"We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are." – Anaïs Nin
When I started writing these Lenten reflections, I didn’t really know how it would shake out. I thought I’d try to be funny—bring some levity to my own human failings. I figured it could be a space to process, vent, maybe get a few chuckles. But over time, it became something else. A journal. A log. A running commentary on what’s going on in my heart and in the world around me. A record, maybe, for my own sake—but also a mirror for others who’ve been feeling the same way and haven’t found the words yet.
So here we are. Day 27. Most of the time I just tell you what’s been rattling around in my brain, not necessarily what I’ve been doing. It might look like verbal diarrhea (and, let’s be real, sometimes it is), but there’s intention behind it. There’s always intention.
A lot of what I write feels deeply personal, but it’s also political. It’s also spiritual. Because these days, they’re all braided together. My anxiety about what’s happening in this country. My grief about relationships that didn’t last. My confusion about what’s next. My fierce belief in justice. My complicated relationship with God.
Sometimes I look around and wonder—how did we get so far off track? Why are cruelty and indifference becoming so normalized? We’ve got politicians playing Hunger Games with our lives, cutting funding for education, housing, healthcare…while giving billionaires tax breaks for private jets. We’re tired. We’re trying to survive. And yet, somehow, we’re still expected to smile, post selfies, and pretend we’re not watching the slow unraveling of a nation.
And in the midst of all of that, I’m trying to remember who I am.
Most people in Rochester know me for my work. Social justice, community advocacy, politics. And that’s fine. That’s one part of me. But the public Vangie and the private Vangie? They’re not always the same person. There are so many parts of myself I’ve kept tucked away—on purpose.
Because I’ve also been hurt. Betrayed. Misunderstood. Projected onto. Used.
I used to think I was my work. That the only way I could feel worthy was through productivity. Through purpose. Through proving myself. But that’s not true. That was never true. And letting go of that identity—untangling my worth from what I do—has been messy. But it’s also been holy.
We are not just our jobs. Or our relationships. Or the roles we fill.
We are the accumulation of all the people we’ve been and all the people we’re still becoming.
I’m not just the little girl who had to stay strong when she wanted to cry.
I’m not just the baby gay learning how to walk through the world without apology.
I’m not just the woman who’s loved and lost and loved again.
I’m not just the organizer or the strategist or the speaker behind the mic.
I’m all of those things. And more. And so are you.
We live in a society that wants quick definitions. “What do you do?” “Who are you with?” “What’s your title?” As if that sums us up.
But identity is fluid. Healing is non-linear. Self-worth can’t be measured by titles or relationship status or what we checked off a to-do list today.
Psalm 139:1-3 says:
“You have searched me, Lord, and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
You perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
You are familiar with all my ways.”
God knows the whole of who we are. Not just the Instagram bio. Not just the performance. But the mess, the beauty, the complexity. The real us.
And if God sees us that clearly, maybe it’s time we try to see ourselves that clearly, too.
Lenten Reflection: The Practice of Self-Recognition
Lent isn’t just about sacrifice. It’s about revelation.
About peeling back the layers of who we pretend to be and sitting with who we really are.
This week, ask yourself:
🔹 What parts of me have I hidden because I didn’t think they were “worthy”?
🔹 What expectations—mine or others’—have I outgrown?
🔹 What would it look like to live more fully as my whole, imperfect, beautiful self?
Forgiveness isn’t a one-time act. It’s a daily decision.
Self-love isn’t a destination. It’s a journey.
Let’s keep going.
Take care of yourselves. And take care of each other.
📖 Read more reflections at: flanneldiaries.com (link in bio)
“Trickery and treachery are the practices of fools that have not the wits enough to be honest.”
– Benjamin Franklin
I had an Oprah “A-ha” moment the other day while listening to a podcast. The speaker said:
“When you give someone your cup of love and they dump it out, maybe it’s not about what’s wrong with them. Maybe it’s about why you gave it to them in the first place.”
