Ten years. I keep looking at those two words and wondering how an entire decade could have passed so quickly, yet somehow feel like a lifetime.

On November 1, 2016, I officially retired from the United States Army after 17 years of service. I wish I could tell you I walked away feeling proud, accomplished, and excited about everything waiting for me. But that wouldn't be the truth. The truth is that I was heartbroken.

I wasn't ready to say goodbye to the Army. I wasn't ready to take off the uniform. And I certainly wasn't prepared for how difficult it would be to figure out who I was without it. For so much of my adult life, being a Soldier wasn't just something I did. It was part of who I was.

I had served in Iraq and Afghanistan. I had commanded Soldiers, led teams, made difficult decisions, experienced loss, and carried responsibilities that shaped me in ways I am still trying to understand. I retired as a Major. And yet, when that chapter ended, I struggled to recognize everything I had already accomplished. Instead of celebrating, I found myself grieving. That grief followed me for years.

The Question I Couldn't Stop Asking

There was one question I kept asking myself throughout retirement: What have I actually accomplished? Not during my military career. Afterward. What had I done with my life since leaving the Army? It seems like such a simple question, but for years, I couldn't give myself an answer.

I saw other people moving forward, building careers, finding new identities, making plans. Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out how to live in a world that no longer looked or felt familiar. I didn't understand that I was grieving an identity. I didn't recognize how much energy was going toward simply getting through the day. And I certainly didn't give myself credit for surviving the things that came next.

My retirement wasn't the beginning of an easy, carefree chapter. There were physical and emotional challenges. A devastating car accident in 2018. Surgeries. Chronic pain. Mental health struggles. Relationships that changed. A marriage that eventually ended after more than two decades. There were times when I felt completely lost, times when I didn't recognize myself, and times when I wondered whether the life I'd imagined was gone forever.

I was so busy trying to heal from everything I had lost that I couldn't see what I was creating.

The Little Girl Who Had No Idea

One of the pictures I'm sharing is from my childhood. There I am with my brother, long before I knew anything about military service, leadership, deployment, retirement, or the many twists life would eventually take. I look at that little girl and smile. She had no idea.

She didn't know she would one day become an Army officer. She didn't know she would serve in war zones, lead Soldiers, become a mother, write a book, build a media company, or eventually become a grandmother. She certainly didn't know how many times she would have to find the courage to start over.

When I look at that photograph today, I don't see someone who needed to have everything figured out. I see someone whose story was just beginning. And perhaps that's how I need to start looking at myself again.

The People Who Kept Me Grounded

Another photograph takes me back to around 2011. My mom, my two children, and me. I look at that picture and think about all the things we didn't know were coming: deployments, long days, sacrifices, changes, heartache. But I also think about the love that carried us through. My family has been part of my foundation throughout so many chapters of my life.

My children grew up in the military world. They experienced a version of service that often goes unrecognized: the sacrifices made by families standing beside those in uniform. Somewhere in the middle of everything I was navigating, those two children grew up. My daughter got married. I gained a son-in-law. My son continued finding his own way in the world.

And then came one of the greatest blessings I could never have imagined: I became a grandmother. My grandson will soon be three years old, and I cannot begin to explain what that little boy has brought into my life. Watching him smile, laugh, explore, and discover the world has reminded me of something I lost sight of during very difficult years: there is still so much life waiting to be lived.

I think about all the little moments I might have missed if I'd allowed my darkest days to convince me that there was nothing left ahead. That brings me to one of the most personal parts of this journey.

Finding Purpose Through Pain

There were moments in my life when the emotional pain became so overwhelming that I struggled to imagine a future beyond it. There were times when I didn't want my life to end as much as I desperately wanted the pain to stop. That's difficult to write. But I believe in telling the truth about mental health, even when that truth is uncomfortable.

I've spent years advocating for mental health awareness and suicide prevention because these subjects aren't simply causes I support. They are deeply personal. I know what it feels like to struggle in silence. I know how difficult it can be to ask for help. And I know that healing rarely happens as quickly or as neatly as we hope.

One of the things I never imagined after leaving the Army was becoming a mentor with the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, better known as TAPS. Through that organization, I've had the privilege of supporting children and families grieving the death of someone who served in the military, including families affected by suicide loss.

I don't pretend that my experiences are the same as theirs. They aren't. But my own struggles have taught me how important it is to make space for someone's pain without trying to rush them through it. Sometimes we can't fix what someone is experiencing. Sometimes there are no perfect words. Sometimes we can simply sit beside them, listen, and remind them that they matter.

Our hardest experiences don't have to define us, but they can deepen the compassion we offer others. I never imagined that a person who once struggled to see a reason to keep going would someday have the opportunity to offer encouragement to people navigating extraordinary grief. What an incredible privilege that has been.

A Wild Ride Called Life: The Beginning of Something Unexpected

In November 2016, around the time I retired, I created something called A Wild Ride Called Life. It started as a blog. Nothing fancy. No grand business plan. No roadmap for turning it into something bigger. Just a place where I could tell my story. I needed an outlet for the thoughts and feelings I didn't always know how to express. I hoped that somewhere, someone might read my words and realize they weren't alone.

That little blog became something I never anticipated. In 2021, I published The Wall Between Two Lives, a book rooted in my experiences and journey through trauma, mental health, and healing. I stepped into podcasting, creating The Truths We Hide and eventually launching A Wild Ride Called Life – The Podcast. I began interviewing people, listening to their experiences, and discovering how powerful storytelling could be.

Over time, the platform grew beyond my own story. In 2025, I launched AWRCL Media. A media company. Me. The woman who retired from the Army wondering what she was supposed to do next had somehow become an entrepreneur, writer, interviewer, storyteller, and media professional.

