Give Me Liberty or Give Me Breath: A Fourth of July Meltdown

ICE wouldn't take a hike, so I did.

Hi Besties!

This Fourth of July, fireworks weren't the only things exploding. My patience erupted, my dignity collapsed, and the thin veneer of optimism I had carefully plastered over my recovering health shattered spectacularly.

I'd been feeling deeply conflicted about celebrating at all, given these trying times in our country. The news cycle was relentless: ICE raids had intensified in Los Angeles, echoing a painful personal story that had shaken my fiancé’s family back in Connecticut, where his cousin (a gentle soul with an iron-clad work ethic) was deported. He was taken from his home like it was nothing. Like he was nothing. And if you’ve never seen a family spiral after that kind of state violence, count yourself lucky. It is not just a legal process. It is trauma. It is fear that does not end when the door closes. It’s customers at his store asking where he’s gone. It’s birthdays without him. It’s empty seats at weddings. It’s a country saying, with all its force, we do not want you. Every headline was a fresh wound, every social media post an exhausting reminder of the injustices happening in our supposed land of freedom. Celebrating felt hypocritical at best and complicit at worst. How could I wave a flag for a country actively tearing families apart?

Instead, I told myself, if I was going to do anything to mark the day, it would be something uncomfortable. Something to match the unease I carry around this time of year. I would hike.

Not exactly a bold political statement, but stay with me. Instead, I decided, the Fourth would not be a day of festivity but rather a day to suffer, just like the current state of our nation. Maybe that was dramatic, but hey, give the people what they want. What better metaphor for America's steep and uneven path to justice than dragging myself up a literal hill?

I’ve been recovering from health issues. Building strength slowly. Trying to listen to my body. I’m a large-bodied person, and with that comes a daily swirl of shame, resistance, pride, and vulnerability. So even suggesting a hike felt radical. Feeling bold (or perhaps just deliriously hopeful), I turned to my outdoor loving partner earlier in the week and announced, half-jokingly, "Let's hike! But make it beginner-friendly. Like, embarrassingly easy. Like a hike Momo and Lolo could do."

He confidently replied, "Griffith Park is perfect! It’s just steep at the start but evens out quickly." His tone was breezy, carefree, and annoyingly convincing. Clearly, his definition of "evens out quickly" came from an alternate universe where gravity is kinder and lungs come with an unlimited warranty. Probably the same universe where "freedom and justice for all" isn't just blatant lies.

Things started promisingly enough: the sun was just Instagrammable enough, the breeze pleasantly supportive, and after months of recovery, I felt a deceptive sense of "I've got this." But about 20 minutes in, the hills started to multiply like gremlins after midnight. Every turn revealed another incline, each one steeper and crueler than the last. The inclines, much like my social media feeds, became relentless and overwhelming. My inner monologue shifted rapidly from "Look at me, being outdoorsy!" to "Is this hike sponsored by hell?" and finally to a grim, "Why does everything have to feel like a fucking uphill battle these days?"

Soon, optimism faded entirely, replaced by sheer existential dread. My body loudly protested every step, screaming, "Girl, what were you thinking?" Until finally, reality hit with the force of a particularly cruel incline. Breathless, sweaty, and betrayed by my partner, I stopped and admitted, with a mix of embarrassment and despair, "I can't do this." And for the record, nothing makes you feel more like a walking symbol of the American healthcare crisis than being winded halfway up a trail while fit couples in matching Patagonia glide past you like smug gazelles.

Instantly, humiliation set in, magnified painfully by my already complicated relationship with my health and size. Here I was, visibly struggling, panting, flushed, basically putting on a humiliating public performance of "plus-sized girl bites off more than she can chew…for once." Rage followed swiftly, surging through me with surprising intensity. Why hadn’t he warned me better? Was he secretly plotting my humiliation? Was this his twisted version of couples' therapy? Internally, I spiraled further: Why had I allowed myself to be vulnerable? Why did I think this was a good idea? Why were my legs made of noodles? Why was I screaming in nature?!

I felt exposed. Embarrassed. Weak. I thought about what I must have looked like to the hikers gliding past me, dripping in SPF 50 and effortless confidence. I imagined what I looked like to my partner. He wasn’t judging me, but I was judging myself hard enough for both of us.

I had asked for something small. I had been brave in my request. And still, I failed. I couldn’t finish. And the humiliation wasn’t just physical. It cracked something deeper. It made me feel like the country itself: too broken to climb the hill.

And then came the anger.

I was mad at him for suggesting this trail. I was mad at my body for refusing to cooperate. I was mad at myself for thinking a hike could feel like empowerment when it mostly just felt like punishment.

Because the truth is, nothing about this country feels good right now.

The ICE raids in Los Angeles this year have mirrored the same patterns that tore through Connecticut and the rest of the country. Agents in unmarked cars pretending to be local police, knocking on doors with lies and fear. These are not isolated incidents. This is a system designed to destabilize. It is a feature, not a bug. And yes, this was escalated under Trump, who made cruelty the policy, but that machine keeps running no matter who is in charge.

There are still children in detention centers. There are still families being separated. There are still people being deported for traffic violations while billionaires get off scott-free. The flag means very little when the people under it are treated like they are disposable.

I stood on that hill, humiliated and breathless, and thought about how many of us are just trying to survive in systems that do not want us to thrive. I thought about how asking for help can still lead to pain. I thought about my fiancé’s cousin, who had never even taken a vacation because he was always working, always saving, always trying to prove he belonged.

The trek back down was tense and quiet, the silence punctuated only by my melodramatic sighs and passive-aggressive water sips. Yet, as the hills eased beneath us, clarity crept in alongside my bruised ego. Maybe strength wasn't just about conquering impossible hikes or surviving grueling headlines. Perhaps it also included recognizing my limits without self-flagellation, learning to navigate the spaces between rage and resilience.

Back at home, salty and only slightly less furious, I turned to my partner. His eyes were cautious yet hopeful, and he softly asked if I wanted Korean BBQ.

I wanted to be mad a little longer. I wanted to stew. But I was starving. And I will never turn down Korean BBQ. So we went.

Over sizzling meat and too many little dishes, we started to talk. Not just about the hike, but about the whole mess. About how hard it is to keep hope alive. About what it means to live in a country that demands our loyalty while denying our humanity. About how even when you try to take care of yourself, it can feel like the ground shifts under your feet.

The night ended with full stomachs and a little more understanding between us. And maybe that’s more revolutionary than pretending everything is fine. I didn’t make it to the top. But I made it through the day. In this country? That is more than enough.

This wasn’t the Fourth of July I wanted. But maybe it was the one I needed. A reminder that healing is slow. That being vulnerable is a risk. That asking for ease does not guarantee it. And that sometimes, the only thing to do is sit down, admit defeat, and then get back up again…if anything, for thick cut pork belly.

KBBQ heals all wounds, even if temporarily. In a fractured, complicated country, sometimes the most revolutionary act is simply sharing a meal, speaking honestly, and committing to climbing the hills ahead, together.

Your BFFL,

Ali