Retirement Memoir: Mark the Time

This is Chapter 4 in our Mighty MilSpouse Retirement Memoir, a monthly series written in real-time by military spouse Lindsay Swoboda. Read Chapter 1: Now What, Chapter 2: Don’t Stay for the Comfort, and 3. Help is On the Way

I remember how the bleachers stuck to my thighs, and a bead of sweat dripped down the middle of my back as Ryan and I sat under the bright San Diego sun. His rough thumb traced circles over my hand as we sat together, watching a retirement ceremony unfold on Camp Pendleton. It was January of my senior year of college, but I’d flown out briefly to say hello and goodbye to Ryan while he prepared for his second deployment to Iraq. I remember watching the formations, and listening to the speeches, but also watching Ryan from the corner of my eye, his jaw set, determination flashing through his face when he finally turned to me and told me the retiring Marine was an “old salty Gunnery Sergeant,” and, “It’s where I want to get to.”

I had no idea what that entailed. At that point, I was still the military girlfriend, watching his career from afar, living my dreams until ours collided. But I think I probably nodded and told him in a chipper voice, “Okay! I bet you will!” I didn’t know how our story would weave into a tapestry of hard marital chapters, two kids, numerous mental health challenges for myself, and enough career transitions to make me a colorful resume.

I didn’t know then that (how many years?) later I would be sitting next to him again on our living room couch in Texas. This time, the sweat pooled around my palms, and my tongue sat dry and nervous in my mouth as we had a serious conversation about Ryan’s retirement ceremony.

Our conversations around the ceremony weekend had started to become tense. I couldn’t figure out what he wanted. The only thing I could glean from him was that he didn’t honestly want to celebrate it at all. This felt like blasphemy to me. We’d all come so far – especially Ryan – and we needed to mark the occasion. A military retirement isn’t just the end of a job. It’s a substantial change of a lifeline, of a community, a collective mission, and a lifestyle. I could not understand why we wouldn’t want to toot all the horns and raise all the glasses to celebrate this experience.

I sat forward on the couch and clicked into our Zoom session. As the screen flickered to life, we were led through a healthier conversation by our trusted coach, mentor, and counselor. We began to unpack what we both needed from the retirement weekend.

Within the session, Ryan huffed a breath and, on an exhale, said, “I’m tired. And I don’t like all the attention being solely on me. It was never all about me. I struggle with that.” I sat, rigid as a statue, afraid to say anything in case I shook him off course. He went on to share that while he didn’t want a big to-do, he did understand that it would be good for our family and friends, and so he would concede to an event for all of us.

Next, I was asked what I specifically envisioned for the ceremony. I balked. It was harder than I thought it would be to speak up. I didn’t feel like I had the right to. But our counselor disclosed that she had been in far too many sessions just like this one, where the spouse never named what she needed from the big day. I understood why they didn’t. Who was I to ask for anything on my husband’s retirement? And yet I was there, this whole time, a quiet cheerleader and champion, “holding down the homefront.” I understood that navigating this military career and lifestyle took everyone. I also understood that if I didn’t speak up, a small seed of resentment could try to take hold.

I inhaled sharply and said, “I want us to be recognized. Our whole family,” I grabbed Ryan’s hand and closed my eyes as I said, “I need us to hear ‘thank you’, the kids, our parents…” I swallowed hard. “Me. Because we made it here together.” I don’t know what Ryan specifically said after this, as my face was flushed and panicked for saying it all out loud. But he agreed readily, and over the next hour, we were able to decide who was responsible for the weekend’s tasks. Ryan would handle all the formal parts. I would take care of family reservations and the meal prep for the casual open house.

When we shut down the laptop at the session’s end, Ryan and I embraced. As I breathed him in, I realized how new we are to navigating life after this military gig. It feels foreign, and like perhaps we should be better at it. But we’ve never done this before! We keep failing, but we keep on trying. At least we’re fumbling through it together.

On retirement ceremony day, I walk into the theater and take in the metal folding chairs, the formation, and my guy in uniform. At this moment, I’m reduced to clichés. It is indeed a day that feels like a dream that I keep waiting to wake from. I laugh inside that I am glad to be in an air-conditioned hall, not on those hot bleachers outside in San Diego. I get parents and kids settled, and while I watch and listen to every word spoken during the event, it is waves of the surreal that wash over me.

The commander has kind and true words to say about Ryan. About the Marine he has been, and the man that he always will be. I see my family around us, nodding their heads. We needed this. When it comes time for Ryan to give his speech, my breath catches in my chest. He has special words, perfectly formed, for each member in our family. The times loved ones caught us as we were falling—the far-away phone calls, visits, packages, all the never-ending, unwavering support.

At the end of his speech, Ryan looks at me. He tells me how grateful he is for this foundation we’ve been building together, and the adventures we’ve been on. He tells me he can’t wait for many, many more. All I can do is nod, yes. More. More of us, of these growing kids, aging parents, and dear friends surrounding us. More time. We’ve been so concentrated on getting to the end of this rollercoaster retirement that I haven’t paused to let it all soak in.

We’re here. We’re marking the time. We’re letting it end on a good and gracious note. And when our busy open house clears and the buzz of noise stills, when the last crumb is wiped from countertops, we climb into bed together and click off the light.

I wake on Saturday morning and look at him. We got here. Military life does come to an end, and we’re what’s left behind.

Welcome to Real Time Retirement, a series written by Lindsay Swoboda, author of Holding On and Letting Go: A Life in Motion. A military spouse, Lindsay lives and creates alongside her husband and two kids in Texas. When not writing, she finds joy in nature, reading good books, and building strong communities. Lindsay’s Substack, The Eleven O’Clock Number, explores the art of what matters most. She believes in the power of storytelling and loves encouraging and connecting with fellow creatives.

Retirement Memoir