"Peace and friendship with all mankind is our wisest policy, and I wish we may be permitted to pursue it." – Thomas Jefferson
Waking up every morning and reading whatever new disaster is happening with our federal government is disheartening and exhausting. It’s like watching a bad sequel to a movie no one liked the first time. Every day feels like another blow to what we thought democracy stood for. Didn’t we learn anything from the pandemic? About care, about empathy, about the impact of individual actions on the collective?
Apparently not.
What we learned instead is how many people are comfortable pretending that others' suffering isn’t their problem. That compassion is optional. That misinformation is more palatable than complexity.
What we need—desperately—is good leadership.
I used to teach leadership development for students and adults. One of the first things I’d tell people was this: The best leaders are the ones who lead by example.
Who show up. Who tell the truth. Who surround themselves with people smarter than them and actually listen.
At the end of the day, yes—leadership can be lonely. But no decision should be made in a vacuum. If you're leading with integrity, your decision isn’t just yours. It’s informed by people who hold you accountable, challenge you, and remind you that leadership is never about ego—it’s about responsibility.
The best leaders I’ve had were women. Period.
They had my back when I was accused—unjustly—by men in power. They trusted me. They believed in my work. They defended my name when others tried to tarnish it. And when I was in the wrong? They held me accountable with grace, and gave me the opportunity to do better. That’s real leadership.
We throw around the word “transparency” a lot, especially in politics, nonprofits, and public institutions. But transparency doesn’t come from clever PR campaigns—it comes from character. If you have leaders with integrity, transparency is a byproduct. It doesn’t need to be manufactured.
I’ve worked enough campaigns to know that messaging is everything. In eight words or less, you have to convince people why to vote for you or your cause. And most people don’t trust politicians, because too many of them will say anything to get elected.
When I got involved in political organizing, I always tried to choose campaigns I could stand behind honestly. During the Vote No campaign for marriage equality, I wasn’t personally invested in marriage—but I believed deeply in people’s right to love and choose their own path. That was enough for me to knock on doors and have hard conversations with strangers.
I’ve lost three campaigns myself. It’s humbling. It shakes your confidence. But what it taught me is that the system is deeply broken—and the average person doesn’t vote based on policy. They vote based on fear, soundbites, and the illusion of what they’re being promised. And then they wonder why they never get a slice of the pie. Spoiler: some of us never even get crumbs.
We live in a country that, for better or worse, voted for this moment. And now we’re watching the consequences unfold. My hope is that people are starting to re-evaluate what they really value. Was it the promise of healthcare? Of equity? Of safety nets that actually catch people? Or was it just white supremacy and capitalism dressed up in populist language?
The jury’s still out. But my hope hasn’t disappeared yet.
Lenten Reflection: Leadership as Spiritual Practice
“When the righteous thrive, the people rejoice; when the wicked rule, the people groan.” – Proverbs 29:2 (NIV)
Lent is a time to reflect not only on our personal choices, but on the systems we uphold and participate in. We are invited to ask:
🔹 What kind of leaders are we choosing—and why?
🔹 Where are we complicit in injustice because it benefits us?
🔹 How can we model integrity, even when no one is watching?
We don’t need to be elected officials to lead. Leadership is how we show up in our relationships, how we use our platform—however small—and how we respond when injustice knocks at our neighbor’s door.
May we be the kind of people who don’t just hope for better leadership—but embody it.
Take care of yourselves. And take care of each other.
📖 Read more at: flanneldiaries.com
Updated: Apr 1, 2025
“Life is amazing. And then it’s awful. And then it’s amazing again. And in between the amazing and the awful it’s ordinary and mundane and routine. Breathe in the amazing, hold on through the awful, and exhale during the ordinary. That’s just living heartbreaking, soul-healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life. And it’s breathtakingly beautiful.” -- LR Knost
Isn't it wild how you can love someone so completely—build dreams with them, imagine a shared future—and then, just like that, they want nothing to do with you? One day you're planning vacations, homes, forever—and the next, they'd be perfectly fine with you falling off the face of the Earth.
That's some devastating, soul-crushing shit. And it leaves you wondering: Was it even real? Were their feelings genuine, or were you just convenient? Replaceable? Disposable?
People's feelings are complicated. They shift like clouds in the sky—some days bright, some days stormy, some gone without warning. After a breakup, I spiral into that raw space of self-doubt. I start questioning everything—my worth, my choices, my instincts.
