PCS: Different Generations, Enduring Challenges
The perspective of a military child turned military spouse, and the work that remains
The first Permanent Change of Station (PCS) I remember was as a child sitting on the floor of our San Antonio, Texas home, surrounded by half-packed boxes. To me, they were grand forts and magical castles. Something to climb into while the adults handled the rest.
Growing up, moving was normal; expected, even. Almost invisible to me, because I was so used to the nomadic rhythm of our lives that it simply felt like the ebb and flow of childhood.
Many years later, I found myself on the other side of the PCS process; no longer the child playing in boxes, but a military spouse coordinating utilities and timelines, sorting paperwork, and goodbyes. This recent move from Georgia to Virginia was, by military standards, small. No overseas jump. No uprooting from one coast to another. And yet my second move as a spouse felt heavier than the others. Not because it was harder, but because everything I had long sensed and partially understood finally came into sharper focus.
Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, moving stopped being an adventure and became a responsibility. In that shift, I began to see my mother clearly, as a military spouse who had been carrying the weight of each move long before I knew to notice.
Growing up as a military child, I never worried about where we would live next, how the bills would get paid, or whether my mom would have to start her career over again because of a move she did not choose. I just knew that the house eventually came together; the school registration got done, dinner appeared on the table, and life continued.
My mother was an English teacher, a profession often labeled in military communities as a “portable” career. In theory, it was supposed to move easily with us. In reality, each PCS brought new certification requirements, hiring timelines, gaps in employment, and the added challenge of overseas moves where teaching opportunities were even more limited. It’s now that I understand how much effort, compromise, and quiet resilience were required to make stability feel effortless to me as a child.
PCS has a way of exposing the fault lines of military life all at once. Financial uncertainty spikes as deposits, overlapping rent or mortgages, and unexpected costs pile up. Childcare becomes precarious at the exact moment families need it most. Spouse education and employment are disrupted, delayed, or sacrificed entirely in the name of flexibility. Healthcare access shifts. Community ties are severed and rebuilt from scratch. These pressures are not isolated. They are deeply interconnected, each one amplifying the others, and they surface with every single move.
What strikes me most, as both a former military child and a current military spouse, is how little those pain points have changed.
The challenges my mother’s generation of military spouses faced decades ago around employment, childcare, housing, healthcare, financial security, mental health, and community stability are still shaping the lived experiences of my generation today. That realization is sobering.
It’s also clarifying.
As a child, I saw moving as something that happened to our family. As a military spouse myself now, I see how often it happens because of families. There has to be someone holding everything else together while service continues, and that’s usually the military spouse.
This move reminded me that the resilience we so often celebrate in military families isn’t accidental. It’s built through constant adaptation, personal sacrifice, and an enormous amount of unpaid and unrecognized labor. Resilience, however, simply cannot be the only solution.
Complex issues like spouse employment, access to education, affordable childcare, and long-term financial stability do not resolve overnight. They don’t disappear with one strong policy or one successful move. It takes years, and sometimes generations, of sustained attention, advocacy, and investment in military spouses.
That’s why the work we do here at NMFA really matters.
NMFA advocates for military families not because these challenges are new, but because they persist. We push for policy change not with the illusion that it will fix everything tomorrow, but with the hope that it will make the next move a little lighter. With the hope that the next military child won’t absorb instability as normal, that the next military spouse won’t have to choose between supporting a mission and sustaining a career, and that families won’t have to shoulder these burdens alone.
This PCS moved me emotionally, closer to my mother’s experience and deeper into the reason I believe in this work.
Once, I found wonder inside those moving boxes. Now I carefully fill them, aware of everything they carry. In doing so, I move forward with both gratitude and resolve: gratitude for the generations of spouses who made it work despite the odds and resolve to help build a system where future generations of military families are thriving.
If moving has shaped your life, your story matters. We invite you to share it with us and add your voice to a broader effort to improve the systems military families rely on. Together, those stories help fuel advocacy that ensures families are better supported, now and for generations to come.
Together We’re Stronger ®
By: Olivia Brinsfield, Content Manager
