My Story
A Phone Sticker Helped Me (and Them) Find the Little Glimmers of Light in Life
I used to be someone plagued by anxiety and depression.
Back then, life felt like living in a thick, airless fog—work weighed on me so heavily I could barely breathe. I’d revise reports until 3 a.m., and it wasn’t until my computer screensaver kicked in that I realized dawn was breaking outside. During the day, I’d sit at my desk, too exhausted even to lift my arm to change my jacket. When colleagues talked to me, it took seconds to register their words and respond. It wasn’t until the doctor slid a diagnosis sheet across the table—moderate anxiety with depressive symptoms—that I finally felt a strange sense of relief, not sadness. “So I’m not just being ‘overdramatic,’” I thought. “I’m actually sick.”
“The key is to find something simple that only requires hands-on work, no overthinking,” the doctor said. “When you focus on the task, your emotions will calm down.” I tried jigsaw puzzles: I dumped a 1,000-piece set on the table, searched for matching pieces for half an hour, then grew so frustrated I swept the box off the table. I tried coloring: I gripped a colored pencil and stared at the blank page, but my hand shook too much to draw a straight line. Those “things I should do” only became new burdens.
Then one day, while sorting through an old box on the top shelf of my closet, I found an unopened crystal sticker. I’d bought it on a whim at a stationery store years earlier; a thin layer of dust covered its clear plastic packaging. When I tore it open, the tiny sparkles on the transparent base glinted in the light—like a dusting of Arctic frost. That afternoon, I sat on the carpet by the window, grabbed an alcohol pad, and wrapped a cotton swab around a toothpick (to avoid scratching the phone case). Then I started wiping down my two-year-old phone, its back cover covered in scratches.
No one knew that this clumsy yet careful act would become my first step out of the fog—and later, the inspiration behind my brand.
The Focus in My Fingers: A Safe Haven for My Emotions
I remember that first sticker: it was palm-sized, with tiny star patterns along its edges. First, I wiped the phone’s back cover until it shone, even using the cotton-wrapped toothpick to gently pick out dust trapped around the camera. Then I pinched the corner of the sticker and peeled it off slowly. When my fingertip touched its smooth crystal coating, I suddenly felt a sense of security—as if I’d finally “grabbed onto something.” No blinking @mentions in work groups, no self-criticism looping in my head (Why can’t you even do this right?). There was just this thin, sparkly thing, quiet and warm in my palm.
I held my breath as I aligned it with the phone’s side. My eyes fixed on the star-patterned edges, adjusting its position millimeter by millimeter, terrified of even the smallest tilt. Once it was in place, I used my fingertip to smooth it from the center outwards, watching as the air bubbles squeezed out like tiny clouds. The messy scratches disappeared completely, and the phone’s back cover lit up instantly. Sunlight filtered through the screen, casting soft glints off the sticker. I stared at it for a long time before realizing: for those ten minutes, I hadn’t thought about a single worry.
No anxious “hurry up” whispers, no heavy weight of depression—only the focus of Which bubble do I smooth next?. When I finished, I couldn’t help but press the phone to my cheek. The case still carried the warmth of my fingers, and the sticker’s sparkles brushed my skin, tickling gently. It turns out I could still do one small thing well, slowly and steadily. And that feeling—I did this—was light, and warm, and unexpected.
Later, I started collecting more stickers: a cute pet series with a round-eyed cat, which I stuck on the bottom of my phone so my fingertip brushed its curled tail every time I held it; an Arctic penguin design I placed inside my phone case—opening it revealed a chubby penguin wrapped in a red scarf, which made my heart feel soft on cold days; even a star-shaped crystal sticker I cut into small pieces and stuck around the camera, as if adding a gentle filter—even gloomy-day photos looked nicer.
Every time I applied a new sticker, I made a point to slow down. Clean, peel, align, smooth. As I repeated these steps, my emotions softened, like fabric ironed by the warmth of my fingers. I stopped worrying about whether “this matters.” I just enjoyed the moment—and realized that focusing on one small thing, in itself, is a form of healing.
It’s More Than a Sticker—It’s a Child’s “Confidence Badge”
My desire to share this “healing” with others started with Xiao Yu, my neighbor’s son.
Xiao Yu was 8 years old. He always spoke with his head down, and when he met people, he’d hide behind his mom—like a frightened little squirrel. His mom sighed to me: “His teacher says he never raises his hand in class, and even waits until all his classmates have turned in their homework before sneaking his to the class monitor.” One weekend, Xiao Yu came to my house to borrow picture books. When he saw the pile of cute pet stickers spread out on my desk, his eyes lit up like he’d found stars—but he just clutched the hem of his clothes, too shy to step closer.
I picked up a sticker printed with penguin paw prints and held it out to him. “Want to stick this on your pencil case? It’ll make it one-of-a-kind.”
He hesitated for a long time before whispering a soft “Mm,” so quiet I could barely hear it. We sat on the carpet together, and I taught him to first wipe the eraser crumbs off his pencil case, then align the penguin paw print with the corner of the lid. His little hands shook, and he stuck it crookedly the first time—one paw tip scraped the edge of the lid. Instantly, his eyes welled up, and he hid the pencil case behind his back. “I can’t do it,” he mumbled. “I always mess up.”
