Remember that scene from "Sleepless in Seattle," when Meg Ryan’s character, Annie, tells Walter she’s developed feelings for Sam Baldwin, even though they’ve never met? She basically falls in love with the idea of him after hearing him speak for a few minutes on a talk radio show about his late wife.
And I’ve always been like… wait, what?
Because she just spent Valentine’s weekend with Walter picking out china at Tiffany’s. They’re engaged. This man is committed, present, and very much real. And she breaks it off based on a feeling that some guy on the radio might be her soulmate?
It’s honestly amazing Walter didn’t dump champagne over her head and call her a liar and a w h o r e.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he calmly says to her, “I don’t want to be someone that you’re settling for. I don’t want to be someone that anyone settles for. Marriage is hard enough without bringing such low expectations into it, isn’t it?”
And Annie’s response? “I don’t deserve you.”
And then she just… leaves. Goes off to chase a feeling. Like, damn.
I’ve always admired Walter for that. You have to be so grounded in yourself to not spiral in that moment. To not beg. To not argue. To not try to convince someone to stay.
That’s a level of self-respect a lot of us are still working toward. Because the truth is, he was right. No one should be settled for. No one should be someone’s placeholder. Not in marriage. Not in relationships. Not ever.
And if I’m being honest, I’ve seen this from both sides. I don’t want to be someone’s “they’re alright for now” person. The in-between warm body. The soft place to land while they figure their shit out. The backup plan and "maybe this will work out," attempt.
I’ve been that. No Thanks!
And I’ve also stayed longer than I should have, trying to make something work that I knew, deep down, wasn’t it. That quiet voice in your head that says, this isn’t right? Yeah. I’ve ignored that one more times than I’d like to admit.
There were times I channeled Walter. And there were times I was messy. Bitter. Let my bruised ego run the show. But eventually, when everything settled, I’d come back to that moment.
“I don’t deserve you.”
And instead of taking that as an insult, I started hearing it as clarity. Not everyone is meant to meet you where you are. Not everyone is capable of choosing you the way you deserve to be chosen. And that’s not something you argue with. That’s something you accept.
Maybe it’s the pragmatist in me, but I still think about Walter sometimes. Did he find someone who actually chose him? Someone who wasn’t comparing him to a fantasy? Someone who saw him clearly and stayed anyway?
I hope so.
Because even though he was a little basic, stable, predictable, and yeah, allergic to everything, he was a good man.
And honestly? The fact that he didn’t create a scene in that fancy restaurant is kind of mind-blowing when you really think about it. No drama. No ego. That’s some next-level emotional regulation right there.
I really hope Walter wasn’t completely traumatized by Annie and that he found someone who actually fit him better. Someone who wasn’t chasing a fantasy or falling in love with a feeling, but who could recognize what was right in front of them.
Because here’s the thing no one really tells you. Love, the kind that actually lasts is kind of… boring.
It’s the in-between stuff.
The everyday stuff.
The choosing each other over and over again when nothing exciting is happening.
And that’s the funny part, isn’t it?
Because the reason Annie fell in love with Sam in the first place… is because he talked about that exact kind of love.
The simple things.
Holding hands.
Being known.
Showing up, day after day.
She heard it. She believed in it. She just couldn’t recognize it when she already had it. And there is absolutely someone out there who wants exactly that. That’s the kind of love I believe in now.
Not the dramatic, cinematic, “run to the Empire State Building” kind. But the kind where two people choose each other fully.
Honestly.
Without hesitation.
Without one foot out the door.
No settling.
Just two people who want to be there.
Together.
Lenten Reflection: The Courage Not to Settle
"Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good." – Romans 12:9 (NRSV)
Walter had it right. Love is already hard enough without lowering the bar. Lent is a season of honesty. A time to examine our expectations, our choices, and how we show up for ourselves and others.
🔹 Where have I accepted less than I deserve, just to avoid being alone?
🔹 Have I treated others as placeholders, rather than people worthy of deep, authentic love?
🔹 What would it look like to love with clarity instead of fantasy?
Today, let us check our hearts, not just for who we love, but how. May we refuse to settle. May we choose with courage. And may we become the kind of people worthy of the love we seek.
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of each other. 🧡
“The next day the large crowd that had come to the festival heard that Jesus was coming to Jerusalem. So they took branches of palm trees and went out to meet him, shouting, ‘Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord, the King of Israel!’” —John 12:12–13 (NRSV)
Palm Sunday. The beginning of the end.
The moment when people welcomed Jesus as a savior.
Waving palms. Shouting “Hosanna,” which literally means, "Save us."
And within days? Those same voices were shouting for his death. We like to think we would’ve been different.
We wouldn’t have turned.
We wouldn’t have followed the crowd.
We wouldn’t have been so easily swayed.
