What Does July 4th Feel Like for a Veteran?

That’s a question I’ve been asked before, and it’s not an easy one to answer. I can’t speak for every veteran—our experiences are far too varied. Some feel pride, others feel pain. Some celebrate openly, others stay home and keep quiet. But I can tell you what it feels like for me.

The truth is, it’s complicated.

I love my country. I love the celebration. The fireworks, the barbecues, the flags, the music—there’s something beautiful about a people coming together to honor the idea of freedom. But beneath the surface, there’s also something else I carry on days like this: a deep, quiet ache that most people never see.

This past Fourth of July, I was at a gathering when I heard Toby Keith’s Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue playing through the speakers. A group of drunk partygoers nearby were singing along loudly, fists in the air, beer in hand. And all I could think was, “Do you even know what that song represents?”

It’s not just a hype song or a tailgate anthem. That song came out in a time when everything had changed. When we were reeling as a nation. When people my age—barely out of high school—started lining up at the recruiter’s office, fully aware that war was on the horizon. That song was a rallying cry, a grief cry, and a battle cry rolled into one. And for those of us who lived it, it hits different.

Hearing it brought me back.

I remembered a specific moment, just weeks after returning home from overseas. A family member had gotten us tickets to the Alabama vs. LSU game. I was excited. Football had always been a comforting tradition. But when I got there, I was hit with a wave of emotions I hadn’t expected.

I was 21. I should’ve been in my last year of college. But I’d spent the past 16 months in the desert. I looked around that stadium—100,000 people cheering, laughing, carefree—and felt completely out of place. My friends were wrapping up degrees, starting relationships, making plans for the future. And I was trying to remember how to feel normal again.

This isn’t a complaint—just the truth. We were all still kids, but war had changed me. It made it harder to relate. Harder to reconnect. We had all kept moving, just in very different directions.

The war itself was difficult—but honestly, coming home was harder.

Life hadn’t waited. People I loved had passed while I was gone. Relationships had shifted. The world had kept spinning, and I wasn’t part of it. I came home a different person—and tried to fit back into a place that hadn’t changed at all.

I remember pulling into a restaurant parking lot one night with Lauren. Without thinking, I reached beside my leg for a weapon that wasn’t there. I panicked. Kept saying, “I can’t find my weapon.” I looked all over the car, frantic. Finally, she grabbed my arm and said, “Kevin, you’re home now.”

It was such a strange moment. Like I had slipped out of reality for a second. I wasn’t in a convoy anymore—I was a dad, in Alabama, driving his family to get a steak. But my brain hadn’t caught up yet. It took a while. Longer than I wanted to admit.

For years, I avoided telling people I was a veteran. I didn’t want attention or pity. I just wanted to blend in. But I’ve come to understand the importance of sharing our stories—not to be dramatic, but to help others understand.

Military service shapes you. Not just in discipline or values—but in invisible ways. Ways that don’t go away just because the uniform comes off.

I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity to serve. I wouldn’t trade the brotherhood I found in the military for anything. I’ve never experienced a bond like that anywhere else. It’s one thing to say you love someone—it’s another to be willing to lay down your life for them. I saw that kind of love. I lived in it.

So what does July 4th feel like?

It feels like pride—and pain. Like celebration—and silence. Like a song that once meant everything now being shouted by people who have no idea what it cost.

But it also feels like home. A different kind of home. One shaped by sacrifice, marked by memory, and held together by a deep, abiding love for this country and the people who serve it.

This year, I designed a shirt that tells a piece of that story. It’s a heartbeat line that morphs into the Twin Towers, then the shape of Iraq or Afghanistan, and finally flatlines. It’s not just a design—it’s a timeline. A memorial. A visual language for a story many of us lived but can’t always explain. (check out the shirt here https://www.thewanderinghome.com/store/p/iraq-post-911

https://www.thewanderinghome.com/store/p/afganistan-post-911 )

50% of all proceeds go to helping veterans get the counseling and care they need. Because the battle doesn’t end when we come home—and healing takes more than just time.