I’ve been part of this country for 48 years.
That’s nearly one-fifth of the nation’s entire history.
No one alive today has experienced America for more than a fraction of her existence, but my 48 years count just as much as anyone else’s. They are the years I’ve been given to observe, to contribute, to learn, and to choose.
So what have I learned?
I can’t speak for everyone.
I can only speak for myself.
Yesterday, a friend drove more than two hours to spend the afternoon with Steve and me. We hadn’t seen each other in over a decade, but the conversation picked up as though no time had passed.
They’re one of my favorite people for a simple reason.
Every story they tell about someone else comes full circle.
Not gossip.
Not ridicule.
Not shame.
Instead, their stories sound like this:
“Here was the challenge. Here were the choices they made. Here were the consequences. Here’s how they’re finding their way forward.”
There’s dignity in that.
People are allowed to be human.
People are allowed to grow.
People are allowed to become someone different than they once were.
On Independence Day, that’s what freedom means to me.
The liberty to choose.
Early in my career, I worked with an electrical engineer from Romania named Ed.
Ed built control panels that were works of art. You could open one of his electrical enclosures and every wire was perfectly routed. Every bend was intentional. Every detail mattered.
One day, I asked him why.
I ask everyone.
Not because I’m curious about the work.
Because I’m curious about the person.
Work is just a set of activities.
Our stories are our lives.
They’re the only thing that ever truly matters to the person living them.
Ed told me about Romania.
About knowing, as a little boy, what profession he would have.
About the dream of bringing his family somewhere his children would have choices he never did.
That’s why every wire mattered.
It wasn’t about the panel.
It never was.
It was about the story.
I’ve learned that when we help people connect their work to a story they’re proud to tell, we teach something much bigger than performance.
We teach aspiration.
We give people permission to pursue their own personal best.
To change their stars, too.
Then I think about my own children.
They’re independent now.
As a mother, that’s painful sometimes.
Watching them make their own decisions—good ones and hard ones—isn’t always easy.
That pain belongs to me.
No one else gets to claim it.
But it’s also exactly what I wanted for them.
I wanted them to become adults capable of making their own choices.
Freedom doesn’t eliminate discomfort.
Sometimes freedom creates it.
But I’d rather watch my children choose their own lives than have someone else choose for them.
Years ago I used to say I wanted to change my stars.
Eventually I stopped saying it.
Not because I stopped believing.
Because I did.
This country gave me the opportunity to build a different life than the one I started with.
Not a perfect life.
A chosen one.
That’s a remarkable gift.
Sometimes I worry we’ve become so accustomed to freedom that we’ve stopped noticing it.
When we take liberty for granted, we begin to abuse it—not necessarily out of malice, but because we’ve forgotten what makes it extraordinary.
Opportunity surrounds us.
Sometimes it’s in the technology we carry.
Sometimes it’s simply in the courage to walk up to another human being, introduce yourself, ask a thoughtful question, and really listen to the answer.
Face-to-face conversation has become one of the rarest forms of courage.
It also remains one of the most powerful.
I know my own story isn’t one everyone would admire from the outside.
Some people would look at my life and only see hardship.
Others would give anything to trade places with me for just one day.
As kids, we stood in driveways on the Fourth of July, lighting sparklers, snapping poppers, and watching glow snakes curl across the sidewalk while dreaming about who we’d become.
We imagined careers.
Purpose.
Adventure.
Possibility.
I maximized my liberty intentionally.
I surfed every wave of learning I could find.
That journey carried me into global learning and development, where I worked alongside executive operational excellence teams from some of the largest organizations in the world, across nearly every major industry.
It was extraordinary.
It looked glamorous from the outside.
Those who know me well also know what it cost.
Exposure has a price.
Knowledge has a price.
Growth has a price.
Mine turned out to be heavier than I ever imagined.
Still…
I wouldn’t trade it.
Because the plan was always to bring it home.
To bring what I’d learned back to small businesses.
Back to communities.
Back to leaders trying to build something worthwhile where they live.
To help ordinary people solve extraordinary problems without having to leave home to find the answers.
That’s why Slingshot Designs exists.
That’s why 6B Advisory exists.
That’s why Mitten Carving and Designs exists.
Because there’s something deeply American about seeing possibility where others see limitation.
About building something with your own hands.
About betting on yourself.
About taking everything you’ve learned, everything you’ve survived, and turning it into something that creates value for someone else.
There’s nothing more American than an entrepreneurial spirit.
On America’s 250th birthday, I’m grateful.
Grateful for the freedom to choose.
Grateful for the responsibility that comes with that freedom.
Grateful for every person whose story has shaped my own.
And grateful that Lady Liberty still stands in the harbor—not promising us an easy life, but reminding us that we’re free to build one.
To the men and women who have served this country, and to the families who have carried that service alongside them…
Thank you.
I’ve seen the sacrifices.
I’ve lived alongside them.
Freedom has always cost someone something.
If that’s your story, I’d love to hear it.
Happy 250th Birthday, America.
May we continue earning the liberty we’ve inherited by choosing wisely, serving generously, and leaving this place better than we found it.
Slingshot Designs 