On the fourth of July, circa 2010, I found myself in NYC with two enviable commodities:  my best friend from childhood, also one of Manhattan’s most sought-after bachelors, and dinner reservations at Minetta Tavern in Greenwich Village.  On the opposite end of cool, there I was, in last season’s wardrobe, and buried under a four year relationship which had soured years earlier; but I played victim to the force of routine – the crippling effect of obligation.  I hadn’t eaten a burger in those four years since my boyfriend was highly health-conscious, and eating one felt like a version of cheating. Needless to say, I was rail thin; even my doctor advised, “Send yourself to bed with a bowl of ice cream, Ms. Shinn.”

As we were sitting down to dinner, my phone rang.  It was the obligation, and I slipped outside to take the phone call.  It was that hour when the sky clicks from a deep navy to a velvet midnight.  I was numbly listening to the other end of the line, when suddenly the entirety of Manhattan’s skyline ignited in a magnificent array of emerald and amber fireworks.  Ah, July 4th!  I had forgotten.   And I threw my head back, marveling at the sprawling chandeliers.  In that moment I was struck with the meaning behind “Independence Day.” Imagine that, I thought.  Men died fighting for liberty.  Why couldn’t I too fight for mine?  I didn’t even need a bayonet, or strategy, or an army.  I only needed a bit of courage.

I don’t remember ending the phone call, but I do remember watching the rest of the firework show, agape at the universe and all of its possibilities.  Then I walked back into Minetta Tavern and ordered the black label burger.  My start to Paul Revere’s journey.  It tasted like freedom.

The very next day I departed NYC, flew back to L.A., and walked out of my boyfriend’s life.

I moved into my own apartment, and as months passed every act became a tiny fete of my independence. Learning how to find a stud in the wall.  The first dinner party I hosted solo.  The first time I poured myself a finger of single malt scotch.  Building my own headboard.  The first time I had a man sleep in my bed.  And, of course, every burger I ate.

I’ve come to take independence day as a holiday that honors the self.  I celebrate it because I don’t have a baby.  Or a boyfriend.  Or anyone else I have to notify should I decided to skip town for the day.  I celebrate because I return to a home where every fork, book, and chair belongs entirely to me.  I celebrate because I pay my own rent, and wash my own clothes.  Because I’ve built a life where I can grill my own dry rub ribs, and eat it too.

So figure out how you define your independence, my friends.  And celebrate that you’re enough, as is.  Eat a burger if you want to.  Kiss your neighbor if you want to.  Leave the city, or stay.  Get toasted.  Sleep all day.  Do whatever you want, because a long time ago many men lost their lives so you could have this freedom.  It’s your right, after all, to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.