The Forty Files

Happy Birthday, America.

The land of the free because of the brave.

I’ve always equated the Fourth of July with the very best of summer: a hometown parade, the smell of barbecue drifting through the neighborhood, sticky fingers from watermelon, and fireworks lighting up a warm night sky.

This year isn’t much different—except I skipped the parade.

Instead, I just wanted to be with my core four for a little while, quietly. Life has been wonderfully, relentlessly busy.

The girls are doing that thing kids do: growing. Somehow it feels like overnight. The bed that once seemed impossibly large for family snuggles suddenly feels too small. But I don’t mind the elbows, the tangled blankets, or the lack of personal space. I treasure it.

Because lately they’re off riding bikes until the streetlights flicker on, spending hours at the pool, wandering the neighborhood with the confidence that comes from growing up. Exactly as they should be.

Still, every new ounce of independence makes me crave togetherness just a little more. The ordinary moments have quietly become the extraordinary ones.

And then there’s my favorite person.

I can trace nearly every Fourth of July we’ve shared together. Fighting our way through crowded parking lots after fireworks. Toasting marshmallows long after the kids should have been in bed. Sparklers spinning circles in the dark. Sweaty hugs on impossibly hot nights. The traditions change a little each year, but somehow the four of us keep finding our way back to one another.

That’s my favorite kind of celebration.

The funny thing is, the Fourth of July has become a bit of a second New Year’s Day for me.

Somewhere between the fireworks and the halfway point of the year, I find myself taking inventory. I reset. I refocus. I recalibrate. I dream again.

I think about the first six months—the victories, the disappointments, the unexpected detours—and then I look toward what’s still possible.

Maybe that’s the most American thing of all.

To believe there’s always another chapter to write.

To believe reinvention is allowed.

To believe hope is worth investing in, even when the path isn’t perfectly clear.

So today, I’m grateful—for this country and the people who’ve sacrificed so we can gather freely around picnic tables and fireworks. I’m grateful for the family that keeps me grounded. And I’m grateful that there’s still so much life left to imagine.

Happy Birthday, America.

Here’s to freedom. Here’s to family. Here’s to the beautiful privilege of beginning again.