But history, and honestly, current events, tell a different story.
Because we are still doing it.
We are still looking for someone to save us.
Still putting people on pedestals.
Still believing the loudest voice in the room must be the right one.
Still confusing power with truth.
We are being sold the same story over and over again.
That someone strong will fix everything.
That someone loud will protect us.
That someone in power will make things “great” again.
And every time, we fall for it.
Meanwhile, the people actually doing the work?
You don’t know their names.
They’re not on stages.
They’re not building brands off outrage.
They’re not promising salvation.
They’re doing the quiet work.
Feeding people.
Showing up.
Organizing.
Healing.
Changing themselves while they try to change the world.
That’s the part we don’t like.
Because it’s not flashy.
It’s not immediate.
It doesn’t feel powerful.
And it doesn’t let us off the hook. Because if we’re being honest…
We don’t actually want to be saved.
We want to be comfortable.
We want someone else to fix things without requiring anything from us.
We want transformation without sacrifice.
We want justice without accountability.
And that’s not how this works. It never has been. The people in Jerusalem thought they were welcoming a king.
Someone powerful.
Someone who would overthrow systems.
Someone who would fight for them.
Instead, they got a teacher. A poor brown man riding in on a donkey. Telling them to love their enemies.
To feed the poor.
To stand with the marginalized.
To examine themselves.
And that wasn’t what they wanted.
So they turned on him.
That kind of reversal feels painfully familiar.
We see it all the time, putting people on pedestals, only to watch them crash when we realize they’re flawed, human, or just disappointing. These days we call it “cancel culture.”
But it’s not new. It’s ancient. And it says more about us than it does about the people we tear down. So in the crucifixion story, ask yourself, "Who would you be?"
Would you be Peter, who loved Jesus but denied knowing him when things got hard?
Would you be Pilate, who knew better but still washed his hands of it all?
Would you be Judas, who betrayed his friend with a kiss?
Would you be the crowd, easily swayed by power, pressure, and propaganda?
Or would you be Mary, who stayed, even when it cost her everything?
The truth is… we’ve been all of them.
At different points in our lives, we’ve betrayed, denied, abandoned, judged, or stayed silent when it mattered most. And we’ve also grieved, resisted, and held space for truth in the face of injustice.
We haven’t changed as much as we think we have. We still reject the message when it asks too much of us. We still crucify truth when it disrupts our comfort. We still follow crowds when it’s easier than thinking for ourselves.
And while we’re arguing over who belongs in bathrooms, who gets rights, who deserves dignity... Power is consolidating quietly. Systems are being reshaped. And we’re distracted. Just like we’ve always been.
Palm Sunday isn’t just about what they did. It’s about what we’re still doing.
If we want to fix this world;
If we want to dismantle broken systems; and
If we want to rebuild something better.
We don’t start out there. We start here. With ourselves.
Because we cannot destroy what’s broken in the world
if we refuse to confront what’s broken in us.
That’s the work.
Quiet.
Unseen.
Uncomfortable.
Real.
Maybe the problem was never that we didn’t recognize the savior.
Maybe the problem is we don’t want to become the people the message requires.
Lenten Reflection: Who Are You in the Story?
“Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord, the King of Israel!” — John 12:13 (NRSV)
Palm Sunday asks a hard question. Not who Jesus was. But who we are.
This week, sit with this:
🔹 Where am I looking for someone else to save me?
🔹 Where am I avoiding the work required of me?
🔹 When have I followed the crowd instead of standing in truth?
Faith isn’t about performance.
It’s about transformation.
And transformation starts within.
But blessed are we, too, when we refuse to follow the crowd, and choose instead to walk the way of compassion, resistance, and radical love.
🕊️ As above, so below.
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of each other.
“God always offers us a second chance in life.” — Paulo Coelho
A while back, I was on the phone with my friend Kimi, and she said something that made me laugh.
Kimi: Yeah, it’s funny. I either really liked your exes or I couldn’t stand them.
Me: That tracks.
Kimi: Remember that one we had lunch with at Santana Row? The one from the East Coast? I liked her.
Me: Melissa?
Kimi: Yeah, that’s her.
Me: She was a pathological liar.
Kimi: Oh. Well, I remember she was really nice.
Me: Sure. Nice. Still lied about everything, though.
Kimi: Yeah, too bad. I liked her.
Me: Yeah… she was really hot.
And sometimes that’s exactly how it goes. Someone seems perfect, at least on the surface, and you ignore the tiny red flags flapping in the wind like a pride parade for bad decisions. The heart wants what the heart wants, and sometimes it wants a disaster… disguised as a hot lesbian.
It’s been over six years since that season of my life when everything basically imploded. But I found an old journal entry from about two years after my breakup with R, and reading it now was a mind trip.
Because I could hear myself in it.
