It’s was supposed to be a day of pride. A day of unity, of fireworks and flags and some shared sense of who we are. But this year? It feels different. A little hollow. Like the celebration is more about what we used to be than what we are now.
And I’ve been asking myself—am I overreacting? Am I being too cynical? But no. It’s not paranoia when the fractures are this visible.
When truth bends to loyalty.
When institutions tiptoe around threats.
When shouting drowns out listening.
It’s not paranoia when I’ve seen the warning signs before—and now they’re flashing red again.
I’ve lived through times when we actually moved forward. Times when, despite our flaws, we were at least trying to get better. But now? It feels like people are giving up ground they don’t even realize they’re standing on.
Still, I haven’t stopped trying.
I keep writing. Drawing. Questioning. Challenging. Speaking out.
I’ve chosen to fight back—with reason, with satire, with decency. Even when it’d be easier to just sit and fume.
That’s my kind of patriotism. The kind that day should honor.
So maybe it doesn’t quite feel like the Fourth of July this year. Maybe that’s because I’m not just treating it like a holiday—I’m treating it like a responsibility. And yeah, that can feel heavy sometimes.
And I don’t have to carry it alone.
There are millions of us out there who still believe this country can be worth the effort.
We just need to be louder than the noise.
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