maybe patriotism isn’t cringe after all

thoughts on falling back in love with the country that raised me

This year’s 4th of July feels different—and I think it’s because, for the first time, I actually understand what we’re celebrating.

Washington Crossing the Delaware by Emanuel Leutze (1851)

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Happy Fourth of July, my fellow Americans 🇺🇸

I used to think patriotism was something loud. Something you wore on a tank top. Something that smelled like gasoline and had an eagle screaming in the background. Growing up in California, it felt like the American flag had become a kind of warning sign—less about unity, more about who you were not allowed to question. Even if you loved your life here, you were expected to preface it. “I love America, but…” As if gratitude required a disclaimer.

Where I’m from, patriotism was treated with suspicion. Not outright hostility—just a kind of ironic distance. You might get a sarcastic “‘Murica” at a barbecue or a side-eye if you took the flag too seriously. We knew what the country stood for in theory, but in practice, the symbolism had been reduced to something cartoonish: lifted trucks, cheap beer, a guy yelling at a football game in camo shorts.

And yet—I also grew up loving country music. I cried watching the Olympics. I had friends whose dads served in the military. I knew every lyric to “God Bless the USA.” So, the dissonance was real. I didn’t hate this country. But I didn’t quite know how to love it, either.

At some point, the symbol got separated from the substance. And for a long time, I just didn’t feel anything at all. Not pride. Not anger. Just a kind of blank neutrality. I knew we had it better than most countries—but there was this quiet social pressure to act like saying that out loud made you naive or complicit. It was actually bizarre, once you noticed it. But for a while, I just went along with it.

Then, slowly, something shifted. Maybe it started with watching our institutions collapse under the weight of their own hypocrisies. Maybe it was the open attacks on speech, logic, even biology. Maybe it was seeing other countries try to replicate what we built here and fail. Or maybe it was just age—learning to separate symbols from systems, realizing that if you don’t respect the freedoms you have, someone else will gladly take them.

Because here’s the thing: freedom isn’t aesthetic. It’s structural. You can meme the flag all you want, but the foundations of this country are not a joke. Freedom of speech. Freedom of religion. Freedom of thought. The right to own property. The right to criticize your government. The right to build something from scratch and not have it seized or censored because someone didn’t like your tone. America didn’t invent freedom, but we sure were the first to scale it.

Over the last five or six years, something settled in my bones: I love this country. Not because it’s perfect. But because it was built to be questioned, challenged, rethought—and still hold. America isn’t great because it guarantees fairness. It’s great because it guarantees freedom. And those are not the same thing. Most countries don’t offer both. Most never have.

I think some of us forget what independence actually means. But when you start reading the history with fresh eyes, it kind of fries your brain. A lot of these guys were in their twenties and thirties. No internet. No planes. No group chat. Just parchment, quill pens, and the radical belief that you should be allowed to choose your own future. They weren’t perfect. They weren’t prophets. But they risked everything to build a system that wasn’t dependent on royalty, bloodline, or blind obedience. They didn’t want to be ruled by a king—not metaphorically, literally. And they signed a document that said, in essence, “We’ll take freedom, even if it kills us.”

Declaration of Independence by John Trumbull (1818)

That kind of declaration wasn’t just bold—it was borderline suicidal. They were telling the most powerful empire on earth that they didn’t recognize their authority over them. They were announcing to the world that autonomy meant more than security.

We live in a world where people are increasingly terrified to say what they actually believe. Where censorship is dressed up as “protection,” and safety is often code for silence. So yes—I’ve developed a newfound respect for the kind of place where disagreement isn’t a crime. Where being allowed to speak isn’t a gift from the state, but a right that can’t be taken. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s offensive. Especially then.

This isn’t nostalgia. This is me realizing that I was taught to take that kind of audacity for granted. That’s what this day is about. Not fireworks. Not flags. Not memes. Declaration. The act of saying: I will no longer live at the mercy of systems that don’t respect my autonomy. And then backing that up with your life.

Liberty by Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi, French (1875) — This "committee model" is part of an edition of replicas that were sold to help finance the project. Like the final monument, it shows an austere Lady Liberty raising the torch of Enlightenment with the broken chains of tyranny at her feet. [Source: The Met]

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Today, when I think about America, I don’t see the frat boy with the flag cape. I see the fact that I can write this without fear. That I can disagree out loud. That I can believe something unpopular. That I can change my mind and not be imprisoned, exiled, or disappeared. Do we get it wrong? Constantly. Do we have hypocrisy at every level of leadership? Absolutely. But the principles still hold. And those principles are what keep the whole thing from falling apart.

For the first time, I feel like I understand the flag—not just as a symbol, but as a promise. Not of ease or fairness, but of the right to try. To speak. To build. To resist. And in a world that wants conformity more than courage, that promise is everything.

So today, I’m choosing to honor it. Not blindly. Not passively. But with full awareness of how rare it is to be truly free.

XO, STEPF

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