Together Again

When this deployment began, I felt surprisingly strong. I started out confident, in control, and—though not excited for the distance itself—hopeful that this chapter would play a vital role in our family’s growth, happiness, and strength. I saw it as a test of everything we’d built together, and I wanted to honor that by showing up every single day with resilience and faith.

At first, my strength and resilience were questioned. I could feel the doubt surrounding me. My husband had his reservations about how I would manage with so much on my plate, yet he still showed his support. People warned me about taking on too much, despite knowing that staying busy is how I cope with being separated from my soulmate—and despite not fully understanding me personally.

Gannon worried about missing our daughter’s milestones, how his absence would shape life at home, and whether our village would truly show up to support something that 99% of people will never experience or understand.

Raising our two-year-old—our beautiful, deeply loved daughter—has filled nearly every moment. I’ve barely made time for myself, yet I can honestly say I’ve done my best. We’ve spent this season with almost no screen time (maybe twenty times the TV has even been turned on all year). Instead, I poured my focus into being present, creating stability, and staying grounded in the small things that matter most.

I upheld and built Reining It In with AJ at my side—many days while she slept in her bed as I worked what felt like endless hours at the computer, and many days braving the elements to care for our ranch.

There were days we bundled up in the rain as I baby-carried my little cowgirl out to feed hay, using each other for warmth and praying the four-wheeler wouldn’t get stuck. I did my best to keep it together. And there were days that were beautiful—spent in the saddle (or bareback) together on a horse, or swinging on our swings here at home—enjoying every waking moment while still longing for Daddy’s presence.

Today’s technology blessed us with the ability to communicate almost daily. Hours on FaceTime—just talking or showing our accomplishments as a mama–daughter team—created memories many families will never know. Family prayers looked different too: bowing our heads and folding our hands in front of a screen instead of feeling the strong embrace of my husband, our family leader.

The times when communication was scarce were terrifying. Knowing alarms were sounding, knowing my husband was required to wear his full kit, knowing he carried real fear of not coming home—it overwhelmed me with anxiety. This was something I had to experience to fully understand. In those moments, I leaned heavily on those closest to me—my best friend and God above.

Church became an anchor for us. We made it every Sunday except one—when little AJ was under the weather from teething and a growth spurt. Faith, community, and routine kept me steady when everything else felt uncertain. I poured my extra time and energy into serving my church throughout this season because I enjoy it and because I know it’s right.

I did all of this in a nontraditional way—balancing ranch life, motherhood, and business ownership—often entirely on my own. Some days, I was amazed I was still standing; other days, I felt the cracks. As homecoming drew nearer, with about a month to go, I found myself thin—emotionally and physically—yet deeply reflective.

That final stretch was the hardest. The end couldn’t come soon enough, yet there was still so much to do before my husband returned. Emotions rose and fell daily, but gratitude continued to surface above everything else.

I am thankful for those who checked in. For those who showed up. For those who helped with projects around the ranch or simply offered company and encouragement. That list is smaller than I once imagined, but those who stayed—those who were consistent—mean everything.

Most of all, I am thankful for my best friend. She knows who she is. She knew what my days looked like, hour by hour, and she was my rock through this entire deployment. When I couldn’t reach Gannon because of imminent danger, she stood in the gap. I wondered more than once what would have happened if something had gone wrong here at home—if anyone would’ve even known—because the only two people I spoke with daily were my husband and her.

Running a ranch, raising a toddler, and managing life alone revealed both my strength and my limits. I am deeply blessed to have had a friend so caring, thoughtful, and steady. Without her, I’m not sure what my mental health—or even our physical safety—might have looked like.

I am thankful for those who claimed their stake in our village; they know who they are. When our 100% felt more like 30%, others helped make up the remaining 70%. Because of them, we accomplished so much—physically and emotionally. Grammie was among the most touching as well—a trusted confidant and a grandma whose steady presence and availability carried me through more moments than she knows.

I never wanted my daughter to see me at my worst. But the first time it happened, I collapsed on our kitchen floor, sobbing. She paused, looked into my eyes, and offered me a hug. At two years old, I never expected to show her something so heavy—but I needed to. She has seen what resilience looks like: breaking down and coming back stronger as a mother, a wife, and the one who keeps everything moving.

Nothing compares to the relief I felt when I received a notification from my husband overseas during the Israel bombings. Those days were filled with prayer chains—sometimes the only relief any of us could feel. Blaring worship music, dancing in every room with my daughter, her sweet requests to “hold Daddy” over FaceTime, riding our horses together, and choosing presence—those moments made the hardship bearable.

One of the greatest concerns for deployed soldiers is whether their families will be supported while they’re gone. They can only do so much from afar. Many people tried to connect the only way they knew how—by asking how many days were left—on days I was barely holding on. Some days I broke. Other days I held it together. What I needed was for someone to ask how I was.

Deployment is hard. Raising a child alone on a ranch is hard. Carrying both my responsibilities and my husband’s physical duties was exhausting. But we were blessed to endure something that taught us so much.

I learned how to depend on God when I couldn’t do this alone. I learned how to honor my husband as the head of our family while still finding my own voice. I learned how to navigate motherhood in his absence and how to build a business rooted in faith and integrity.

Gannon learned how strong his family is, how deeply he is needed, and how trust and communication sustain us—even across oceans. Despite everything he endured, he became a better husband, learning calmness through intensity and relying on God’s strength to provide for his family. Together, we learned what it means to fulfill our biblical roles in marriage.

As homecoming approached, the feeling became surreal. After months of holding it together, my defenses wouldn’t let me believe he was truly coming home—and Gannon felt the same. It was as if our hearts refused to exhale until we saw each other face to face.

And then came the day.

Today, my daughter and I picked up our soldier. After 299 long days, I couldn’t fathom the feeling of his embrace. We had little information—only prayers that we would be allowed to meet him immediately. I couldn’t imagine him being so close and not being able to reach him, especially knowing how AJ would feel.

We waited, scanning the formation as the battalion marched in. Then I saw him—so close, yet untouchable. As the commander spoke, anticipation built, and I couldn’t help myself: “Come on—give them back to us!”

When the word “Dismissed” was spoken, I launched AJ and myself toward Gannon. His embrace held everything we’d carried all year.

It was over. Finally.

The weeks following his return were unexpectedly exhausting. Going from survival mode to relearning life as a family—while still maintaining the ranch—took its toll. My body crashed once Gannon was home. I had been so strong for so long, and suddenly my nervous system knew it no longer had to hold everything alone.

We are finding our rhythm again. So much has changed—less screen time, sobriety, slower living, deeper presence. We are grateful for the way this season strengthened us.

Looking back, I feel both exhaustion and pride. I did it. We did it. I could do it again if I had to—but I pray I won’t need to. Survival mode aged me, but it also revealed how much I can endure through faith.

My heart is full. My family is whole. And I can finally breathe again.

Rooted in His Word, I hold this truth:

For the Lord walked with us through deep waters, and we were not overwhelmed.

Through fire, we were not consumed.

And the God of all grace—who binds our three-strand cord—has restored, strengthened, and established us.

Inspired by Ecclesiastes 4:12, Isaiah 43:2, and 1 Peter 5:10

With this passage, I hope to bring light to those who feel unheard in the darkness of deployment—those who may not understand the ebbs and flows of the challenges military families and spouses face.

In all the darkness, there is light—we just have to keep treading through the tunnel to find it.

❤️🇺🇸