The Truth About Transitioning Out
An anonymous story about starting over, staying strong, and the quiet weight of doing what’s best for your family.
Leaving the military was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
People talk a lot about the logistics—disability claims, resumes, timelines—but no one really tells you how heavy it can feel. For me, this transition wasn’t just about leaving a job. It was about releasing a whole identity. I had spent years in uniform, providing for my family, being the stable one. The reliable one. The strong one.
Even before I left, I knew what I was walking away from: the structure, the paycheck, the benefits that supported not just me, but my entire household. My spouse works too, but I had always been the primary provider. So stepping into this unknown was terrifying. And yet—I knew it was time. The decision to get out of the military wasn’t made lightly. I remember one person in particular—Mr. Sanchez. He never pressured me to stay, and he never pushed me to leave. What he did was more powerful: he made sure I was sure. And when I finally told him I was, he hugged me and said, “You got this, mija.”
It makes me emotional even now, because I think at the time I glazed over that moment. I was in survival mode, trying to keep it together, pretending it wasn’t all too much. But looking back, that hug—that support—meant everything. He had always poured into me, teaching me, helping me grow, not just as a soldier but as a person. That moment felt like permission to trust myself.
Still, nothing could have prepared me for what transition would actually feel like. I sat in TAP classes and heard people say things like, “You’ll need to find a new sense of purpose,” or “You’re going to need to rebuild your identity.” But it was said in passing, not with any real care or emotional preparation. And that matters. Because what people don’t talk about is how deeply rooted your identity becomes in the military. The way you talk, who you trust, the rhythm of your days—it’s all tied to something bigger than you, and suddenly you’re just… not in it anymore.
I think that lack of emotional support is part of why we lose so many veterans. Why some people get out and rejoin a few months later. There’s no guide for grieving the version of yourself you’re leaving behind. There’s no counselor assigned to help you sit in the weight of all that change. That should exist. Someone who doesn’t just help you fill out the paperwork, but someone who asks you: Are you okay? What are you afraid of?
Guilt, Faith, and Pressure
Because I was afraid. I carried so much guilt. Guilt that maybe I was making a selfish decision. That I was putting my family at risk by leaving stability behind. That if this didn’t work, we would all be affected in a big way. I had anxiety over every step—job hunting, rewriting my resume, figuring out how to talk in a way civilians could understand. How do you explain yourself when the only language you know is military?
I had moments where I felt so unprepared. Even with all the resources and classes, nothing really bridged the emotional gap. I doubted myself constantly. I felt lost in a process that, on paper, should have been simple. I was applying for jobs, doing phone and Zoom interviews, trying to tweak my pitch, my clothes, my wording—just to be seen and understood. Just to be enough.
And through all of this, I felt alone.
Yes, I had my husband, but the way he supported me didn’t always feel like encouragement. It felt like he was waiting for me to prove that I could do this because I’d already made up my mind. Most of my friends were still in the military, so I felt this disconnect—like no one fully understood what I was walking through.
I leaned heavily into my faith during that time. It was my anchor, the one place I could go where I didn’t feel like I had to pretend.
The moment it all became real for me was during my first job interview. I was still in uniform, still on active duty, and I found myself talking about my experience in the past tense. That was the moment I realized: this is happening. This is no longer an idea—it’s a future I’m walking toward. Turning in gear didn’t feel like much; you do that when you PCS. But talking to someone on the outside, pitching myself for a role in the civilian world—that made it real.
We moved back to our hometown, but it didn’t feel like coming home. Ten years had passed. Everything had changed, including me. We didn’t have a place of our own right away, so we moved in with my mother-in-law. I was grateful—but also humbled. I had gone from someone with her own space and steady income to someone figuring it out, room by room, decision by decision.
I had a plan. I had savings, a TSP withdrawal, a budget, and a timeline. But transition has a way of laughing at plans. No matter how organized you are, things will still catch you off guard. Unexpected expenses, delayed interviews, the emotional rollercoaster of job searching while trying not to let your family feel the weight of your stress—it was all so much more than I expected.
One of the biggest lessons I learned from this transition is that just because you have a plan doesn’t mean everything will go according to it. But having that plan—having something to come back to—keeps you grounded when the chaos starts to spin.
More than anything, I’ve learned that this is my story. I had to learn to love that. To believe in it. To block out the noise of people who didn’t understand or support my decision. Because not everyone will. And that’s okay.
Your story is uniquely yours. You don’t need everyone’s approval. If you feel purpose in your decision, you will be okay. You will land on your feet.
I did.