Dear Hope: What do I do with all of this grief when the world around me expects red, white, and blue joy?

Dear Hope, Everyone’s out celebrating “freedom” this week, but I feel more trapped than ever—in my grief, in my anxiety, in my own body. Fireworks make me flinch. Family BBQs feel fake. And honestly, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be proud of right now. What do I do with all this when the world around me expects red, white, and blue joy?

You don’t have to slap a smile on your face because the calendar says “celebrate.”

You don’t have to cheer for a kind of freedom that feels so out of reach. 

You don’t have to pretend that that crack of the fireworks feels fun and comfortable. 

When someone you love dies, time splits clean in half. 

There’s before. 

And there’s after. 

And holidays like this–loud, demanding, heavy with expectation– drag all of it to the surface. 

You remember how things used to be. 

Before they were gone. 

Before the empty seat.

Before the forced small talk.

Before your chest tightened at the sound of people laughing like everything is fine. 

You’re Not Broken Because the Holidays Feel Off

The 4th of July may represent freedom, but for many of us it feels more repressive. Like the deafening sound of the fireworks equates to the heaviness you feel in your chest. 

Let the day be hollow, if it is. 

Let it be quiet. Let it sting. Let it pass without a single sparkler or hotdog or fake smile. 

You don’t have to “make the best of it”.”

You don’t have to pretend that the celebrations aren’t a little too much this year. 

You don’t have to show up for anyone’s version of patriotic pride when your own soul is in survival mode. 

There’s no timeline for heartbreak. 

Grief doesn’t take a holiday.
There’s no off-switch just because it’s July 4th.
And you are not broken because this day doesn’t feel like yours.

The people who urge you to “celebrate life” or “focus on the positive” don’t see the late nights where all you want is one more second with them. They’re not the ones lying awake at 2am wishing they could just hear that laugh again. They don’t know what it’s like to set the table for one less person. To look around and feel the outline of someone who should still be here.

So if all you do today is breathe—good.
If you cry through the anthem, or mute the parades, or let the grill go cold—good.
You don’t have to turn pain into patriotism.
You don’t have to make new memories if you’re still haunted by the old ones.

This July 4th, your only job is to stay with yourself.
To name what hurts.
To move gently.
To choose your own kind of freedom—one that doesn’t require fireworks.

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