Still angry.
Still hurt.
Still trying to make sense of something that didn’t make sense.
It was the year after COVID. I was living alone, golfing a lot, trying to figure out what a new normal even was. I had just started working again after months of navel-gazing and climbing out of my own trough of despair. Everything about that time felt disorienting.
And I remember thinking I was doing better. I thought I was ready to date again. I met someone. I liked her. I thought maybe this was it. And then, after a month, she told me she wanted to go our separate ways because she needed to “work on her gains.” Whatever that meant. That's not what I wanted (and what I want typically doesn't matter).
What exactly was I supposed to do?
Argue?
Beg?
Try to convince her to stay?
No. Absolutely not.
That’s insane. And a little desperate.
I’m not going to force someone to want to be with me who doesn’t want to be with me. I won't stay where I'm not wanted. And I don’t care what K-dramas are trying to sell us. Persistence is not romantic when the other person has already said no.
Wearing someone down until they finally choose you is not love.
It’s pressure.
It’s manipulation.
It’s wrong.
And I’ve never wanted to be chosen like that.
Reading that journal entry now, I realized something. That was one of the first times I really stood in that boundary. Not perfectly. Not peacefully. But clearly.
You do not get to choose me because I convinced you.
You either want to be here or you don’t.
Back then, I was still tangled up in my past relationship. I missed her. Then I didn’t. Then I did again. I remembered the good parts. Then I remembered the chaos. The hurt.
And if I’m being honest, what I felt the most was anger.
A lot of it.
I wrote things like “I really hate her” and meant it at the time. And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t feel that way. I did.
Because anger is easier than grief.
It’s easier than admitting you abandoned yourself for another person. That you trusted someone. That you built something with them. That it meant more to you than it did to them. That some part of you still wanted the story to end differently.
But here’s what I see now that I couldn’t see then. I didn’t actually want her back.
I wanted the version of myself that existed when I thought I was loved.
I wanted the certainty.
The belonging.
The feeling of being chosen.
And when that was taken away, I tried to control whatever I could.
My narrative.
My emotions.
My anger.
I used to say, “I don’t care if they’re happy. I don’t even wish them well. I just don’t want to be miserable anymore.”
And honestly?
That part still stands.
But it means something different now. It’s not about comparison anymore. It’s about peace. And I don’t believe in closure the way people talk about it. Closure isn’t something someone gives you. It’s just another way we try to hold onto hope that the story could’ve ended differently.
It didn’t. And I don’t need to keep going back to try to rewrite it. It is what it is.
But I needed to understand myself, who I was at that time, and why I wanted so badly to make something work that was never going to. Not because I wasn’t trying. But because we never made sense to begin with.
And what I’ve learned, slowly, painfully, and more than once, is this...
You cannot force love.
You cannot negotiate it.
You cannot earn it by being better, calmer, easier, or more patient.
And you should not have to. If someone wants to be with you, they will be. If they don’t, no amount of effort on your part is going to change that.
And that’s not rejection.
That’s clarity.
I’ve ignored that little voice in my head more times than I’d like to admit. The one that says, “This probably isn’t a good idea.” And me, historically, have said, “Shhh… let’s just see what happens.”
And what happens is usually nonsense.
But maybe that’s what second chances actually are.
Not another chance with the same person.
Not a chance to rewrite the past.
Not a chance to prove you were lovable all along.
Maybe it’s a second chance to listen to yourself.
To trust your gut.
To choose differently next time.
To stop mistaking chemistry for safety, or hope for compatibility.
I didn’t know who I was becoming back then. I said things like, “I’m living my life by my own rules… whatever that means.”
And honestly, I still feel that way sometimes.
But now there’s a little more grounding in it.
A little more trust.
A little less urgency to figure everything out all at once.
I don’t hate them anymore. I don’t carry it the same way. But I also don’t need to rewrite the past to make it prettier than it was.
It was what it was.
It was ugly.
It was messy.
It had moments of beauty and real love.
I don’t discount the good parts. But I also don’t romanticize it into something it wasn’t. And it taught me something I needed to learn.
You can’t force love.
And you have to learn to love yourself first.
Lenten Reflection: Second Chances and Inner Knowing
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” — Proverbs 3:5–6 (NRSV)
Lent is a season of deep listening.
Not just to God.
Not just to the world around us.
But to that still, small voice inside us that keeps trying to tell the truth.
The one we override.
The one we bargain with.
The one we hope is wrong because we want what we want.
Today, sit with this:
🔹 Where have I ignored my inner voice in favor of fantasy, fear, or loneliness?
🔹 What old heartbreak am I still trying to negotiate with instead of accept?
🔹 What would it look like to trust myself enough to choose differently?
Maybe grace looks like a second chance.
Not to go back.
But to move forward wiser.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other. 🩷
