Reflections on the third anniversary of the 4th of July shooting in Highland Park
Under cloudy skies threatening rain, we stacked ourselves up on First Avenue for the parade to start, finding our places as elected officials in relation to the acrobats, the fire trucks, the horseback riders, the rock bands on flatbed trucks, and the community organizations.
The musical strains from the military band and the fluttering of tiny American flags in the hands of our residents and visitors were not enough to keep at bay the bubbling sorrow that had surfaced earlier during the pre-parade commemoration ceremony honoring the seven people killed on that perfect summer day in 2022.
The tears welling in my eyes as we started the march marked a shift from how I had shown up in the previous two years. Back then, I marched with the focused, razor-sharp mindset of an elected official helping lead our people through a seven-block trail of tears—with a defiant spirit that we would not let the killer take this sacred tradition from us. We also stayed vigilant against any potential security breach or repeat of the unspeakable.
But this time, our confidence in the security protocol was solid. Same route as last year. Same law enforcement perimeter. Refined logistics. Same re-routed path that skirted Port Clinton Square—the epicenter of the massacre.
And with this, our third parade since that horrible day, the gritty faces of defiance gave way to a softened disposition seeking normalcy. That subconsciously allowed a mindshift in me. So instead of showing up ready to lead or alertly scanning for danger, I chose something different.
I chose to be a mourner.
So along with the City Council banner I carried with my fellow councilmembers, I held the modest battery-powered candle handed to us a few hours earlier at the commemoration ceremony. We had each lit one for the seven lovely people taken from us. I walked the parade route with it still glowing in my hand. On my way back, I stopped at the temporary memorial by City Hall, whispered their names out loud, let myself cry, and left that tiny light behind as an offering.
As much as I’ve grieved what happened that day, I had resisted grieving on the parade route. This time, I didn’t resist the grief. I didn’t armor up. I didn’t feel that I—or any of us—needed to step up and lead from the front.
And through my shallow breathing, thick with emotion, I noticed the thin crowd—even thinner than last year’s—as we all sat in the paradox of our losses: the seven lives, the many injured and traumatized, our sense of security, our patriotic innocence.
It was the quiet, collective ache of a city still reclaiming its breath—even as we waved genuinely, cheerfully, back and forth between marchers and spectators, wishing each other a Happy Fourth.
And in that paradox, I felt more alive than I had at the previous two post-shooting parades.
Because this is what flourishing looks like too: being able to grieve and still move. To remember and still dance. To honor death and still say yes to life.
Because this is what flourishing looks like too: being able to grieve and still move. To remember and still dance. To honor death and still say yes to life.
It’s what I’ve also been learning in my personal life as I deal with the loss of long-time cherished relationships, and the heartbreak of seeing some newly formed ones slip away.
Allowing ourselves to truly feel our deepest pain—as counterintuitive as it sounds—is the way to reduce the sustained pain. Neurologically, it’s because the very nerve endings through which we experience pain are the same ones through which we experience unencumbered joy. When we let pain course through us, it performs a cleansing role—pushing the toxicity through our emotional systems to make space for beauty, love, mercy, empathy, and inspiration to reach us again.
We can never go back to the city we were before July 4, 2022. That version of Highland Park no longer exists. But we’re still here. And it’s up to us to keep creating the new version—one that carries our legacy, but also accounts for our scars. And in doing so, bring forth something new.
We cannot ask life to go back to the way it was. But we can let the grief wash through us and change us. And in that, emerge more free to receive what we never could have imagined—and still keep going.
We cannot ask life to go back to the way it was. But we can let the grief wash through us and change us. And in that, emerge more free to receive what we never could have imagined—and still keep going.
We are in a liminal space—the in-between of what was and what is not yet. And it’s in that in-between place that we have the power to prepare our response.
Today gave me something. It gave me a way to walk the line between remembrance and momentum. Between grief and grit. Between despair and hope. Between death and life.
There’s still work to do—collectively, as a city, and personally, as grieving people, with whatever losses we each carry. But today, I let the day happen to me.
And in doing so, I moved forward—as I, along with our community, continue to shape our response to loss, longing, and new possibility.
—July 4, 2025, Highland Park
