The last several years in military service have been some of the toughest struggles and challenges we have faced as a family. In 2013, my husband, Keith, deployed out of cycle and left me at home, transitioning out of the workforce and into postpartum depression with a 5, 3, and 1-year-old. He came home with a few triggers, some difficulty sleeping, and was a little jumpy. I noticed, but we thought everything was normal and would work itself out.
While I figured it out and survived the nine months apart, we soon moved to Keesler AFB in 2014. The next four years on the Mississippi Gulf Coast would prove to be our golden years. We found a church home immediately, met the families who have been our closest friends for the last decade, and we discovered the gainful and fulfilling work we still do today. But, PCSing (Permanent Change of Station) to Georgia in 2018 would mark the beginning of a tough season full of loneliness, isolation, frustration and unemployment.
For two years, the fight to acclimate to our new home was real. Community was nonexistent, the church scene was… limited. Our kids had trouble getting connected, and we didn’t make it out of there unscathed. In 2019, he deployed and was out for nearly nine months total. Upon his return, we moved at the height of COVID in the summer of 2020 (a do-it-yourself move) with orders for an unaccompanied tour to Korea hot on our heels. Keith was with us for two weeks in our new home before leaving for an entire year, when he had hardly been back from the last deployment for more than six months.
One week before his scheduled return, he was profoundly injured, suffering head, neck and spine damage. He couldn’t drive for six months and severely struggled with all of the new limitations. The “jumpiness” and inability to regulate his emotions completely flooded our home. He left for a deployment when our children were 11, 9, 7, and 4. He came home to children who were 13, 11, 9, and 6. He missed two years of birthdays, Thanksgivings and Christmasses. So many memories were missed, and the relationships between him and the kids were hanging by a thread. The grief was real.
All of these challenges were happening as we were preparing to retire and enter into a new community—a local civilian community. In the summer of 2023, Keith was admitted to an eight-week partial hospitalization program right before the kids began to return to school. The first few months of the year were some of the most stressful, high-intensity months of our marriage. His PTSD was out of control and it was literally trying to kill him. His anxiety and depression were at an all-time high because of his injury, chronic pain and sadness around what he had missed. I was burnt out, overrun with responsibility, and there was no break in sight. I was managing all of the family finances, the schedule and upcoming events.
Well, something vital slipped through the cracks. Our oldest son is obsessed with football. He had looked forward to playing all year, but I didn’t complete the required scheduling form or the prerequisite practices that would allow him to play for the school team. He was distraught. I tried to fix it, but he had given up. “It’s too late,” he said. “It’s okay. I’ll just focus on another sport. I’ll take a different opportunity. It’ll be fine.”
The “f” word in his last comment opened my eyes to the fact that he was not letting himself grieve the missed opportunity and was trying to “fake it” until he made it. “Stop,” I said. “You can be sad. You missed an opportunity you wanted because I was too preoccupied with the family stuff to do what you needed.” He sobbed. “I just want a normal childhood. I want to play ball and be with my friends without all of this stress.”
After crying with my son for almost a solid hour, I looked at him and, in my best Liam Neeson voice, said, “I have a very specific set of skills, skills I’ve learned over a lifetime. Do you want me to fix this?” He laughed and gave me the go-ahead to try. I tracked down his coach through old Facebook posts and spammed every account I could find—Facebook, an Instagram account, a school email, his LinkedIn, and even an old phone number I found from a 2012 post online. I found him, begged for his compassion, and my sweet son was placed on the team.
The moral of the story? PTSD is a shape-shifter—it is anxiety, depression, fogginess, short tempers and more- and it affects the service member, the spouse, and the impact is felt throughout the whole house. I can say that this civilian community isn’t always welcoming or accommodating to the life we have lived, but this coach will be on my “golden” list until the day I die.
PTSD doesn’t come with a manual. For families, it’s a battle without a playbook—and the stakes are as high as ever.
In the end, the complexity of being a family affected by PTSD goes far beyond the service member’s diagnosis. It’s a constant, unpredictable battle that impacts every aspect of family life—from relationships and parenting to mental health and daily routines. But with determination, creativity, and support from those who understand, it’s possible to find moments of peace and connection amidst the chaos. And sometimes, those moments are as simple as a coach’s kindness.