I quickly peeled the sticker off, realigned it for him, and held up my phone. “Look—when I first stuck a penguin sticker, I put its head on backwards! But I adjusted it slowly, and it turned out fine. You can try again, and I’ll stay right here with you.”
It took us 20 minutes, but we finally got the penguin paw print perfectly stuck to the side of his pencil case. Xiao Yu stared at it for a long time, then gently touched the penguin’s tiny paw with his finger. Suddenly, he looked up at me. “Sister… do you think my classmates will think this is nice?” I nodded hard, and his lips pressed into a small, secret smile—like he was hiding a little piece of candy. It was the first time I’d seen him ask “Is this nice?” instead of dismissing himself first.
Later, Xiao Yu’s mom told me that from that day on, he took that penguin-paw pencil case to school every day. He even started talking to his deskmate: “I stuck this myself—it’s a penguin paw print, isn’t it cute?” At a parent-teacher conference, his teacher specifically mentioned him: “Today, he raised his hand to share his pencil case. He said, ‘I stuck the penguin on it—don’t you think it’s cute?’ His voice was soft, but he was so earnest, and his eyes were shining.”
My eyes suddenly felt wet. For a child lacking confidence, a small sticker is never just a decoration. It’s a “work they made themselves”—a little source of pride they can hold in their hands. That’s when I had an idea: I wanted to create a line of safe, beautiful stickers. Stickers that let kids like Xiao Yu find the courage to say “I can do this.” Stickers that let people like me—trapped in their emotions—find a moment of calm in the focus of their fingers.
For Her, It Became a “Daily Ritual”
What made me firm in this idea was Sister Lin, someone I met in my support group.
Sister Lin was 5 years older than me. At the worst of her depression, she’d cut her wrists with a pencil sharpener; the scars on her forearms were like lingering dark clouds. When I first met her, she always wore long-sleeve hoodies—even in summer—and never rolled up her cuffs. When she spoke, she stared at her hands, as if avoiding something. Once, when I visited her, I brought a set of Arctic penguin stickers—samples I’d asked the factory to revise repeatedly. They were made of eco-friendly PET material, with rounded edges that felt soft to the touch, no risk of scratches.
I placed the stickers in her hand. “When you’re free, try sticking them on your phone. No rush—take your time. And if you mess up, it’s okay to start over.”
A month later, Sister Lin sent me a photo: her phone’s back cover was covered in little penguins—some wrapped in red scarves, some holding tiny snowflakes. The crystal coating glinted with 细碎的 light in the lamp. “Now, every morning, I spend ten minutes sticking one on,” she told me. “I peel it off gently, scared I’ll break it. I stick it slowly, scared it’ll be crooked. That ten minutes is so quiet. I don’t have to think about ‘What do I need to do today?’ or ‘Am I useless?’ I just focus on getting that penguin right. When I’m done, I look at my phone and think, ‘At least I did one thing well today.’”
Last winter, Sister Lin asked me out for coffee. She wore a short-sleeve shirt—her wrist scars were still there, but she was brave enough to show them openly. She pulled out her phone and showed me: the penguin stickers on her old case were a little worn, but still stuck fast. “These are my ‘medals,’” she said, brushing her fingertip over a penguin. “Every time I see them, I realize those hard days back then weren’t as scary as they felt.”
It turns out a small sticker really can be the “glimmer” that pulls someone out of darkness.
Later, I Built My Own Brand
Slowly, as I used stickers to heal myself and help others, I finally stepped out of my emotional low. That old idea gradually turned into reality—I launched my own sticker brand, mysquishcase. The name takes its name from the tiny sparkles on those first stickers—and from the glimmer that got me through the fog.
I oversaw every step, from material selection to design: I insisted on eco-friendly PET material, certified by SGS and CPC, to ensure it was safe for kids and people with sensitive skin; I demanded rounded edges, even if it meant extra production steps, to avoid scratches; I revised the designs again and again—from the round-eyed cat to the penguin in a red scarf—making each one as cute and high-quality as possible, so anyone who used them could feel “cared for.”
Today, my phone still has that first crystal sticker—the one that helped me out of the fog. Its edges are worn, and its sparkles aren’t as bright as before, but every time my fingertip brushes it, I’m taken back to that afternoon by the window: sunlight, tiny glints, and the first time I could breathe calmly in a long while.
If you’re also trapped by anxiety or depression, if life feels wrapped in fog; if your child hides behind you, too scared to say “I can do this”; if you just need something “no-thinking” to help you calm down—try sticking a sticker.
Pick a design you love, like a chubby Arctic penguin. Wipe your phone or pencil case clean slowly, align the sticker gently, and smooth it carefully. You’ll find that the little glimmers of light in life sometimes hide in these small, simple actions.
And I’ll be right here, ready to share these glimmers with you—maybe a penguin in a red scarf, maybe a round-eyed cat with a curled tail. Every sticker carries the same focus and warmth I felt that first time I stuck one on my phone. Just like how they lit my way back then, I hope they light yours too.