Sleeveless Hearts and Star-Spangled Tears

My mother used to tell me, “Try not to be so passionate about everything.”

She said it gently, sometimes with a sigh, as if she were trying to save me from a world that would never understand the weight of a heart carried openly.

My grandmother, on the other hand, would chuckle and say, “That passion will make her a great writer one day.”

And when my mother commented that I wore my heart on my sleeve far too often, my grandmother would smirk and reply, “Would you rather she go sleeveless, then?”

Oh, the contradiction of generations.

But they were both right, in their own ways.

I am passionate—wildly, fully, painfully so. I care deeply about things. About people. About stories, both written and unwritten. I’ve come to believe that caring deeply is not a weakness. It’s a burden, sure—but it’s also a gift.

And around this time of year, that gift of feeling too much becomes especially heavy.

As Independence Day nears, I find myself, like so many others, scrolling through posts and tributes honoring those who once stood between our future and tyranny. The brave ones who didn’t just talk about freedom—they fought for it. Some came back home. Too many didn’t.

And I sit here thinking, Why did they have to endure so much?

I know—because it was necessary.

Because freedom isn’t handed to anyone.

Because someone, somewhere, always pays the cost.

If my mother were still with us—she passed away nine years ago at the remarkable age of 96—I can almost hear what she’d say. She’d glance at me, wrinkle her nose slightly, and say, “Well, thank God you’re too old to enlist. You’d scare me to death.”

And honestly, she wouldn’t have been wrong.

I do love this country—fiercely.

Even if, more often than not, I find myself disappointed by the people who try to steer its direction.

I love America not because it’s perfect, but because it’s home.

Because its story is mine too.

Because somewhere within its contradictions—within its messiness and struggle and resilience—there’s still something worth believing in.

No, I don’t always trust the ones in office.

I don’t always believe their promises or buy into their polished campaign slogans.

Politics, as I’ve learned, is a gamble—hope placed on shaky shoulders.

But the flag?

The flag still means something.

Even when politicians forget what it should represent.

It still stands for liberty.

For sacrifice.

For those nameless, faceless heroes who never got a parade but gave everything anyway.

And so, as the Fourth of July (not just “July 4th,” mind you) approaches, I brace myself.

The fireworks will explode.

The marching bands will play.

Some politician will give a speech that may or may not be worth listening to.

And I’ll stand quietly, hand over heart, and try to hold back that tear that always seems to escape.

Because that tear carries the weight of memory.

It holds the faces of those long gone, the echoes of battles we’ll never fully understand, the letters never sent, the prayers whispered in lonely foxholes, the homecomings that never happened.

It holds the whispered names of brothers and sisters and sons and daughters who stood up because someone had to.

And who believed that freedom—ours—was worth it.

Sometimes, during the fireworks, I imagine those distant battles.

Not the sanitized versions we see in textbooks.

But the gritty, terrifying, hopeful truth.

Cannons firing.

Muskets cracking.

Smoke blinding.

Hearts pounding.

I see the survivors stumbling back home, eyes weary, bodies scarred, arms aching for loved ones.

And in that moment, the fireworks become more than celebration.

They become a memory set to light.

They become gratitude made visible.

And maybe, just maybe, they become a reminder that peace has a price.

And freedom always comes with responsibility.

So, yes, I’ll tear up again this year.

I’ll hear the crowd cheer, I’ll hum “God Bless America,” and I’ll feel that old tug in my chest.

That soft ache for those who walked before us.

I’ll remember my mom.

Her worry. Her love. Her wisdom.

And I’ll remember my grandmother.

Her fire. Her laughter. Her belief in me.

I think they’d both be proud.

Because while they didn’t always agree, they both helped shape the woman I am today—one who wears her heart on her sleeve and stands tall when the flag is raised.

Because in the end, patriotism isn’t about blind loyalty.

It’s about love.

The kind of love that weathers storms, calls out injustice, demands better, but still shows up—over and over again.

So this year, as the sky lights up in red, white, and blue, and the air fills with the scent of barbecue and freedom, I’ll whisper a prayer for this country of ours.

God bless America.

Because God knows—we still need all the blessings we can get.