This Is My America

Today is the Fourth of July. And I want to talk to you—not as a Republican or a Democrat, not as someone on the right or the left—but as an American. A person. A soul who, like you, wakes up every day trying to make sense of a beautiful, broken world. This is not a policy piece. This is not a defense or a takedown. This is love. Fierce, flawed, and full-hearted love—for a country that gave me everything, and demands everything in return.

Let’s start with the hard truth: our nation was built on unforgivable sins. We stole land. We enslaved people. We manipulated, exploited, killed—often in the name of progress. There is no justification for it. There is no spinning it. That is the shadow of our beginning.

But that darkness is not the whole story.

Because what is also true—and what is uniquely American—is that we dared to found a country not on bloodlines or monarchy, but on ideas. Wild, radical, impossible ideas: that all people are created equal. That liberty is a birthright. That we are not defined by where we begin, but by how far we are willing to go. We didn’t always live up to it. We still don’t. But we wrote it down. We enshrined it. And generation after generation has fought to close the gap between our reality and our promise.

That is the sacred tension of America.

I’ve seen the world. I’ve walked its streets and villages and ruins. And I’ve learned this: almost everywhere else, you are born into your station, and there you remain. But here—in America—we believe in the underdog. We celebrate the comeback. We find beauty in the trying, even when the trying isn’t enough.

Where else does the son of immigrants become a senator? Where else does a poor kid from a forgotten town grow up to lead a company, or a movement, or a nation?

That spirit is not perfect. It has not been fair to all. But it is real. And it is worth everything.

Today, there is a growing chorus telling us to give up on this place. That America is too broken, too cruel, too far gone. That patriotism is naïve or toxic. That loving this country is somehow a betrayal of those it has failed.

I don’t believe that.

I believe you can love a thing and still want it to be better. In fact, I believe that’s the only kind of love that matters.

Love that shows up. Love that stays. Love that holds both pride and pain in the same trembling hand.

I’m not here to romanticize. I’m here to remind. This country—our country—is still the place parents around the world dream of sending their children. It’s still the place where people risk everything for a chance. It’s still the place where strangers become neighbors, where freedom is flawed but real, and where the story is not finished.

So today, I’m not asking you to ignore the scars. I’m asking you to see the strength beneath them.

I’m not asking you to deny our failures. I’m asking you to believe in our potential.

Because this country, for all its contradiction, still holds the greatest invitation ever offered: the chance to build something better—together.

This is my America.

The one my brothers and sisters fought for. The one immigrants still chase. The one that can break your heart and still be worth fighting for.

An America where a more perfect union is not a destination—it’s a direction.

If you were born here, honor her today—not with blind loyalty, but with clear-eyed love.
If you came here, carry the torch of possibility forward, as so many before you have.
If you’re still waiting for America to live up to her promise—don’t walk away. Walk toward her. Help her get there.

Because the truth is, this country has never been made perfect by policy alone. It’s been shaped by people. Ordinary people who chose to believe in something bigger than themselves. Who showed up. Who stood up. Who reached out to one another even when the world told them to turn away.

That’s the America I see when I close my eyes. Not just red or blue, not just power or politics—but people. Working. Hoping. Rising. Together.

So let today be more than celebration. Let it be a recommitment—to one another, to what’s possible, to the unfinished work of freedom.

Because America is not just a place. She is a promise.
A promise that each of us has a part in keeping.

And the beautiful truth is this: she still belongs to all of us.

Let’s build her forward—bravely, boldly, together.

Happy birthday, America.

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On a day like today, I hope we remember that patriotism isn’t perfection—it’s participation. It’s showing up, even when it’s hard. It’s believing that America’s best days are ahead, not behind.

If this message spoke to you, please take a moment to subscribe on Substack, Spotify, or Apple Podcasts. Leave a comment, share it with someone you love, and let’s keep this conversation going.

Because this country, for all its flaws, is still ours to shape. And the promise of America isn’t behind us—it’s what we build next.

Happy Fourth of July. Let’s keep building—together.