I began covering events, working with artists, entrepreneurs, authors, veterans, and organizations. I found myself interviewing musicians at Austin City Limits Music Festival. I traveled to Hollywood for the National Social Media Awards. I walked into rooms and attended events I never imagined I'd be part of.

Not because everything had suddenly become easy. Believe me, it hadn't. I've spent countless hours learning new skills, rebuilding websites, figuring out cameras, editing videos, sending emails, facing rejection, and wondering whether I was making the right decisions. There have been mistakes, disappointments, expensive lessons, and more than a few moments when I wanted to throw my computer across the room.

But I've kept going. I didn't need to know exactly where I was going when I started. I just needed to be willing to begin.

I Took Off the Uniform, but I Never Stopped Serving

Another unexpected chapter of retirement has been finding new ways to serve. When I joined the Veterans of Foreign Wars, I wasn't looking to recreate my military career. I was looking for connection, community, and a place where I could continue making a difference. In 2026, I became Commander of VFW Post 12235 in Salado, Texas.

Even writing that makes me pause. For years, I struggled with the loss of my military leadership identity. And here I am, ten years later, leading again. It's different, of course. There are no deployments to prepare for, no Soldiers under my command, and no military rank that determines whether someone listens to me. Instead, I work alongside fellow veterans, build relationships, support our community, and help others feel their service still matters.

I've also begun stepping into advocacy and learning more about public policy. After experiencing my own difficult transition through divorce, I became increasingly aware of how complicated and painful the legal and financial systems can be for military families. That has inspired me to speak up for military spouses, veterans, and families who deserve to be heard.

I never imagined studying the political process or exploring how I might help shape policy. But life has a funny way of leading us toward things we never knew we were capable of doing. Perhaps leadership was never something the Army gave me and retirement took away. It was something I learned, developed, and carried with me.

Losing More Than One Identity

I cannot reflect on these ten years without acknowledging the end of my marriage. For much of my adult life I was not only a Soldier and a mother, but also a wife in a military family. After more than two decades of marriage, learning to navigate life outside that relationship meant confronting yet another identity I thought would always be part of me.

Divorce brought grief I wasn't prepared for. Not just the loss of a marriage, but the loss of the future I believed we were building together. There were financial challenges, emotional challenges, and moments when I wondered how I could possibly start over at this stage of my life. And I am still figuring some of that out.

But starting over doesn't mean everything that came before was a failure. It means life changed. And I am allowed to change with it. I am allowed to discover who I am outside the roles I spent so many years fulfilling for other people. I am allowed to want new things. I am allowed to dream again.

Maybe God Had Another Plan

I have thought a lot about faith over these past ten years. There were times when I questioned why certain things happened: why my military career had to end before I was emotionally ready, why some of the hardest experiences seemed to come when I was already struggling, why I had to keep starting over, and why the life I worked so hard to build looked so different from the one I expected.

I don't claim to understand all of it. I still have questions. I still have days when grief catches up with me. But I am beginning to believe something I couldn't see ten years ago: maybe God wasn't taking my purpose away. Maybe He was leading me toward a purpose I couldn't recognize yet.

Maybe the end of my military career wasn't the end of my ability to lead. Maybe difficult experiences weren't proof that I'd failed. Maybe finding my voice through writing, media, mentoring, and advocacy was part of a journey I needed time to understand. I don't believe everything painful happens because it is supposed to. But I do believe something meaningful can grow out of even the most difficult chapters.

Ten Years Later, I Finally See It

So here I am. November 1, 2026. Ten years retired. I'm a mother, a grandmother, an Army veteran, a retired Major, an author, a podcast host, a business owner, a mentor, a VFW Commander, an advocate. But I am also simply a woman who is still figuring things out. Someone who has made mistakes, experienced tremendous heartbreak, and is still healing.

For the longest time, I looked at the past ten years and wondered what I had accomplished. Today, when I look at these photographs, I see the answer. I see my family. My children growing up. My grandson smiling. The woman who proudly wore her Army uniform. The mentor beside a TAPS sign. The little logo that became a media company. The woman who walked into rooms she never imagined entering.

I see service, love, loss, growth, courage, mistakes, faith, and a whole lot of learning along the way. Most importantly, I see a life that kept unfolding even when I couldn't imagine what the next chapter would look like.

If I could sit beside the woman I was on November 1, 2016, I wouldn't promise her everything would be okay, because some things wouldn't be. I wouldn't tell her every heartbreak would make sense or healing would be easy. Instead I would tell her: you're going to experience things you never imagined, lose parts of the life you thought would last forever, question yourself, fall apart, and have to put yourself back together more than once.

But you're also going to laugh again. Find purpose in unexpected places. Hold your grandson in your arms. Build something of your own. Help people. Find the courage to use your voice. And one day, look back on these ten years and realize you accomplished far more than you ever gave yourself credit for—not because you did everything perfectly, but because you kept living, kept trying, kept becoming.

Ten years ago, I thought I was saying goodbye to the life that gave me purpose. Today, I realize I was beginning a new chapter of that purpose. I don't know what the next ten years will bring. But this time, instead of measuring my life by what I've lost, I want to appreciate what is here, what I've created, and everything that is still possible.

If you're reading this while struggling through your own transition, loss, or unexpected beginning, I hope you remember something I am only now learning myself: you don't have to know what the rest of your life will look like to believe there might still be something beautiful ahead. Your story is not over simply because a chapter ended. Neither is mine.

Still healing. Still serving. Still becoming. And what a wild ride it has been.

— Annette Whittenberger | Founder, A Wild Ride Called Life & AWRCL Media

If you or someone you love is struggling with thoughts of suicide, call or text 988 in the United States. Veterans and service members can press 1 for the Veterans Crisis Line.