It really is. And I'm the shell or something.
Here's the deal: every time we move, I'm the new shell on the beach who doesn't quite fit in with all the other shells. I don't know all their names, I don't know their faces, I don't know their quirks. But over time, the waves of friendship, kindness, fun and shared experiences toss me around with all the other shells so that I blend in. I'm one of them. I'm settled, right there in the sand, all happy and content with a whole lot of awesome shells around me.
And then someone comes along and plucks me out of the sand, leaving a hole in my heart and a divot in the sand. And I know it only takes a couple more waves until my divot is washed away and all my shell friends have rearranged themselves so you can't tell I was there. And the hole in my heart is gradually filled in as the waves of time and new friendships wash over me. So the process starts again and it's good, because I don't forget the old beach or the old shells and I get the joy of exploring my new beach and maybe even seeing some old shells again.
It's just that when you know that plucking is right around the corner, it kind of sucks.