The Sticker

There’s a red sticker on my bedside table. Its edges are curled, the nine-digit number is fading. It’s one of hundreds slapped on our furniture by movers over the years. These stickers have followed me through seven moves and new schools. They've felt like an annoyance I tried to peel away. Now, the red sticker feels personal. It represents where I’ve been and who I hope to become.

My earliest memory of the stickers was yellow ones in Texas (our second move). I spent hours peeling them off furniture, which turned into a game for my brother and me. My mom would pay us fifty cents per sticker.

Life on a military base was unique. Moving trucks came and went, and with them so did my friends. I remember playing T-ball and stopping mid-run at 5 p.m., when the Retreat blared. Parents stood quickly, hats flew off. Kids froze, hands over hearts, mine on my stomach, because that’s where I thought my heart was. Back then, stickers meant change, but also consistency. Even when people changed, my military life was constant.

Two moves later, the stickers were green when we landed in Germany. At my new American school, I was placed in a German Immersion classroom where everything felt unfamiliar. Each morning, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance in German. I can still recite it: Ich gelobe Treue zu der Flagge…

Germany gave me a village. The five Smith boys who loved fireworks and trouble, the McFarlands and the twins, my next-door neighbors who made forts, Christmas Markets, Bäckerei, Schnitzel Hutt, and the Block House overlooking the farms.

Germany also gave me soccer. I joined a boys’ team and trained under German coaches who taught me to really love the game. Two moves and six teams later, soccer has been my common thread, which eventually led me into the college soccer recruitment process. In the end, I chose to prioritize education over playing. But I hope to play club and stay connected to the game through a career in athletic training or sports medicine. Those green stickers meant a new language and a new country, but also village life, and a sport that shaped me.

In Florida, the blue stickers led me to one of the most important friendships of my life. A young girl knocked on our door after the movers left. She helped peel stickers off boxes and soon became my best friend. Her family was military too, so she understood what those stickers meant.

A few years later, I traveled to see her at her father’s funeral; he died in a training accident. The service was raw. More than a hundred Navy SEALs pounded their gold pins into the wood, echoing through the auditorium. Walking by the family, the girl broke into a smile and reached for my hand. Best friends. That day, military life felt heavy; the stickers meant sacrifice and loss, but also pride, service, and forever friendships.

In 2020, the stickers were red again as we moved during the pandemic. I picked at them during online classes, struggling to connect in a new school. Usually, I made friends quickly, but masks and distance made it harder.

The next year, my brother and I started Rambassadors to welcome new students, the program we needed the year before. What began small is now our school’s second-largest club, with 200 members. My team presented at a national conference about our program, proof that each sticker was a lesson learned.

When I look at the red sticker still clinging to my bedside table, I get why I never peeled it off. Some memories are hard, but I wouldn’t change a moment. To me, it’s not just a faded sticker. It reminds me that being uncomfortable brings growth, and connections are life-changing. My next big move will be to college, and while the stickers won’t come with me, the meaning behind them will.