To Whom It May Concern,

I am just a mom.. a wife, a military spouse who's husband has proudly served in the United States Air Force for nearly 24 years, with his service anniversary approaching this October. Together, we have two wonderful children—our son, who is 17, and our daughter, who just turned 21 this July.

When our daughter was 16 she was sick, for over a month she was sick so I begged

her doctor to run labs. Her CBC showed dangerously low levels across the

board, and we were told to get her to the hospital immediately—they’d be

waiting. It was June 2021. She stayed a week and underwent what we were told

was “million-dollar testing.” Surgeons performed an emergency procedure to

remove one of many large nodules from her neck. Still, we had no answers.

From that point on, she was cared for by a team: oncology, neurology,

rheumatology, and infectious disease. Week after week, she endured countless

scans—MRIs, CTs, neck ultrasounds—and finally a PET scan.

The day we received those results, her whole body lit up, my husband was

deployed to Afghanistan for the 2021 pull-out. I sat alone on our stairs,

absorbing what felt like the worst news imaginable. Later, I spoke to him—but

didn’t share what I’d learned. I needed him to survive. I knew he could not know.

He was at the Abbey Gate that day, chatting with Army posted at the gate. I

suggested he step away to grab drinks and snacks to share with the people at

the gate ( our unit back home had sent drinks and food). As he left, I heard it—

the explosion. And then, silence. I wouldn’t hear from him again for a day. In that

time, I received the worst news of my life. Twice.

Two days later, our daughter had another emergency surgery to remove more

nodules for biopsy. While my husband endured chaos in Afghanistan, our

daughter endured her own hell at home. He couldn’t be there to hold her hand.

He couldn’t, because he needed to bring his team home safely—and he did.

And although she walked through the valley of the shadow of death, she feared

no evil. For God and her mother were there, refusing to let her go. I prayed on

my knees—not only to bring my husband home, but to bring our daughter

home.

By December 2021, we still had no answers. Our daughter had undergone two

surgeries and seen more doctors than I can count. Her levels continued to

plummet.

TRICARE—our insurance—was already beginning to fail us. Bills from

appointments started pouring in. They refused to cover genetic testing, which

doctors said was the only way to reach a diagnosis. They refused coverage for a

specialist team at CHOP, the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, even though it

was her best chance.

So we paid out of pocket. Our family rallied together to fund the high cost of that

testing.

Through that testing, and thanks to a team of exceptional doctors, we finally had

an answer: our daughter has Autoimmune Lymphoproliferative Syndrome (ALPS)—a

rare genetic disorder. There is no cure. It is in her blood. She will live with it for

the rest of her life.

ALPS attacks her organs and increases her risk of lymphoma. Our daughter will

require oncology monitoring for the rest of her life.

She has also developed Meniere’s disease, which causes extreme dizziness and

a spinning sensation life the world is spinning around you. These episodes are

unpredictable and growing stronger. Driving is dangerous. Being alone is

terrifying.

In June 2024, we PCS’d to England after my husband received new orders.

Before we sold our home and accepted this move (uprooting our children, taking

our son from his school and our daughter away from her medical team),

TRICARE representatives assured us that our daughter would receive care as long as she

was command-sponsored and listed on his orders. She is.

We trusted those assurances.

In July 2025, after an oncology appointment, we learned her referral had

unexpectedly expired. We reached out to TRICARE and were told it would be

reinstated. We were reassured it would be fixed.

Instead, we received an email.

As of July 7, 2025, our daughter no longer had medical insurance.

When my husband read me that email, it felt like the wind had been knocked out

of me. The world blurred. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We did everything

right—and now our daughter has no insurance coverage in a foreign country.

It hasn’t even been 24 hours since we received this news—and all I’ve done is

research. Research I never imagined I’d need to do, because we trusted what

we were told.

TRICARE gave us assurances they never should have given.

Our daughter could be hospitalized at any moment—and we, her family, excuse my

bluntness, are royally screwed if that happens.

She feels helpless. She believes this is somehow her fault. She has not done this

to our family. But TRICARE has. The government has. The United States has.

TRICARE policy only covers dependent children until age 21, unless they are

full-time college students. Meanwhile, every major insurance provider in America

offers coverage until age 26.

What about students like our daughter who graduate early, work, and pursue part-

time education? Sure they could pay high monthly costs for a policy of their

own, but they should NOT have to.

There is no warning. No letter. One day, you show up to the doctor and learn

your coverage is gone.

And how is that okay—when my husband has served since 2001, since he was

18 years old?

He has been deployed more times than I can count. He is broken in ways I won’t

begin to list. He has endured all of it for his country. For our family.

And for what? For TRICARE—a healthcare system that is fundamentally broken.

While he was serving yet again, our daughter lay in a hospital bed. That surgery—we

carried the cost for nearly a year.

A year of pleading, of case managers, of watching our credit sink into

collections. TRICARE failed us. Again. It took a very long time, stress, anxiety,

and sinking into a deep depression myself until we finally got this resolved.

I know we are not the first family TRICARE and this government have failed. I

know we won’t be the last.

This letter is not just for us—it’s for every single military family TRICARE has

turned its back on.

For those who gave everything—body, mind, and years of service.

Dropping their children at age 21, while civilian plans cover until 26, is not just

policy—it’s betrayal.

It is not right. It is not okay.

You failed us. But I will not.

I will fight this issue the way I’ve fought for my husband’s healing. The way I

continue to fight for my daughter’s life.

Whether I have to write 10 letters or 1,000, I will. I will speak. And I will be heard.

I am not humbly asking—I am asking with every conviction in my soul:

Reconsider the age limit for TRICARE coverage for military dependent children.

Raise it to match every other major insurance policy in America. It is nothing less

than these children deserve.

Children like mine, who endured every deployment with a parent absent during

birthdays, holidays, graduations, and quiet moments that mattered.

Children who moved every few years, started over again and again, built

resilience no one should have to build.

Children, these military dependents suffer: Emotionally, Mentally, and Physically.

Children who did not choose this life, but lived it—and sacrificed right alongside

their parents.

Children who are the very heartbeat of these service men and women.

Children who are left standing alone.

I refuse to let my daughter stand alone. She does not stand or walk alone in this

life, because I will be there holding her hand, fighting right along side her.

I ask not for special treatment. I ask for fairness. I ask for recognition. I ask for

what is deserved—and absolutely nothing less.

I ask you to stand with us. Do not let our family and every other military family

be left standing alone.I ask you to walk beside us and take up this call to action.

To work to reform Tricare age limit of 21 for military dependents and raise it to

the age of 26, as it should be.

With my deepest gratitude, I thank you for taking the time to read.