The Trailing Spouse Nobody Warned You About
You unpack the last box. The child’s in school. Your partner’s calendar is full. And you? You’re alone with the silence. No one told you the relocation would strip the skin off your identity.
I’ve been there. I was a trailing spouse once — not the label I would’ve chosen, but it stuck. And what I learned is this: people applaud the move, but no one prepares you for the hollowness that follows. The career you left behind. The friends who stop calling. The blank space where your purpose used to sit. The way your body wakes with anxiety and no one notices. The way you shrink your needs to make space for someone else’s big, shiny new life.
It’s Not Just Boredom — It’s Dislocation
They call it a privilege. A chance to explore. Be grateful. But what they don’t see is that you’ve been erased in the process. You become someone’s shadow — smiling at functions, running logistics, pretending you’re not quietly unraveling.
This isn’t about self-pity. It’s about reality. Uprooting your life for someone else’s opportunity leaves marks. Sometimes you don’t even recognise yourself in the mirror. You start wondering: What exactly am I doing here?
You scroll job sites in a language you barely speak. You run errands like you’re busy but you’re not. You join the international coffee group and make it through half a conversation before your eyes glaze over. You wonder if anyone here could hold a real conversation about grief, about longing, about the way some mornings feel like wading through wet cement.
The Identity Nobody Sees
You were someone before this. You still are — but the mirror’s gone foggy. Maybe you had a job that meant something. Maybe you were surrounded by people who got you. Now you’re nodding through small talk at school gates or hosting dinners for your partner’s colleagues. You’re not seen. You’re managing.
You’ve become the supporting character in someone else’s hero arc. And even if you love them — even if you chose this — there’s a bitter edge to that sacrifice. Love doesn’t erase loss. And service doesn’t always nourish. Strains in a marriage after relocating are normal, and painful. Good conversations need to be had, and they might not be easy…
Let’s not pretend it’s all doom. There are moments of beauty — the quiet walks, the chance to reset. But when no one sees the weight you’re carrying, the pretty setting starts to rot from the inside.
This Is Grief. Let’s Call It That
You’re grieving. Not just a job or a home, but a version of yourself. The one who had traction. The one who didn’t have to explain herself at every dinner table. The one who could speak without stumbling over a second language. This isn’t an identity crisis. It’s mourning.
And most days, no one sees it. You hold it in your jaw, your sleep patterns, your apathy. And still you keep going — arranging playdates, planning weekend hikes, showing up. That’s strength. But strength doesn’t mean silence.
What Help Looks Like (Hint: It’s Not a Yoga Class)
You don’t need platitudes. Or ten self-care tips. You need a space where you can say the unsayable. Rage. Grieve. Tell the truth about what this move cost you. That’s not weakness. That’s the start of reclaiming your life.
This isn’t therapy-speak. This is experience. I work with expats, yes — but I’ve lived what you’re in. The shape-shifting. The ache. The restless discontent. And if you’re ready to stop pretending it’s all fine, we can talk.
Because being a trailing spouse doesn’t mean disappearing. Not on my watch.
Book a session or start with a free 20-minute call if you’re done smiling through the silence.
