The Myth of Independence

The myth of independence is woven into the American psyche like stars into its flag. From childhood, we are taught that the highest form of success is self-sufficiency—that the truest expression of freedom is to stand alone. Our heroes are lone rangers, self-made millionaires, and defiant rebels who “pulled themselves up by their bootstraps.” We are encouraged to cut ties with anyone who slows us down, to idolize autonomy, to view dependence as weakness.

But this story—this sanitized, rugged individualism—is a dangerous illusion.

For many of us, particularly those in marginalized communities, survival has never been an act of independence. It has been an act of interdependence. A coalition of care. A chorus of souls who carried us when we could not walk alone.

Queer youth who are kicked out of their homes often survive because someone’s couch became home. Disabled adults navigating a world that refuses to accommodate them often lean on a patchwork network of friends who show up, adapt, and advocate. Formerly incarcerated individuals reentering a society that is quick to label but slow to forgive often rely on those who see beyond a rap sheet and into the full humanity of a person.

In those spaces, love is not conditional. It is chosen. And that choice is revolutionary.

Redefining Family: The Power of Chosen Kin

Family, in its most powerful form, is not a biological accident but a deliberate act of love.

Chosen family is a term widely used in LGBTQ+ communities, but its power transcends any one group. It refers to the people we claim and who claim us in return—not because of blood or obligation, but because of shared truth, mutual survival, and unwavering support.

I have known chosen family as the friends who sat with me in emergency rooms because my actual family never came. The ones who knew the difference between depression and silence, between needing space and needing someone to hold me through the ache. They brought casseroles when I was too ashamed to ask for help and dared me to keep living when I had decided I was done.

For queer people, especially those who grew up in faith communities or households where their identity was seen as a threat, the concept of chosen family is often the only reason they make it through adolescence. These bonds form in quiet conversations, shared glances of understanding, and affirmations that “you are not alone” when the world screams otherwise.

For example, consider “Lola and Jamal”—two Black trans individuals who met in a community center in Chicago. Estranged from their birth families, they found in each other the kind of kinship that is neither transactional nor temporary. Together, they share rent, medical appointments, job applications, and laughter. They have created a life where neither has to beg for recognition or reduce their identity to be safe. Their story is not unique. It is a blueprint.

Survival Through Connection: Interdependence as Resistance

In a society that praises independence as the ultimate virtue, admitting reliance on others can feel shameful. We are taught to fear being a “burden.” But what if being a burden is part of being human? What if freedom is not the absence of need but the presence of people who honor it?

The disability justice movement has long led this conversation. Thought leaders like Mia Mingus have framed interdependence as not only necessary but beautiful. It is a recognition that no one exists in a vacuum, that all of us require support in some form—whether physical, emotional, financial, or spiritual.

Interdependence is not codependency. It is mutuality. Reciprocity. It is the understanding that freedom achieved at the expense of others is not freedom at all.

During the pandemic, when many systems failed—when grocery stores closed, mental health services became inaccessible, and hospitals were overwhelmed—networks of care quietly saved lives. Grassroots mutual aid groups formed. Neighborhood pods delivered medication. Friends taught each other how to navigate Zoom therapy and unemployment benefits. Chosen families, often lacking legal protections, became lifelines.

And while those with privilege mourned the loss of normalcy, those of us who had never known stability saw our models of care validated.

The Formerly Incarcerated and the Freedom to Be Known

Few groups understand the limitations of “freedom” better than those who have served time in jails and prisons. The Fourth of July reads as cruel irony when one’s very existence is shaped by the aftershock of incarceration.

After release, the barriers are endless: job applications that require disclosure of felony status, housing applications that are denied on principle, social services that exclude based on past mistakes. But amid these barriers, chosen family offers another chance—not just at survival, but at restoration.

Take the story of Ray, who was released after ten years in prison and had no biological family left alive. A volunteer from a reentry program invited him to a barbecue. That single invitation sparked a chain of relationships: a mentor who helped him get his first job, a neighbor who taught him how to set up email, a friend who sat with him during his panic attacks. Within a year, Ray had a community. Not just people to live around—but people to live with.

Independence would not have gotten Ray through those first twelve months. But interdependence did.

Queer Love as Collective Liberation

Queer love—romantic, platonic, familial—is a radical declaration in a country that often tries to legislate it out of existence.

In many ways, queer love is the most profound form of chosen family. It asks us to write new stories when old ones reject us. It calls us into authenticity not just for ourselves, but for those around us.

When I say I love my queer friends, it is not a flippant expression. It is a promise. I will walk with you when the streets are unsafe. I will believe you when institutions do not. I will celebrate your joy as sacred. I will mourn your grief as my own.

This kind of love builds nations more honest than the one born in 1776.

Rethinking Patriotism: From Fireworks to Fellowship

What does patriotism look like when the country you live in denies your existence?

It might look like cooking a shared meal with friends who understand your trauma without explanation. It might look like sending a text to check in on someone who is struggling. It might be donating to a mutual aid fund, attending a community vigil, or simply refusing to let anyone you love slip away unnoticed.

For many of us, the most patriotic act we can commit is to create the kind of community this country claims to offer but fails to deliver. True liberty is found in these acts of love.

The Declaration of Independence was signed by men who could not imagine a world where Black, queer, disabled, or formerly incarcerated individuals had value. Our Declaration of Interdependence is signed with shared meals, mutual aid, late-night calls, and whispered reminders: “You are not alone.”

The Freedom to Stay

On this Fourth of July, I do not celebrate bombs bursting in air. I celebrate the people who stayed.

The ones who held my hand when I shook. The ones who learned my needs and met them with tenderness. The ones who never required me to earn their care, prove my worth, or hide my truth.

Independence is not a prerequisite for freedom. Connection is.

As we light our sparklers, grill our burgers, or simply try to survive another national holiday that rarely includes us in its declarations, let us remember the truth many of us live daily: we are not free because we are alone—we are free because we are loved.

So let us raise our glasses, not to liberty as it was imagined by colonists, but to liberation as we craft it together. To chosen family. To those who stay. To the freedom to be known, and held, and chosen again.

Because that is the only kind of freedom that has ever saved me.

This Independence Day, consider who your chosen family is—and let them know they matter. Reach out. Offer support. Build bridges, not just for yourself, but for others who still feel alone. The revolution begins in how we care for one another.