That hit me hard. It wasn’t about blame, it was about accountability—my accountability. Why do I choose people who can’t hold what I’m offering? Why do I see red flags and still hand over my whole damn heart wrapped in tissue paper?
It reminded me of a conversation I had recently with a friend about unrealistic expectations in relationships. That maybe I broke my own heart, not because they were cruel, but because I kept hoping they’d become someone different—someone better. I wanted them to meet me where I was, and they just couldn’t.
We fall in love with potential. We get caught up in the fantasy version of a person. And when reality doesn’t match, we cling harder instead of letting go. We tell ourselves, “If I just love harder, more patiently, more unconditionally…” Like our love is some magical spell that’ll transform them.
It doesn’t work that way. People will always disappoint us—not because they’re bad, but because they’re human. Messy. Insecure. Afraid. And usually, so are we. So we set them up to fail. We hand them our needs and expect them to just know how to hold them.
Breakups wreck me. Even when they’re mutual. Even when I know it’s the right thing. Even when the relationship stopped serving me long before it ended. There’s still grief. There’s still the echo of what could’ve been.
When I asked my mom why she stayed with my dad after finding out about his affair and his other kids, she looked at me and said, “How was I supposed to support four kids? Aren’t you happy I stayed?”
I didn’t answer her, but in my head, I thought, No. I’m not.
I hated knowing she sacrificed her own happiness for us. That she stayed in something unfulfilling because she thought she had to. That kind of martyrdom weighs heavy, even if it was done out of love.
No one should feel trapped in love. Love, real love, should feel like freedom.
I’ve been reflecting a lot on who I give my love to. I don’t give it recklessly—but I give it fully. And when it’s not received with care, it’s not just painful—it’s exhausting.
My housemate and I recently had a conversation about the book Brave New World. When I first read it as a teenager, I thought it was beautiful. Heartbreaking. Perfect. I loved that the ending didn’t wrap things up neatly with a happy bow. It was the first time I realized not every story has to end in happily-ever-after to be worth telling.
As a teenager, I identified with John—the “Savage”—and his resistance to the comfort and control of the World State. It made me question conformity, happiness, and the cost of living in a world where everything is manufactured to numb pain. That concept of Soma—the drug they used to keep people docile and “happy”—was terrifying and fascinating.
When I re-read it in my 30s, it hit differently. I had lived more. I understood the longing for escape. I understood the allure of avoiding pain. But I also saw the cost. I saw how easy it is to settle into a life that looks good but feels hollow. How choosing discomfort, grief, and struggle is sometimes the most honest—and liberating—thing we can do.
That’s what John chooses in the end. Chaos over comfort. Pain over numbness. Authenticity over artificial joy. And yeah—it’s a tragic ending. But it’s real. And real is always better than fake happy.
I bring up the book because it reminds me how much perspective changes with time and experience. The way you love at 20 isn’t the same as the way you love at 50. Or at least, it shouldn’t be. The heartbreaks shape you. The choices shape you. You learn to listen more closely to your gut, even when your heart tries to drown it out.
I know who I am. I know what I bring to the table. I bring the whole damn table. If someone can’t hold my love with care, that’s on them—not me. And if they dump it out? I’ll be sad, sure. But I won’t be empty. Because I’m not pouring from a cup that needs filling. I’m pouring from a place of overflow.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: don’t settle. Don’t shrink. Don’t keep handing your love to people who don’t have the hands—or the heart—to hold it.
Love bravely. Even if it breaks you. Because one day, someone will see you, fully, and say: “Thank you. I’ve been looking for this kind of love.”
And even if they don’t, you’ll still be whole.
Lenten Reflection: Brave Love, Honest Endings
“Sorrow is better than laughter, because a sad face is good for the heart.” — Ecclesiastes 7
Lent isn’t just about sacrifice—it’s about truth. The kind that strips you bare. That asks: Are you loving bravely? Are you being honest with yourself?
🔹 What pain am I numbing with fantasy, comfort, or old habits?
