Making peace with the past, without pretending it didn’t happen.
By: Rebecca Witherspoon, July 4, 2025
On July 4th, we celebrate the birth of a bold and complicated experiment—one rooted in the pursuit of freedom, truth, and collective possibility. It was never perfect. It was never easy. But it was a declaration that something better was worth striving for, even when the path forward was uncertain.
That’s the spirit this series was born from.
Not patriotism as performance, but resilience as a way of life. Not unity that papers over the truth, but community built on the courage to face it. That’s what this moment—this entire season—has asked of me. And maybe of you too.
Some people lead with microphones. Some lead with megaphones. Some lead with fear.
But the kind of leadership that actually heals a community? That’s the slow kind. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t always come with recognition, applause, or protection. It comes with consistency. With integrity. With the kind of grace that doesn’t mean softness, but stamina.
I’ve come to believe that real leadership isn’t about getting the last word—it’s about walking in the right direction long enough for others to notice the path.
Grace doesn’t mean you’re a doormat for everyone to walk over or a punching bag for them to repeatedly hit. It means you’ve decided not to let bitterness harden you. It means you can tell the truth without shaming people—something I will admit I have not always been perfect at in the heat of a moment. It means you can set boundaries without building walls. And it means you can keep showing up, even when it feels like no one’s listening—because you know who you are, and who you’re not.
This kind of groundedness doesn’t come out of nowhere. It’s earned—slowly, honestly, over time. And for me, it comes from having made peace with my own story. I was reminded of this a few days ago when someone said, “Past choices, even choices that you would now consider to be bad choices, make you the person you are right now, in this exact moment in time.”
I absolutely agree and I wouldn’t change a thing.
That might sound strange to say, especially when I think back on some of the mistakes I’ve made, or the painful and sometimes traumatic seasons I’ve walked through. But every choice—whether wise or deeply flawed—every person I’ve encountered, every joy, every heartbreak, every silence, and every outburst has shaped me into the person I am right now.
And I really like who I am. That’s not something I could say 20 plus years ago.
If I went back and tried to edit my story—remove the hard parts, soften the sharp ones—I might end up with something cleaner, but not necessarily stronger. Not necessarily real. The grace I try to live and lead with didn’t come from perfection. It came from the work of becoming. From learning. From stumbling and choosing to rise with a little more clarity, a little more compassion, and a little more courage each time.
This series began with a moment—a flicker of humanity that broke through the fog of distrust and grief. And that moment was made possible by two women. Each in her own way, they stepped out of the noise and into the light. Their simple, unforced gestures of kindness were not performative. They were real. Unscripted. Risky, even.
And they changed something in me—they shifted my focus—and helped me realize I was reacting to the negative actions of others outside of my control rather than just being the me that I have worked so hard to become.
They didn’t pretend to have answers—and in fact didn’t even offer answers. But what they did was enough to shift something in me—and, I believe, can in others too, if they’re willing to listen, to hear, and to act.
It was as if, just for a breath, we remembered what it felt like to see each other again. Not as enemies or factions or threats, but as human beings navigating our own pain, our own hope, our own longing for peace.
Their example reminded me that grace is not a passive thing. It’s a force. And when it shows up—even quietly—it has the power to cut through darkness. To interrupt cycles. To start something new.
That reminder changed helped me return to myself—to the steadier, quieter kind of strength I’ve spent years building. And that same reminder can help others move forward on a different path—a path toward forgiveness and reconciliation.
Not because it’s easy. Not because we’re always certain. But because we’ve decided that what’s at stake is too important to abandon. Because community isn’t something you inherit—it’s something you choose to build, again and again, even when others try tearing it down.
That’s the kind of freedom I’m choosing this Independence Day. The freedom to live without bitterness. To speak truth with compassion. To walk in integrity even when it costs more than silence.
You don’t have to hold public office to be part of the solution. You don’t need a title or a stage. You just need the courage to stay grounded. The discipline to speak carefully. The faith to believe that truth lasts longer than drama. That character matters more than control. That eventually, the long game of grace will outlast the short game of spectacle.
Not everyone will see it right away.
Some may never see it.
But some will.
And those that do see it will follow—not your voice, necessarily, but your example.
That’s how healing begins. That’s how we walk forward—together.
One steady, gracious step at a time.
Musings By Rebecca 