Good morning,
In my entire life, I'd never been called a "trailing" anything.
Then a job overseas for my husband came calling.
I left the job of a lifetime at Disney. Packed up a 4-year-old and a 6-year-old. Followed my husband's career to Russia because one of us had to go first, and we decided it would be him.
For the first time in my life, I was introduced as a "trailing spouse."
Trailing. WTF.
As in luggage. As in secondary. As in, nice résumé. Now scoot over.
I didn't choose that label. I chose marriage, family, and a shared adventure. But somewhere in the paperwork, I became the supporting character.
I tried to make it fit. The coffee mornings. The expat wives. Bunco, which, if you've never played, feels exactly like waiting for your brain to retire.
Two years in, I looked up and realized I was drifting.
So I took up poker.
Then Nestlé called. And the next thing I knew, I was marketing the chocolate chip cookie to the Russian Federation.
Some roads we choose. Some roads choose us. The real question is what we do once we're on them.
This week we're circling that tension. The trad wife revival. Pelvic floors that collapse without asking. Parenting grown children who have boundaries. And bags—because how we pack can say everything.
You don't control the era. You don't control gravity. You don't control your kids' therapists.
But you can control whether you drift.
