"The Celaya Luck"

This post was written two weeks ago. At that time, we were barely keeping our heads above water, which is why it’s taken so long to share. Now, as we settle into our routines starting this week, you’ll hear from me more regularly. The past two months have brought more challenges—and more opportunities for growth—than either of us could have imagined.

---

Morgan’s family has a running joke: “It’s the Celaya luck.” I never really believed in bad luck, but now? I get it. We’re not talking tragic, life-shattering luck—just the kind of mildly ridiculous inconveniences that make for good dinner-table stories. We’re the family that always gets seated at the worst table in the restaurant—next to the kitchen doors, squeezed into the tiniest corner for a big group, or parked right beside the restrooms. At this point, it’s comedy.

Apparently, this brand of luck made it through customs and followed us across the international date line.

If you read my last post, you know our arrival in Okinawa came with storms, typhoon warnings, and even a tsunami alert (which, for the record, rarely happens). But last Thursday added a new plot twist: a rushed trip to the hospital for both Morgan and Mojo.

Before you panic—everyone is fine. We just had a scare that kept Morgan under observation for 24 hours. Looking back, we decided it was the universe’s way of saying: Slow. The. Hell. Down.

And honestly, it was overdue. By that point we’d:

• Checked Morgan into her new unit (which is not a “one-stop” process)

• Got our Japanese driver’s licenses and learned to drive on the left side of both the road and the car

• Checked into our seventh temporary stay in a month (hospital made eight)

• Got the dogs cleared from quarantine to live off-base

• Started the housing approval process (a 2–3 week ordeal)

• Toured one apartment, did several "drive-by's" of other options and neighborhoods.

• …and a dozen other things I can’t even remember anymore.

  
  

When you’re holding your breath in a hospital, every little priority falls away. In those eternal-feeling moments, the only thing that mattered was Morgan, our baby, and our pups.

I'm not going to get into the details of the hospital visit, but here's a little snippet.

And then, something unexpected happened. Right outside our window, a Japanese Barn Swallow put on an aerial ballet—dipping, darting, weaving in the evening light. We’ve recently become casual birdwatchers (a mid-thirties rite of passage), so of course we looked it up:

In Japan, swallows (tsubame) are symbols of good luck, safe homecomings, and new beginnings. They return each spring to the same nesting sites, representing loyalty, family bonds, and the comfort of home. They’re also linked to marriage, birth rites, and—at sea—safe returns.

I’m not religious, but I am spiritual. And in that moment, I felt it—a gift from the universe, a quiet assurance that we were exactly where we needed to be.

Our hospital stay became a “practice run” for October: we made lists, relaxed, watched movies, and let Morgan rest. But as soon as she recovered, reality came knocking again—hard.

Here in Okinawa, I’m essentially a “second-class citizen.” I can’t open a bank account, set up a phone, get a mailing address, or buy a car without Morgan. As an independent woman, it’s been… an adjustment. Still, we got it all done— apartment, post office address, car—thanks to her, even though she was the one who needed to take it easy.

Then came the biggest logistical hurdle yet: paying over $10,000 in cash for our first month’s rent, security deposit, agency fee, and utilities. (Yes, in cash. Yes, it’s normal here. And yes, rent is still a fraction of what we’d pay in San Diego or DC.)

Here’s what no one tells you before you PCS to Okinawa: there are no banks you can use unless you’re with Navy Federal. We’re not. We assumed our two massive, worldwide banks would have branches. They do not.

Cue the bank saga:

• First bank promises we can withdraw what we need. Nope. The ATM limit on base is $500 per transaction. After a few withdrawals, Morgan’s card gets shut down.

• We call. They unblock it. We try again the next day—declined. Entire account locked.

• Two hours on the phone later, they reopen it but put it under constant review.

• Locked again the next day. We give up on that account.

• Second bank? $1,000 daily max. So, I made daily ATM pilgrimages for several days to piece together what we needed.

  
  

Finally, Monday came. We got housing approval—next step was military review of our lease (three-day wait). Meanwhile, we’d been in a 300-square-foot hotel room for two weeks, separated from our dogs, and living without most of our belongings for over three months.

I’ve handled challenges before. Divorce and coming out at 27. Living on the road in a Subaru Forester (peak lesbian energy) before upgrading to a 30-foot bus I renovated myself. A dozen other self-imposed challenges. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for the stress of this move.

In our relationship, there are no gender roles. We share every chore equally—yard work, cooking, trash duty. But physically? Morgan’s the Marine, the trained athlete, the one who can lift and carry without thinking about it. Me? Not so much. And for the first time, I’ve felt the weight—not just of the move, but of everything it’s asking of both of us.

From hauling moving boxes to lugging over 100 pounds of carry-ons through the airport, to wrestling our overweight suitcases through hotel hallways and into our apartment—this move has worked me over physically. Add to that the sudden stop in my cannabis habit (illegal here in Japan) and I’ve dropped more than 20 pounds in the past two months.

I’m not someone who weight trains regularly—or at all—and there’s not an athletic bone in my body. But when it counts, I show up. My mix of functional fitness, ADHD hyper-focus, sheer stubbornness, and being a 6-foot-tall, larger-framed woman means I can put my head down and push through when it matters.

But until three days ago, I’d been running on fumes and adrenaline. I kept going—through the anxiety, the fear, the exhaustion—because slowing down wasn’t an option. Weeks of living in fight-or-flight mode finally caught up to me. And it hit hard. Full-blown meltdown. Panic attack. The works. I’d been sleeping maybe three hours a night, grabbing short naps when I could, just enough to limp my way to the next task.

The meltdown didn’t break me—it just reminded me I’m human. I’ve done hard things before, and I’ll do harder things ahead. But now, I’ll do them with a little more grace for myself… and maybe a nap or two built into the plan. The Celaya luck might mean we get the worst table in the restaurant, but it also means we’re still laughing—sometimes through tears—no matter where we end up sitting.