Column: A July 4th Reflection on Longstanding Voices and Purpose

With a family full of military veterans, this is our holiday.

While others may see July 4th as fireworks, hot dogs, and folding chairs, for us, it’s also about service, sacrifice, and the kind of quiet reflection that sits heavy between the family hugs and the group text asking who’s bringing the cheapest bag of ice.

This weekend was full of emotion, the right mac and cheese (you know the one—with the crispy edges and no signs of Velveeta), and the kind of soul-check that sneaks up on you somewhere between catching up with cousins and talking about wars. My family gathered—some who’ve served, and with prayers for one who was recently deployed to Iraq. I almost sat this one out. But I’m glad I didn’t.

In the middle of it all, Facebook ambushed me with a memory: my first real headshot, taken by Donnie Roberts at The Dispatch. There I was—fresh home perm, fresh perm burn, dad’s “Dog Tags” trying to look like I knew what I was doing. That photo marked the beginning of my love for local journalism—and a silent agreement with myself that I’d rather be behind the camera than in front of it.

Click here to view the Her Locker Room Award segment on YouTube or Facebook

Then, as if the universe wasn’t done messing with my emotions, I received a HER Locker Room Award from the Carolina Tigers Women’s Tackle Football Team. During the interview, the team owner—former Lexington High School player and coach James Littlejohn, who also happens to be a childhood friend—asked me what I would say to the next generation.

James never let anyone put him in a box. He was a burly football player with a linebacker’s frame and a heart big enough to fall in love with musicals—thanks to the magic of Lee Mabe, who showed so many of us how to find our voice, on stage and off. James has always understood that people are more than what they appear to be. That might be why his question hit me harder than most.

He reminded me that none of us fit neatly into one box—especially at 16, when the world’s still trying to label you. And that made me think harder about what I needed to hear at that age.

It’s a classic interview question, one we’ve all heard more than once: “What would you say to your 16-year-old self?”

I paused, smiled, and said something like this: Don’t let other people write your story. The narrative belongs to you.

And the longer I sat with that truth, the more I realized—maybe I don’t have anything new to say to her. Maybe she needs to say something to me.

At 16, I was unstoppable. I didn’t have time for gossip or gatekeepers. I believed stories could change the world, and I wasn’t waiting for anyone to hand me permission. I saw the best in people, even the deadline-weary journalists who grunted instead of speaking. And I knew—deep in my soul—that journalism was where I belonged.

I wrote the way I talked, and editors have been trying to “fix” that ever since. I said no to the status quo and yes to anything that smelled like truth.

So what would my younger self say to me now?

Probably: “You’ve gotten too polite.”
And maybe: “You knew who you were before people started telling you who you should be.”
And definitely: “Please go reapply that lip gloss, straighten your shoulders, and go write like the world depends on it—because it still does.”

This week I also witnessed another reminder of how fire never really leaves us. At 94 years old, Lexington legend Bob Sink was awarded the Key to the City. And let me tell you—he’s still got it. That twinkle in his eye? That’s not nostalgia. That’s purpose. That’s knowing who you are and never letting go of the mission.

Sharon Myers’ story about her neighbor Bob reminded me of something AI could never do: capture the soul of a moment rooted in real relationship. She didn’t just write about him—she knew him. She lived across the street. That’s the magic of local journalism done right. Not just the facts, but the familiarity. The trust. The texture.

Bob reminded me that passion doesn’t have an expiration date. Whether you’re 16 and just discovering your passion, or 94 and still raising it in city meetings, there’s power in staying true to what sets your soul on fire.

As the weekend wound down, I sat next to my dad, Floyd “Pop” Kerr, crooked smile and ponytail band right where they’ve always been. I remembered how I used to play reporter with a notebook in one hand and way too many questions in the other. That little girl? She’s still here. Still chasing stories. Still hungry for the truth.

And even when a disgruntled caller once told me to “get a real job,” I never really considered quitting. Journalism hasn’t just been a job—it’s been one of the few constants in my life. A joy. A calling. A messy, beautiful, sometimes heartbreaking, always worth-it mission.

I guess that’s what I love about our interns, too. I see the potential. I see the fire. And I understand that this is such a beautiful, fleeting moment in their lives—the beginning of something big. I hate to see them go, as I’m sure their parents do, but I love to watch them flourish. And maybe it’s selfish, but every time they light up about a story, I feel like 16-year-old me is still doing her thing.

And if I really stop and listen, I imagine my 16-year-old self—perm crispy, notebook ready—would look me in the eye and say:
“You’re doing alright. But stop doubting yourself so much. The world still needs your voice. Now go write something that matters.”

I look back at the picture and remember her. She believed stories could change the world. On this July 4th holiday weekend, she still does.