Today was the big day — the day every military couple both celebrates and fears.

End of deployment.

D-Day.

Return of the Mack.

He. Is. Home. 🏠

My alarm went off at stupid-o’clock — 3am — so I could drive to Brize Norton and pick him up. Technically I could have let MT do it , they could have collected him… but I’m not about to be that level of C-U-Next-Tuesday, and deep down, despite the occasional questionable decision on his part, I love him. Not just love — still in love, even after 10 wild, unpredictable years and I want to pick him up and make his life that little bit more comfortable. 

Our decade together has been more turbulent than a Ryanair landing in a crosswind, and our seat belts were well and truly fastened, but the highs? The highs are worth every shaky descent. Today wasn’t about the arguments, the distance or the dips — it was about trying to reconnect after four long months apart……. 

And here’s the part most people don’t say out loud:

Homecoming is hard.

Actually, brutally hard and nobody warns you how mentally feral you become in the days leading up to homecoming. My inner committee (consisting of Anxiety, Overthinking, and Bitchy Commentary) hosted a 24/7 conference:

“Will he still fancy me?”

“Will I still want to jump his bones?”

“What if he returns looking like a Marvel character and I look like his tired accountant?”

“Does he still love me or is he just here for clean sheets and on tap blowjobs?”

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Let’s talk appearance.

Every mirror, window reflection became my enemy. Did I look okay?

Absolutely not.

I looked like I’d been dragged through a storm (because I literally had), then reheated in a microwave. Between work, monsoon-level rain, picking up his teenager, food pit stops, and a generous 4 hours of sleep, “glowing goddess” was not on the menu. I was giving: Zombie with mascara

He finally arrived.

He hugged his daughter first — as he should (cute, appropriate, 10/10 parenting) — then gave me a small squeeze, like somebody hugging a colleague they don’t really know if they like but they went it so you had to follow through……just Awkward. It always is at first. And of course my brain whispered, “Is that my fault?” Cue mental wrestling match.

Back home, I unpacked four months’ worth of his life (you’re welcome), and then — finally — he really embraced me. It felt good. Familiar. Safe, like putting on your favourite hoodie fresh from the dryer……Four months without physical affection is no joke. But even then, there was still a layer of awkwardness that neither of us could quite shake.

And that might sound strange… but that’s real life. Military relationships aren’t for the weak, the bored, or the chronically unbothered. 

You can’t go from long-distance limbo to perfect couple mode overnight. You don’t magically snap back into place like nothing happened. Military relationships, especially, are a different world — only the strong survive, and only the honest admit how tough it really is.

They’re for people who can survive separation, fear, questionable communication schedules, and the occasional identity crisis… without hooking up with the first person who tells you how hot you are. 

For us, this isn’t the first homecoming and it won’t be the last. Each time, we relearn each other. We renegotiate space, connection, routine, humour and intimacy. And yes, it is exhausting — especially when you’re silently fighting battles no one can see.

But it’s also worth it.

Tomorrow has two options:

✨ Better

🔥 Worse

And that, my friends, is a gamble I’m willing to take.

Good night, sleep tight.

Vivi ♥️