I clearly remember when I first met that young soldier—our date, and later, dropping him off at Shipton Barracks near Ansbach, Germany. It was all so new, so unreal, yet so exciting. I’m a German gal, raised in a country that had just enjoyed a few decades of peace. Germany was tired of war. We had caused enough destruction and suffering. Starting with my grandparents’ generation, we longed for peace.
So I grew up in a place with very little violence—peaceful, grounded, safe. Munich is my hometown, and even though it was a large city, crime was rare. Meeting and spending time with an American soldier was exciting—but I didn’t realize how different our worldviews truly were. Different cultures. Different values. A different relationship with life, and with war.
We got married six weeks after meeting. Yes—I know. It sounds fast. But our schedules didn’t line up, and waiting would’ve delayed everything for months. So we rushed. Looking back, I realize now it was a setup for future struggles. We didn’t know each other yet—not really. We didn’t know each other’s countries, cultures, families, or deepest values. We tried to merge two very different worlds: a German civilian into the American military life, and a young, uneducated soldier into a structured German family.
But like so many young couples, we were determined, bright-eyed, and full of hope. And in many ways—we did it. We stayed married for 23 years. We traveled from base to base, furthered our education, and raised ten children together. That young E-3 soldier became an O-4 officer—with three (yes, three!) master’s degrees.
My journey as a military spouse began in 2002. I had no idea the level of sacrifice that role would require. But that changed quickly.
We were married in Washington, D.C. on June 29, 2002. Not long after returning to Germany, we learned that our unit—65-2 ADA—was going to Iraq. We were all gathered in that small, warm DFAC—shoulder to shoulder, lined up beneath the dull hum of overhead lights. The smell of coffee drifted through the air. On any other day, it might have been pleasant. But that day, the heaviness in the room was thick—too thick for comfort to take hold. On the mounted TV, President Bush was announcing war. His voice echoed across the room, slow and clinical, disconnected from the emotions stirring inside each of us.
To my left, one of our soldiers sat beside his young wife. He was crying openly. She leaned close, trying to hold him steady. Around the room, I saw the same: tears, long embraces, heads bowed in disbelief. Everything moved in slow motion. I remember watching them—one by one—breaking under the weight of what they were about to face.
But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. Where I come from, we were taught to stay composed. To hold it in. To be strong, not only in public—but especially in public. And so I stood there. Quiet. Still. Strong. Unwavering. The rock. The unmovable. Unreadable for other, maybe looking emotionless. That was my role. That was my training. That was my truth in that moment.
And yet, even as I stood there—calm on the outside, unreadable to most—something inside me was suspended.
Frozen.
Not from weakness, but from a lack of language. A lack of awareness. A lack of tools.
What I didn’t know at the time—but I know so deeply now—is that my inability to process what I was witnessing wasn’t just cultural.
It was emotional.
No one ever taught me how to feel in a way that led to understanding.
No one gave me permission to explore my emotions without judgment.
No one told me that strength and sensitivity are not enemies—they’re allies.
I didn’t have Emotional Intelligence—and because of that, my ability to truly process those moments… those deployments… those separations… was deeply limited.
Instead of feeling what was there, I stored it. Compartmentalized it. Intellectualized it.
And for a long time, I believed that was maturity. That was control. That was expected form me to support my soldier.
But what it really was… was emotional survival.
The cost of not having Emotional Intelligence isn’t just internal—it’s exponential.
When you don’t know what you’re feeling, you don’t know how to express it.
And when you can’t express it, it can’t be healed.
So it stays. It builds. It shapes how you show up for your partner, your children, and most importantly—yourself.
It took me years to realize that I wasn’t broken, that I wasn’t wrong or bad.
I was simply untrained in the language of the heart.
And that’s why I teach it now.
Not because I figured everything out—but because I’ve lived what it feels like to hold everything in with no safe place to process it, with no safe place to reflect and learn what my own emotions are trying to tell me. That gently voice of my emotions trying to keep me safe, healthy, and aligned with my inner self.
I was properly trained in drowning it out, placing other’s needs before my own, acting as if everything is good, even when I felt like breaking.
Today, the military has more tools, more programs, more awareness around the emotional strain that service life places on soldiers and families.
There are family support groups, trainings, briefings, resources for reintegration, even courses that touch on emotional wellness.
And yet… so many soldiers and spouses are still walking through life without the most essential tool of all:
the language of emotion.
Because like me, many come from homes where emotions were not spoken—where crying was seen as weakness, where anger meant control, and silence meant survival.
Where boundaries were forbidden because they threatened the person in authority, and voices were silenced to appease those we depended on as children.
Many Military families don’t know that they don’t know.
They don’t realize that the tension in their marriage, the emotional distance from their children, the burnout, the breakdowns, the drinking, the sudden outbursts, the numbness—it’s not just stress. It’s unspoken emotion.
It’s the absence of Emotional Intelligence.
And it breaks families.
I’ve seen it.
I’ve lived it.
And I know that even the strongest relationships—ones built on deep love and commitment—can erode under the weight of unexpressed pain, misunderstood reactions, and emotional disconnection.
Because no matter how strong your back is…
if your heart has no safe place to land, it will armor itself.
And when both people are armored, intimacy disappears.
And so, here’s what I believe with my whole heart:
Emotional Intelligence is not a luxury. It’s not a soft skill. It’s not a nice-to-have.
It’s survival. It’s connection. It’s what keeps love from dissolving into resentment.
Emotional Intelligence is an ESSENTIAL and should be taught to children in every school so they can grow up as emotionally intelligence adults.
We train our soldiers to fight.
We must also train them and their families to feel, to recognize, to embrace, to allow and to transform.
Not just so we can survive military life—but so we can thrive with our relationships, our wholeness, and our humanity intact.