Where does that leave me?
Trying to figure out what kind of love I deserve. I might be a running joke in my lesbian friend group. But behind that humor is someone still healing. This last breakup hit me differently. I’ve always had confidence. I know who I am. But this time, it felt like it cracked something in me—shook my foundation. Maybe it’s midlife. Maybe it’s menopause. Maybe it’s the grief of losing something you thought would be solid.
Whatever it is, it’s real. And it’s taken every ounce of emotional grit I have to get back to a place where I can say:
I am enough.
Losing yourself takes seconds. Finding yourself again? That takes time. And truthfully, the version of you that returns might not be the one you lost. Hopefully, they're wiser. Stronger. Softer in the right places. Hardened only where they need protection.
Time does heal. But not the way we want it to. Healing doesn’t erase the hurt. It teaches us how to carry it.
Back when I worked with youth, I used to do this activity to talk about bullying and emotional wounds. I’d give everyone a heart-shaped piece of paper—bright, smooth, and whole. Then I’d tell them to crumple it, stomp on it, even throw it on the ground—but not to tear it. Then I’d say: “Now say sorry to the heart. Try to make it look like it did before.”
And of course, they’d try. They’d smooth it out. Press it flat. But it never looked the same. The creases stayed. The damage was done. I’d say, “This is what words can do. Even if you say sorry, the imprint remains. The scars stay.”
That’s how I feel after a breakup. That’s how I feel right now. Crumpled, but not torn. Still whole—but different.
And the truth is, goodbyes suck.
There’s no poetic way to put it. They just do. Even when the relationship wasn’t working. Even when it wasn’t healthy. Even when you know it’s the right choice.
Some people aren’t right for you. And that’s okay. I’m finally starting to accept that. And even after everything—I still hope the best for my ex. That’s not me being some kind of saint. That’s me choosing peace. Choosing release. Choosing to believe that just because it didn’t work between us doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve love and joy somewhere else. Maybe that’s what healing looks like. Not erasing the pain. But learning to carry it. Learning to let go.
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” – Psalm 147:3
Lenten Reflection: What We Carry
🔹 Where am I still carrying grief disguised as guilt?
🔹 What emotional scars am I trying to smooth out?
🔹 Am I willing to grow—even when it means letting go?
Psalm 147:3 reminds us: He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. Even in our lowest, loneliest, most rejected moments—we are not alone. This Lent, may we allow grief to shape us, not shatter us. May we become people of deeper empathy, stronger boundaries, and softer hearts.
As above, so below.
Take care of yourselves and take care of each other.
📖 More reflections at flanneldiaries.com
“But now we must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found.” – Luke 15:32
The fourth Sunday of Lent reminds us that grace is not earned—it’s offered. In this well-known moment from the parable of the Prodigal Son, Jesus reminds his listeners (and us) that God’s mercy doesn’t play by our rules.
We tend to focus on who deserves what. We want fairness, balance sheets, checks and consequences. But in this story, the son who wasted everything is embraced—not because he proved himself worthy, but because he came home.
To those immersed in liberation theology, this parable is not about blind acceptance—it’s about revolutionary grace. It’s about the God who disrupts hierarchy, forgives radically, and throws a party for the outcast.
And in today’s social climate, where punishment is glorified and forgiveness is seen as weakness, this parable pushes us to rethink what justice looks like.
Justice doesn’t always look like retribution. Sometimes, justice is restoration.
When we talk about the criminal justice system, immigration policy, housing access, or community harm—we must ask: who have we exiled? Who have we written off as too far gone? Who is still waiting to be welcomed home?
It’s easy to identify with the older brother in the story. The one who stayed. The one who did the “right” things. But Lent invites us to soften our hearts—to understand that sometimes healing comes from the messy return, not the perfect record.
Liberation means no one is disposable. No one is beyond redemption.
We are invited to celebrate not because someone followed the rules, but because they found their way back to life.
Lenten Reflection: Grace That Defies Logic
🔹 Who have I written off as lost—without considering the possibility of return?
🔹 What parts of myself have I deemed unworthy of grace?
🔹 Can I make room for celebration instead of resentment when healing finally comes?
Luke 15:32 invites us to move beyond fairness into joy. To rejoice not in perfection, but in return. Not in punishment, but in peace.
May this week remind us that resurrection is always possible—and the most radical thing we can do is welcome each other back with open arms.
📖 Read more at flanneldiaries.com