I was born here, to parents who were born here—Americans, like their parents before them. I take pride in tracing my roots to those who helped shape this nation from its very beginnings. Among my ancestors are founding fathers who dared to dream of a republic built on liberty. They faced unthinkable hardships just to reach these shores, and likely greater ones once they arrived. Yet, whatever their reasons for coming in the early 16th century, one thing is clear: they believed this land held the promise of a better future.
Fast forward a few hundred years, and my story continues with a different but equally powerful legacy. On the other side of my family were Jewish immigrants—my grandmother from Lithuania, my grandfather from Ukraine. They came not for wealth or comfort, but to build something more enduring: a safe and hopeful life in a country they believed offered freedom, tolerance, and opportunity. They arrived with little but determination and faith, facing prejudice, The Great Depression, world wars, and the ache of leaving loved ones behind. Still, they held firm to their beliefs, raising four children in the traditions they brought with them across oceans and continents.
Their courage, like that of so many immigrants before and after them, was a gift to the generations that followed. Their children became leaders, teachers, scholars, and parents. And their grandchildren, myself among them, continue to carry forward that legacy—not only in name, but in spirit.
But today, on what should be a celebration of America's Independence, there is a particular kind of heartache that many Americans carry—a quiet, gnawing grief that comes from watching the promise of this nation slip further from reach. It is the sorrow of knowing we were born into a country founded on ideals of liberty and justice for all, yet live under a system where those values feel increasingly hollow.
The American Dream, once a beacon of hope, now feels like a fading illusion. Hard work no longer guarantees security. Education no longer ensures opportunity. Healthcare, housing, and dignity have become privileges, not rights. We see billionaires grow richer as working families fall further behind. We see communities shattered by injustice and inequality. And perhaps worst of all, we see how those who speak out are silenced, dismissed, or punished.
The heartache is real because the love for this country is real. It comes from a place of deep hope, not despair. We ache because we still believe in what America could be—and we grieve because we know how far we've strayed from it.
But heartache is not the end of the story—it can be the beginning of change. If we love this country, we cannot remain silent. We must demand a government that serves its people, not just it’s donors. We must vote, organize, speak out, and hold power to account—not just in election years, but every day.
Each of us has a role to play in reclaiming the promise of America. It starts with believing that a better future is still possible—and refusing to accept anything less.
So this year, we don’t need fireworks or parades. Perhaps the most honest way to honor America is not with celebration, but with reflection. Light a candle—not in triumph, but in remembrance of what this nation was meant to be, and in hope for what it still can become. Let that small flame be a quiet promise: that we will not give up, and we will not look away.
Take care of each other,
Emily
