What to the Dreamer Is the Fourth of July?

Every year, July 4th rolls in with the same noise — fireworks cracking the sky, flags fluttering on porches, and choruses of “land of the free” ringing through barbecues and backyards.

But this year, my chest feels heavy.

They passed a “Big Beautiful Bill” — the kind of bill that looks shiny on the outside but corrodes lives underneath. A bill that promises safety while gutting rights. That smiles while it silences.
People I love, people I’m related to, are celebrating. They post Bible verses and flag emojis, cheering on policies that feel like a punch to the gut. I want to ask them: Which part of Christ is this? Where is the mercy, the humility, the love?

I don’t believe in organized religion anymore, but I still believe in kindness. I believe in justice. And I want to believe in this country, too. I want to believe the ideals we were taught — freedom, checks and balances, liberty and justice for all. I want to believe it’s not all lost.

But it’s getting harder.

Sometimes I wonder if we should leave. Just… go. Start over somewhere that doesn’t feel like it’s folding in on itself. But then I think about those who stayed and fought. Who made it better. Who served, not blindly, but bravely. I want to be someone who stays and fights, too — even when I’m exhausted.

And I’m so exhausted.

Infertility has its own grief — one that lingers in the silence. Tonight, while fireworks echo through the streets, I won't be comforting a scared toddler or watching sparklers with wide-eyed wonder. I'll be mourning the absence of all those moments.
And even if I do get to have a child someday — what kind of world will they inherit?

What kind of world will they inherit — the one we borrowed from them, or the one we failed to protect?

“We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children.”
— Native American proverb

What will it mean to raise a daughter in a country that doesn’t always value women’s lives?
What will it mean to raise a queer child in a country that’s trying to erase them?
What will it mean to raise any child on a planet where the seasons are no longer reliable?

I wrestle with these questions daily. And as an ally to the LGBTQ+ community, I’m heartbroken. My voice feels small. I yell, I vote, I show up — and still the tides keep pulling us backward. But I will never stop trying to make this country what I believe it can be.

Today I’m holding two truths:
I love this country — or at least, what it could be.
And I’m furious at what it is right now.

Maybe that’s what real patriotism is.
Not blind loyalty.

But heartbreak, and hope, and the refusal to give up.

I still want to believe the arc of the moral universe bends toward justice —

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
— Martin Luther King Jr.

— but maybe only if enough of us keep pulling.

So tonight, while others watch the sky light up, I’ll be lighting a different kind of fire — the one that keeps me speaking, keeps me showing up, keeps me believing that change is still possible.

Even if it takes years.
Even if it breaks my heart.
Even if I have to build it one word at a time.