When I think of the Fourth of July, I think of freedom. But not just the national kind, it’s about personal freedom. Emotional freedom. The kind of freedom that comes from no longer abandoning yourself in pursuit of someone else.
And, of course, I think of fireworks. I love them even though I know they’re not for everyone. Especially here in California, where wildfires are a real threat, there’s an ongoing debate about whether fireworks should even be legal. Still, I can’t help but be mesmerized by them — the spectacle, the anticipation, the momentary magic.
When I was younger, I remember connecting fireworks with the feeling of first love, or rather, infatuation. That firework kind of love. Explosive. Breathless. Short-lived. You crane your neck to the sky, waiting for the next pop, the next flash, the next rush. And when it ends? There’s that little drop in your belly. The excitement fades, and you’re left with smoke, silence, and a sense of longing.
I chased that kind of love for a while. The high highs and inevitable lows. It was intoxicating, but not reliable. Beautiful, but not lasting. Manmade. Expensive. Illusory.
Then there was a different kind of love…the candle love. It was steadier, quieter. A gentle glow. You could count on it. It didn’t take your breath away, but it didn’t burn you, either. It could light a room, offer comfort, bring peace. But for someone like me — an Aries with a big fire heart — it sometimes felt underestimated. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to appreciate it.
Eventually, I asked myself: What’s the kind of love you build a life around?
And the answer came: a fireplace.
A fireplace love is the kind you build a home around. It doesn’t demand constant attention, but it does need care. It needs to be fed, tended, protected. It can warm the entire house. You can sit by it for hours, tell stories, cook meals, feel safe.
For most of my life, I projected this metaphor outward. The firework love, the candle love, the fireplace love — they were all about someone else. But I see now, all of them were reflections of how I related to myself.
The firework phase was me chasing worth in validation. The candle phase was me playing small, afraid to ask for more. And the fireplace? That’s the me who knows I matter. Who tends to her own flame. Who builds something lasting, steady, and true — not for show, but for soul.
So this Fourth of July, yes — I’ll watch the fireworks with wonder. But I’ll also be thinking about the kind of fire I’m cultivating in myself.
Because the real freedom? It’s not out there. It’s in how we choose to love ourselves.
And that’s the kind of love that lasts.
PS: I’m putting the finishing touches on a free masterclass called You Matter, and it’s all about reconnecting with your inner fire.
Want me to send you the invite when it’s ready? Just comment or reach out — I’d love to have you there.
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