Raised on Red, White, and Moving Boxes

I have always loved America.

Not in a loud, bumper-sticker kind of way. Not in a way that pretends everything has always been perfect, or that every chapter of our history has been easy to look at. I love America in a sentimental, deep-in-my-bones kind of way — the kind that still makes my throat tighten when I hear the National Anthem, see a flag waving in the right kind of light, or watch military jets fly over and feel that thunder in my chest.

I grew up in a military family, which means my childhood was built out of moving boxes, new schools, different accents, unfamiliar streets, and learning how to call a place “home” before the tape was even off the furniture.

And honestly? I loved it.

I loved getting to see different parts of this country. I loved learning that America was not just one kind of place, one kind of people, or one kind of story. It was beaches and mountains, city lights and country roads, military bases and neighborhood cookouts, people who said “y’all” and people who definitely did not, and somehow all of it still belonged under the same flag.

Growing up that way gave me a kind of patriotism that is hard to explain unless you have lived it. It was not just about geography. It was about sacrifice. It was about families saying goodbye at airports, uniforms hanging in closets, orders coming in, bags being packed, and people serving something bigger than themselves.

That kind of life teaches you early that freedom is not casual.

It costs somebody something.

And I think that is why certain things still undo me.

A 21-gun salute.

A flyover by the Blue Angels or Thunderbirds.

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

A folded flag.

A veteran standing a little straighter when the anthem begins.

A child waving at someone in uniform.

I do not have to be talked into feeling something in those moments. I am already gone.

One of my favorite memories from my teenage years was going to the Stone Mountain laser show when I lived in the Atlanta area. I have probably been there fifty times or more. The lasers were amazing, of course, and the whole thing was always fun — but there was a section of the show that paid tribute to America, and every single time, it got me.

Every. Single. Time.

There I’d be, sitting on the lawn, trying to act normal, and then the music would swell, the images would change, the tribute would begin, and suddenly I was fighting tears like it was my full-time job.

That is just how I am.

I am sentimental about this country. I am emotional about the people who serve it. I am grateful for the freedoms I have had, the places I have seen, and the life I was able to live because someone else was willing to protect it.

And here is the funny part.

I have come to realize that maybe I do not only love American patriotism.

Maybe I just love patriotism.

A few months ago, I was watching Britain’s Got Talent, and an act came on with hundreds of drones creating pictures in the sky. They made Buckingham Palace. They made a Palace Guard. They made Big Ben.

And there I was.

Crying.

Proud of their country.

A country I do not even belong to.

Ridiculous? Absolutely.

But also, maybe not.

Maybe there is something beautiful about people loving where they come from. Maybe there is something sacred about a country’s symbols, songs, memories, and shared stories. Maybe when people honor what shaped them, something in the rest of us recognizes it too.

Because patriotism, at its best, is not arrogance.

It is gratitude.

It is memory.

It is belonging.

It is saying, “This place helped make me who I am.”

For me, America is not an abstract idea. It is childhood moves and military families. It is different states and new beginnings. It is the sound of jets overhead and the ache of knowing some people never came home. It is imperfect and complicated and still deeply loved.

And maybe that is what real love always is.

Not pretending something is flawless.

Just knowing it matters anyway.

This holiday weekend, I am thinking about the men and women who serve. I am thinking about the families who serve right beside them, often without medals, applause, or much warning before the next move. I am thinking about the America I got to see as a child — not from one porch, but from many.

And I am thankful.

Still.

After all these years.

The flag still gets me.

~ Michelle Mullins ~
Founder & Creative Director
Amplified Imagination Studios

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