Stepping Into July: A Different Kind of Freedom

I’ve always loved the Fourth of July.

The sparklers. The warm air. The crack of fireworks in the sky while you’re wrapped in a blanket or standing barefoot in the grass. It’s always been one of my favorite holidays, something about it just feels… open. Expansive. Like there’s room to exhale.

But this year feels different. Not less joyful. Just more aware. And somehow, even more personal. Because lately I’ve been carrying thoughts that feel big. Maybe too big to name. But I’m going to try.

I’ve been thinking about freedom, not just as a celebration, but as a responsibility. Not just as something we inherited, but something we’re still shaping.

And I can’t write about freedom this year without naming what’s happening around us. The climate in this country is heavy. Fractured. For many, the word “freedom” no longer feels like a promise, it feels like a negotiation. I see it. I feel it. And I know that dreaming right now, truly dreaming, requires both grit and grace. It’s not enough to look forward. We also have to look back.

And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

I’ve found myself thinking a lot about the founding fathers, about how they were able to pull together something so intricate, so forward-thinking, so radically new. How did they see it? How did they imagine a democracy that hadn’t yet existed in the world they knew?

It truly amazes me. That kind of vision, of structure, law, governance, didn’t come out of nowhere. It required deep conviction, daring ideas, and a willingness to challenge everything familiar. That part inspires me. But even as I sit with that awe, I feel the ache. Because they missed something.

They saw the future, but not the sacred. They saw freedom, but not for everyone. They laid out a new system, but ignored the wisdom of the land beneath their feet. They forgot, or chose not to see, the people who came before.

The Indigenous wisdom keepers. The women silenced or erased. The enslaved people whose bodies built the very soil this country stands on. They created a foundation, yes. But it was incomplete.

And that’s where I feel the pull, not to pick up their blueprint, but to create something that begins in a different place. To dream not only with my mind, but with my spirit. To ask: what would freedom look like if it had roots in reverence?

I’ve recently uncovered something in my ancestry, something I’ve been holding close to my heart as I begin to understand the deeper threads of where I come from.

It’s not something I’m ready to name fully yet. Not because I’m hiding it, but because it feels too sacred to speak too quickly. What I will say is this: I’ve heard the voices of my female ancestors. And they asked me to remember. They asked me to speak what they could not. To walk a path they were punished or silenced for. To carry a wisdom that was never lost, just buried. And to build something that heals the disconnection they never chose.

So no, I’m not picking up where the founding fathers left off. I’m not here to start a new country. But I am here to remember something they forgot. To bring the sacred back into what we build. To create something new that honors the old, not in imitation, but in reverence.

It feels both ancient and completely uncharted. And yes, sometimes I question if I sound “crazy.” But other times I know, deep in my bones, that this is what I came here to do.

So yes, this Independence Day, I will be watching fireworks. I might even light a few of my own. But the fireworks feel different this year. They don’t just mark history. They remind me of the fire I’m carrying inside. The fire that says:

There’s more to build.
There’s better to become.
There’s a sacred way to live and I want to live it.

This year, I celebrate not just the freedom that was declared centuries ago… I celebrate the freedom I am declaring now.

The freedom to create something rooted in reverence.
The freedom to build with grace, not conquest.
The freedom to love this country and still question its origin story.
The freedom to walk with the ancestors, especially the women, who never got to finish their prayers.

Maybe your fireworks look different this year, too. Maybe they’re quiet. Maybe they’re fierce. Maybe they’re just beginning to spark.

Wherever you are, outside with family, deep in your thoughts, soaking in joy, or holding grief, I hope this Fourth gives you room to feel all of it.

Because freedom is still unfolding.
And I believe we’re part of that story.

With spark and soul,
Kelley