🔹 Who do I keep choosing out of fear instead of love?
🔹 Where do I need to be more honest—with myself, or with someone else?
This season, may you choose truth—even when it hurts. May you love fiercely—even when it risks heartbreak.
And may you find peace—not in perfection, but in presence.
📖 Read more reflections: flanneldiaries.com
"Man craves winter in summer, and when winter comes, he likes it not,
For he is never content with any state [of things], neither with poverty nor with a life of plenty.
May man be killed! How ungrateful he is!
Whenever he obtains guidance, he spurns it."
— Rumi
Rumi might’ve said it centuries ago, but the man really understood human behavior. Just look around.
We live in a country where people are more concerned with billionaire tax cuts than with feeding kids, funding schools, or supporting the health and dignity of the most vulnerable. We’ve got folks out here defending billionaires like they’re going to magically get added to a will if they tweet hard enough. Meanwhile, the majority of Americans are two paychecks away from financial catastrophe, not a vacation home in Aspen.
We are not okay.
And yet, the headlines keep coming: Egg prices are still wild. The country is fractured. Corey Booker filibustered for over 25 hours. Val Kilmer, our beloved Iceman, passed. A certain billionaire tried to buy a State Supreme Court seat—and lost, but barely. Meanwhile, banks are raising fees, and our accounts are shrinking, but corporate profits keep climbing.
It’s a mess. A full-blown, exhausting mess.
We’ve been through enough to know this: economies will always matter more than human lives to the people in power. It’s been that way since the beginning. The only difference now is we have TikToks to capture it in real time.
But here’s the thing—we’re still writing the story. And I want to believe the ending is up to us.
I keep coming back to the Exodus story. When Moses led the people out of Egypt, they weren’t taken directly into freedom. They didn’t get a welcome parade into the Promised Land. God made them wander in the desert for forty years. Why? Because they still had the chains of Egypt wrapped around their minds.
They knew oppression. They knew control. They knew what it meant to survive under Pharaoh’s thumb. Freedom? That was terrifying. It was unfamiliar. Risky.
So they wandered.
A whole generation lived and died in that desert. Not because they were lost—but because they weren’t ready. Because even though they were no longer enslaved, they hadn’t yet learned how to be free.
And I can’t help but feel like we’re living in a kind of wilderness right now. A national, spiritual, political, economic wilderness. We say we want change, but we’re scared to let go of the broken systems that made us feel safe. We want justice, but only if it doesn’t disrupt our comfort.
We long for the “normal” of before—but what if that “normal” was Egypt?
The truth is, we can't go back. And we shouldn't. Because if we do, we’re just wrapping the chains tighter and calling it nostalgia.
I see people resisting. I see folks pushing back against fascism, fighting for trans lives, for reproductive justice, for Black and Brown liberation. They’re not trying to bring back the past—they’re building something new. Something better.
I want to believe in that future. I want to walk toward that Promised Land, even if it means wandering a while. Even if the path is hard. Even if I don’t get to see it fully realized in my lifetime.
Because maybe the work we do now—the struggle, the questions, the resistance—is for the next generation. So they won’t carry our fear. So they won’t inherit our silence. So they’ll get to enter the Promised Land unbound.
Lenten Reflection: Wilderness is a Place of Becoming
📖 "The Lord said, 'I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out... and I am concerned about their suffering. So I have come down to rescue them... and to bring them up out of that land into a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey.'"
— Exodus 3:7–8
Lent is not about quick fixes or easy answers. It’s a time of stripping away, of confronting the wilderness within and around us.
🔹 Where am I still clinging to Egypt—what feels familiar, even if it’s harmful?
🔹 What comforts have I confused with safety?
🔹 How can I begin to live like someone who believes the Promised Land is still possible?
This Lenten season, may we wander with intention. May we loosen our grip on what was, and trust the journey toward what could be.
Take care of yourselves. And take care of each other.
📖 Read more reflections at flanneldiaries.com