A Letter to My Country

I want to share a letter with you — one I wrote to my country, and perhaps yours as well.

This letter isn’t just about politics. It’s about people. It’s about the stories that shape who we are as a nation and the values we hold — the belief that hard work provides stability, families deserve security, and labor should be honored with dignity and respect.

It’s about resilience — the resilience of those who built this country with their hands, their sweat, and their sacrifice. While this letter holds elements of my personal story, it is also a reflection of the many untold stories that weave together the fabric of our nation — who we have been, who we are, and who we are becoming.

Here is my letter to my country.

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Dear United States of America,

I write to you not just as a citizen, but as the daughter of a man who believed in the values of hard work, human dignity, and the promise that with honest labor he would be able to provide for his family. My father was a U.S. postal worker. Well, that was what he did to earn a living anyway. That wasn’t all he was — there are so many more facets to his story that I will save for another time.

As a postal worker, my dad didn’t make a lot of money, but he made enough — enough to put food on our table, to keep the lights on, to give us a sense of stability. And when his paycheck wasn’t quite enough, he took on additional jobs — cutting grass, trimming trees, doing whatever he could to make sure we had what we needed.

(I will admit, as a young girl — especially during my adolescent years — I may not have agreed that I had exactly what I needed. But that perspective fueled my drive to start babysitting at an early age, giving me a sense of independence and a little extra buying power!)

His job wasn’t easy. When he first started, postal workers walked their routes, carrying heavy bags of mail on their backs — no matter the weather. The mail had to be delivered every day — through pouring rain, snow, and sleet. He had to follow strict rules, from wearing a sharply ironed uniform to speaking respectfully, even when faced with frustration or anger.

Respect. That was a value my father lived by. He taught us to treat others with dignity — regardless of differences in their skin color, religion, or background.

Today, I look at the state of our country and wonder:

What would have happened to my family?

If my dad had been fired, the way so many government workers are being let go now…
And then, if the social safety nets designed to help struggling families had been slashed the way they are now…
Would my dad have been able to find another way to make a living with so many others also looking for work? Would we have lost our small house that he and my mom worked so hard to build into a home? Would we have survived the fallout?

I see what’s happening now — the dismantling of protections, the rejection of those who built this country with their hands, and the growing disregard for hardworking individuals who have contributed to our communities for years, despite sometimes lacking proper documentation. Families, not unlike the family of my youth, depend on the promise that effort and dedication will be enough to get them through, to offer them opportunities to build a better life.

As I think about the families of today and the decisions being made by those in power, I ask three important questions:

What do we stand for? As a country? As families? As individuals?
Who are we becoming? As a country? As families? As individuals?
Where are we headed? As a country? As families? As individuals?

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A Nation at a Crossroads

We have been a country that has worked hard to model freedom, equality, respect, and compassion — one that functioned as a beacon of hope to the world, a nation built on the principles of a government of the people, by the people, for the people.

When we wavered from these principles, we had core beliefs embedded into our Constitution to fall back on. They are the bones that have created the scaffolding of our country.

I am afraid that our bones may be crumbling — that we may be losing the very essence of who we are as Americans, and of what you, America, have stood for to those of us who live and work here, and to the people who traversed many miles and hardships to make you their home.

My grandparents were immigrants who made their way to your shores from Germany, Hungary, and France. They came to this country with a dream of building a better life for their families and worked tirelessly to turn that dream into a reality.

The America my father and grandparents worked so hard to help build was one that promised that hard work, diligence, and education would open doors. It was a country that — while far from perfect — fought to correct its injustices, worked to tear down discriminatory laws, sought to protect human rights, and understood that the fight for equality was ongoing.

But now, I fear we are forgetting our history. Forgetting the importance of the alliances we have forged. Forgetting the grave consequences of failing to stand against authoritarianism and hate. We have seen what happens when bullying governments label people as “other.” When cruelty is normalized. When democracy is weakened from within.

It has been said, history repeats itself. I pray that the devastation the United States and her allies once fought against does not find its way back through the doors being cracked open today.

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A Call to Remember Who We Are

In the face of these fears, I desperately want to hold onto hope. I want to continue believing that the essence of who we are will endure — that our bones are strong enough to support us through uncertain times.

I want to believe that the values woven into the fabric of this nation are not lost. That when injustice rises, there are still people willing to stand up and say “enough.”

I write this letter not just in grief for what I fear we may be losing, but in hope. Because history has also shown us that people can push back. That voices, when they rise together, can challenge and change the course of a nation.

I love you, my country. My heart beats and bleeds with yours. I pray with every fiber of my being that we can weather this storm and become stronger — not by wielding power over others, but by creating solid partnerships with people and countries committed to upholding the core values that define us.

Amen.

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The Power of Sharing Our Stories

America is not just policies and politics. It is its people — and their stories.

If we still believe in a country that values dignity, hard work, and justice, then we must tell those stories. We must remind each other of who we are, what we have endured, and what we stand for.

Our stories — of resilience, struggle, triumph, and hope — are our history. These are the threads that weave us together and the lessons that guide us forward. They are what keep us from forgetting ourselves, our ancestors, and our history.

Storytelling isn’t just about reminiscing — it’s how we shape the future.

I encourage you, dear reader, to tell your stories and listen to the stories of others. Because all our stories matter.

History only repeats itself when we allow it to be erased.

This is my letter to my country. Now, I ask you: What will you write in yours?

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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