The Department of Motor Vehicles was a good place to lose your identity, not find it, especially 30 minutes before closing. I sat surrounded by strangers balanced on wobbly folding chairs, the endless announcements blared extra loud, and you could feel an edge to the air every time a new ticket was called.

Without looking up, the woman working at Station 5 finally called my number and asked for my documents. I was just the next problem to solve before she could get out of there.

“Do you want a special license plate?” She didn’t turn around but pointed to the wall behind her, where a banner showcased specialty plates.

“No,” I said, giving her a smile that hopefully signaled, I’m one of the easy ones.

She nodded, still only looking at the paperwork, and disappeared into the back. I hoped this was a good sign.

When she walked away, I saw the specialty plate that had been hidden behind her: Bronze Star Medal. Cost: free.

The Bronze Star Medal is awarded to a service member from any branch of the military to recognize “commendable service or achievement in a combat zone.” A Bronze Star Medal with Valor is an additional distinction honoring personal heroism in direct combat with the enemy.

This creates space for the base medal to be awarded as a reflection of leadership in a combat zone, while reserving the Medal with Valor for acts of true personal heroism.

During my Iraq deployment, I was awarded a base Bronze Star Medal. It was an honor, an acknowledgment of my service. But it also suggested something untrue to people who would assume I was heroic in combat, in line with a Medal with Valor action.

This made me uncomfortable.

Regardless, it was not something I thought about when I walked into the DMV. I had just relocated to Massachusetts, my first move as a civilian after serving in the Army for seven years. I was in task mode, with a long list of errands to complete.

But seeing the Bronze Star Medal license plate was a jolt, a reminder that I still had to sort out more than just apartment leases and a business casual wardrobe.

After finishing Army ROTC at the University of Dayton in Ohio and commissioning as a second lieutenant, I was sent to Fort Carson, Colorado, as a medical services officer for what was then called the 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division. I later got additional training as an environmental engineer.

So in addition to serving as a platoon leader and eventual executive officer, I also mitigated environmental health hazards to keep soldiers healthy and in the fight. I conducted air particulate sampling, water testing, food inspections, mosquito trapping, and even barbershop and swimming pool certification.

I traveled everywhere our brigade had soldiers living and working, from snow-crusted training fields in Colorado to desert bases across southern Iraq.

I was on the road a lot in Iraq, constantly catching rides by air or by land, sometimes filling in as the convoy commander to earn a spot.

At the bigger bases, I inspected bottling facilities and water straight from world-class purification systems. At the smaller ones, I tested water that had been treated multiple times with chlorine packets and identified large pallets of bottles that had sat in the sun too long.

Civilians focus on warfare and combat, but the military is also a massive logistical undertaking. Historically, this has been as decisive in military victories as battlefield performance. I loved interacting and supporting the quiet heroes in Iraq who ensured everyone was fed, hydrated, and healthy.

But once I reached five years on active duty, I decided to get out. I accepted a job in Boston after graduate school.

Being in the Army, I hadn’t needed to change my license plates as I moved around the country. I kept my Ohio plates all that time. Now, changing my license plates was just one of the many things to settle in my post-military life.

I also needed to figure out who I was outside the military. I had two new master’s degrees in environmental science and business, but hadn’t worked in that world yet.

Plus, I didn’t know how much I wanted the military to play a role in my identity moving forward. I was proud of my service, yes. But was I someone who drove around with a Bronze Star Medal on my car?

We do this to ourselves, this internal gatekeeping. Sure, I was in Iraq, but this was only my first deployment. Many people were on their second or third deployments, like my friend Cori Wilkerson, who was an officer in Al Ramadi and Fallujah in 2003-2004 during the height of the fighting there. Or my best friend, who maintained operations at the Combat Support Hospital in Baghdad while witnessing trauma and loss on a daily basis.

Many of my soldiers left spouses and children for a year to be in the Middle East, while I was single and didn’t have to carry that stress. I was busy in Iraq and often on the road, but so were all the soldiers I visited at the far-flung bases.

Someone always sacrificed more.

It’s amazing how we can classify things into smaller and smaller hierarchies. The world sees a soldier walk by in uniform and says, “Thank you for your service.”

A soldier knows to look at the left shoulder for that first differentiator—do you have a patch there? Have you deployed? Then other differentiators enter the conversation. What’s your job? Did you ever leave the operating base? Did you ever see combat?

The DMV rep came back to Station 5, holding stapled paperwork. “$135,” she said.

“Um,” I said, “What about the Bronze Star Medal plates?” At this, she finally looked at me. I regretted it.

“You got your military paperwork?” I nodded. “You should have said something when I asked about special plates. Everything’s already been ordered.”

I hesitated as my interior monologue began.

Yes, I served in the Army. Yes, I was in Iraq for a year. Yes, I was awarded a Bronze Star Medal. Yes, I went on many convoys and foot patrols. But I was just doing my job. No, I was never in active combat. No, I never heroically saved anyone.

The DMV rep was still staring at me.

“Uh, I don’t want the Bronze Star plates.”

“So you just want the regular ones?” I froze in indecision; conflicting emotions raged inside.

The guy next to me was hearing the bad news that he hadn’t come with the proper forms to register his new truck. He was sent away. Another woman came up to register her camper.

I didn’t walk in there needing plates with a Bronze Star on them. So was I willing to accept and pay $135 for regular plates just to avoid the ones with the star?

Mercifully, she broke our impasse and reached behind her for another form.

“Listen,” she said, looking me in the eyes, “Make sure you fill this out for the special plates and get them mailed to you. You deserve it. You served our country. You deserve to have those plates.”

I nodded. This was more than I bargained for at the DMV counter, and I wanted out. I mustered a smile and muttered, “OK. I will. I will. Thanks.”

“I mean it.” She hit the button to call one last person to Station 5 for the day. I was dismissed.

Sometimes, it takes a stranger who holds no stories of your past and no designs for your future to lay bare exactly who you are. Sometimes, if we are brave, we can recognize the clarity created in that moment and choose to accept it.

I carried her words with me through the rest of my errands. I replayed them in my mind during dinner that night.

No, I never heroically saved anyone. No, I was never in active combat. Yes, I served in the Army. Yes, I was in Iraq for a year. Yes, I went on many convoys and foot patrols. Yes, I was awarded a Bronze Star Medal.

Yes, I ordered those plates.

This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mollie Turnbull. Kim Vo wrote the headlines.