Growing up, I didn’t really give a fig about the Fourth of July.  I know it is an important American celebration, it just wasn’t my favorite.  I like fireworks as much as the next gal, but they get old pretty quickly, and we were never a family to go and buy a bunch, simultaneously burning up our backyard and pissing off our neighbors.

It wasn’t until the year I got divorced that I really appreciated the meaning of independence.  I finally understood how scary it is to declare independence from the only way of life you have ever known, and to take that brave, militant step into the unknown, with only trust in yourself to get you through.

I filed for divorce right after Independence Day that year.  Right after the ex left town for the weekend, leaving The Boy and I without a car.  Right after I had to be resourceful upon finding out he had given our grill away without my knowledge (and after I had promised The Boy a cookout).

And even though I have just given up a little independence recently, Independence Day still means a lot to me.  It is a celebration of the faith I have in myself, and the courage I found then that I never knew I had.

Happy 4th, Everyone!