(A reflective story for the 250th anniversary)

I’ve always loved the Fourth of July. The fireworks, the flags, and the familiar hum of summer evenings have all been part of my life for as long as I can remember. For me, the Fourth isn’t just a holiday. It’s a time to pause and appreciate America’s long, complicated, and beautiful story.

But this year — the 250th anniversary of our nation’s founding — feels different.

And I’ve been trying to understand why.

Maybe it’s because anniversaries invite reflection. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much of my life studying and sharing the ideals that shaped this country — liberty, equality, justice, self‑government — and I’ve watched those ideals bend and strain under the weight of our current moment. Or maybe it’s because patriotism itself has become tangled up with politics in a way that makes it hard to celebrate without feeling like you’re sending the wrong message.

I love my country. I always have. But this year, I don’t feel the same spark I usually do.

Part of that is the national climate. We’re living in a time when the tone of our politics feels sharper, louder, and more divisive than ever. It’s easy to feel like celebrating America might be mistaken for endorsing whatever is happening in Washington — even when your heart is focused on something much deeper and older than the present moment.

It’s a strange place to be — loving the country, but not loving the moment.

But maybe that’s exactly why this year matters.

Because the Fourth of July was never meant to be a celebration of a president. It was meant to be a celebration of an idea — the radical, world‑shaking belief that people could govern themselves, that power could come from the consent of the governed, that liberty was worth fighting for even when the odds were impossible.

And it’s worth remembering that in 1776, politics looked nothing like they do today. There were no parties, no campaigns, no national candidates. The Founders weren’t arguing over personalities — they were arguing over principles. They were wrestling with questions that still echo today: What does freedom mean? Who gets to participate in it? How do we build a nation worthy of its own promises?

On July 4, 1776, the men in Philadelphia weren’t celebrating perfection. They were celebrating possibility — the fragile, daring hope that a nation built on ideals could outlast the flaws of the people who shaped it.

And possibility is something I still believe in.

Patriotism, at its core, isn’t blind loyalty. It’s not about cheering for whoever sits in the Oval Office. It’s about loving your country enough to want it to live up to its ideals. It’s about recognizing that the story of America has always been written by people who dared to imagine something better — even when the present felt heavy, divided, or uncertain.

Frederick Douglass reminded us that: “The life of the nation is secure only while the nation is honest, truthful, and virtuous.”

Susan B. Anthony taught us that patriotism includes expanding the circle of equality.

Martin Luther King Jr. urged us to “stand up for what is right,” even when the world feels complicated.

John Lewis called on us to make “good trouble, necessary trouble” because loving America sometimes means challenging it.

And Maya Angelou, with her unmatched grace, reminded us that: “We may encounter many defeats, but we must not be defeated.”

These voices — these Americans — carried the nation forward when the path wasn’t clear. Their patriotism wasn’t loud. It was steady, courageous, and rooted in hope.

The Fourth of July belongs to them. It belongs to us. It belongs to anyone who sees the gap between who we are and who we could be — and chooses to keep pushing forward.

So maybe this year, my celebration looks a little different.

Maybe it’s quieter. More reflective. More rooted in gratitude for the people who have carried this country through its hardest chapters. More focused on the ideals that endure, even when the politics don’t.

Maybe patriotism, in its truest form, is not loud. Maybe it’s steady. Maybe it’s the quiet decision to keep believing in the promise of America, even when the present feels complicated.

As we mark 250 years, I’m choosing to celebrate the America I’ve spent my life learning about — the America that strives, stumbles, learns, and grows. The America that expands its circle of “We the People” a little wider with each generation. The America that is bigger than any one leader, any one moment, any one presidency.

I’m choosing to celebrate the idea — not the politics.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most patriotic thing I can do.