I loved the Fourth of July — the fireworks, the humid summer air, the way neighbors gathered outside as dusk settled in. As a child, it was about the pretty lights and time with family, but even then I understood we were celebrating something bigger. We were celebrating independence. We were celebrating what it meant to be American.

I grew up watching wars on television. I remember feeling confused that the adults around me didn’t seem panicked. I didn’t yet understand that those images were happening countries away. I didn’t yet understand geopolitical distance. I only knew that people were hurting somewhere, and that mattered.

And then 9/11 happened.

That day shook the country to its core — and me with it. I was nowhere near New York. I was just one person in Iowa. But it felt personal. It felt like an attack meant to wound all of us.

I remember the grief. Heavy. Lingering.
I remember “Never Forget.”
I remember solidarity.
I remember wanting to help in any way I could.

I had never felt more connected to my country than in that shared sorrow.

For a long time, patriotism meant that feeling to me — unity in the face of tragedy, care for one another, pride in resilience.

I have loved this country since the first moment I understood what a country was.

And now, fifty years in, I sit with a different feeling.

Not hatred.
Not abandonment.
But rocks in my stomach.

January 6 changed something in me.

Watching Americans storm the Capitol — disrupting the peaceful transfer of power — felt like a fracture in the story I had always believed. It wasn’t a foreign enemy. It was us. It was fellow citizens convinced they were defending something, while undermining the very constitutional process that protects our democracy.

That day did not feel like patriotism.

It felt like confusion weaponized.
It felt like division exposed.
It felt like a test.

And I realized something difficult: I had underestimated how divided we are.

I had believed that while racism and extremism still existed, they were shrinking remnants of a past we were steadily outgrowing. I believed most Americans had learned how to coexist — to let others live and thrive even when disagreements remained.

I was wrong about the depth of the fracture.

In the years since, I have watched public discourse harden. I have watched leaders inflame rather than unify. I have watched history questioned, revised, or minimized when it becomes uncomfortable.

And I have had to wrestle with this truth:

Mature Patriotism Is Not Nostalgia

Loving a country does not mean pretending it has always been perfect.

It does not mean erasing slavery from the story.
It does not mean ignoring the displacement of Native peoples.
It does not mean smoothing over injustice so national pride feels less complicated.

Mature patriotism is not myth-making.

It is stewardship.

It is the willingness to tell the full story — even when it is painful — because truth is stronger than illusion.

Somewhere along the way, patriotism became confused with loyalty to personality. With defending a leader at all costs. With equating criticism of government with hatred of country.

But government is not country.
A president is not a constitution.
A political party is not a flag.

Patriotism, to me now, is not blind allegiance.

It is active guardianship of democratic norms.
It is protecting the peaceful transfer of power.
It is defending the right of people I disagree with to vote.
It is refusing to allow fear or grievance to rewrite foundational principles.

As a child, patriotism was fireworks.
After 9/11, patriotism was solidarity.
After January 6, patriotism became vigilance.

Today, my patriotism looks different than it once did.

It looks like writing.
It looks like asking hard questions.
It looks like educating myself and encouraging others to do the same.

In my world, that shows up through projects like Civicus, where I explore civic responsibility and democratic integrity, and Reverb, where I respond to cultural and political moments in real time. It shows up through CherryCoBiz — through conversations about truth, wellness, and participation.

It looks like refusing to disengage.

I still love this country — not the illusion of it, but the possibility of it.

I still believe in its potential.
I still believe most Americans want dignity, fairness, and opportunity.

But hope without action is naïve.

So my version of patriotism now is participation.

It is showing up.
It is voting.
It is challenging misinformation.
It is protecting institutions.
It is reminding people that democracy is not self-sustaining — it requires citizens who care.

I once thought patriotism meant pride.

Now I believe it means protection.

And I am still here.
Still loving this country.
Still worried.
Still hopeful.
Still writing.

Because the world needs people who love their country enough to guard it — from wherever they stand, however they can.