When your husband is deployed, you're supposed to be lonely— counting the days until he comes home. But for me, deployment felt like freedom. Freedom to breathe, to laugh, to be me. I went on more date nights while John was gone than I ever did when he was home.
Not real dates. Not romantic, candlelit dinners or stolen kisses under the stars. No, these were date nights with friends, with family, and sometimes just with myself. A freedom I hadn't even realized I'd lost. Date nights without John felt like a breath of fresh air— a reminder that I existed outside his shadow.
My dad's mother, Mema, was my favorite date night partner. Every time I visited her in my hometown, she would take me out. Just the two of us. We would eat too much, laugh too loud, and she'd always send me home with meals and treats because that's what the best grandmas do.
I would stay at her house on the weekends. All weekend. Old movies, home-popped popcorn with real butter, and our favorite shared candy. Her living room felt like a time capsule of warmth— games of Uno, lavender oil, the soft hum of the old TV, and Mema's laughter that always felt like a hug.
That summer, she asked me to move in with her. Part of me wanted to. Part of me wished I could just stay in that warm, safe bubble forever.
Right before John deployed, My friend Kelly, John, me, and our other friend were in a car accident that totaled our friend's car. Miraculously, everyone was fine, but the crash felt like a strange, sharp reminder of how quickly things could change. It also solidified my bond with Kelly. We'd been through something together. We were friends for life.
She was my biggest cheerleader. She was the first one to tell me I was doing great, that I was strong, that I wasn't alone. We spent hours together, shopping, talking, and laughing until our sides hurt. I remember when we saw one of the terrible Twilight movies together. Mocking every ridiculous line, throwing popcorn at the screen. She bought me dinner every time, insisting that it was her treat because, in her words, 'Pregnant queens don't pay for their own meals.'
She bought my son so many Steelers outfits that I'm pretty sure he thought he was born into the team. When she and her husband divorced, I was devastated. She moved back to Pittsburgh, and I missed her more than I thought I would.
And then there was Larissa— my husband's CO's wife. A woman who became something of a guardian angel. She made sure my yard was mowed when I couldn't. She'd drag me to the pool, the gym, and any other fun activity she could think of. "You need to get out," she'd insist, her voice firm but kind. "You can't just sit around waiting for him to call."
And she was right.
But damn, she had me walking every single night to help the baby. More walks meant a quicker labor, she claimed. I didn't know if that was true, but I didn't mind. Athena, my yappy, overly confident dog, loved the extra exercise.
John's friends helped around the yard. Fixed the car when it needed it. The military is a family in a way. One that steps in even when you don't ask for it.
I found myself at one of the base's "Deployed Spouse Date Nights." It was a weird, bittersweet concept. A night where wives of deployed husbands could dress up, show up, and pretend, just for a little while, that they weren't alone. They even had little tables for two, flowers in the center, and soft, romantic music playing in the background.
Except the other chair at my table was empty.
I wore a pretty dress, did my makeup, tried to feel... something. Special? Beautiful? Like I mattered. I watched other women laughing, clinking glasses, some with their babies perched on their hips, others sitting with friends who were also pretending not to feel the ache of missing someone.
A server brought me my meal. A fancy little chicken dish with too much sauce and a glass of sparkling cider. I smiled, thanked him, and took a tiny sip, trying to imagine I was on a real date. Trying to pretend I wasn't just a woman in a pretty dress, alone at a table for two.
And as the soft music played and the candles flickered, I smiled. Because I wasn't sad. Not really. I was free. Free to be lonely on my own terms. Free to enjoy a meal without walking on eggshells. Free to be me. Even if I was the only one sitting at the table.
But as I looked at the empty chair across from me, the flicker of freedom twisted with a quiet ache. A whisper of a truth I didn't want to admit:
Sometimes being free still felt like being alone.
One of my favorite nights, I went to a packed restaurant where the hostess offered me a seat at the bar. I wasn't a drinker, and I certainly wasn't about to start while pregnant. So when the bartender asked if he could get me anything, I smiled and said, "I want something fruity and creamy, but it can't have alcohol." I pointed to my belly.
The bartender's smile was warm, bright— a little slice of kindness wrapped in a glass. The drink was perfect— sweet, creamy, bursting with strawberry and blueberry. But it wasn't just the taste. It was the way he looked at me, not just as a pregnant woman, but as a person. Someone worth talking to. Worth smiling at.
I left him a 100% tip in cash, not just because he made a great drink, but because, for a moment, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time, seen.
The two people sitting next to me were older, probably around my dad's age, and they started chatting with me. Told me stories about their grandkids, laughed about how wild life could be. It was such a small thing. An hour in a crowded restaurant but it was a lifeline. A reminder that the world was still full of kind people.
And that was the strangest part of deployment. I was supposed to feel like half of me was missing. But instead, I felt like I was finally whole.
Because without John, I didn't feel trapped. I didn't feel small. I didn't feel like I was always trying to be perfect, always trying to make him happy.
While other military wives counted down the days until their husbands came home, I counted down the days until I had to disappear again.