins, so please send coffee). I’ve lived on the back burner for long enough.

Now, it’s my turn. I will not only accomplish my goals, I will smash the hell out of them. I will leave behind a legacy for the legacies. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll even get back to that spotlight.