How uncomfortable do you have to become before you finally realize something needs to change?
Over five years ago, I was a complete and utter mess. Not in the casual, “life is hard” kind of way. I mean a fog of grief, sadness, hopelessness, and depression that sat heavy in my chest every single day. It wasn’t just one thing. It was five different tragedies colliding at the same time. One major loss is already enough to bring you to your knees, but when they come one after another, your ability to cope gets pushed to its limit.
I can say this now because it’s no longer my reality, but during that time, I didn’t know if I was going to make it through.
I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t want to be a burden to my friends or family. But a few people noticed. The tone of my voice. The lack of energy. The absence of… me.
If you really know me, you know that if I say “I’m not okay,” it’s probably already really bad.
What I understand now is that what I thought was a breakdown… was actually a breakthrough. It just didn’t feel like one at the time.
Jane Elliot, a well-known anti-racist educator, used to go into predominantly white communities (farming communities) and talk about race and privilege. People would tell her, “We grew up poor. We worked hard. We struggled.”
And she would acknowledge that their lives were hard, but then ask them to imagine living that same life while also being Black in America.
Some would say, “It would be the same.”
And then she would ask a simple question, "Who here would be willing to be treated the way Black people in America are treated?"
No one stands.
Because we all know.
We all know it’s not the same.
I needed to name that, because context matters. Because systems matter. Because the stories we tell about struggle don’t all carry the same weight.
Over the past decade, I’ve lost three close friends.
Two to suicide.
One to poverty and lack of access to healthcare.
We were all queer. All people of color. All navigating identity. All trying to find a place where we felt like we belonged. They were brilliant. Kind. Complex. Deeply human. And, powerful individuals who should still be here.
And they’re gone.
But I do know this, something in me decided to stay.
Back then, I had to face something I didn’t want to admit, I wasn’t okay. And if I didn’t do something, I wasn’t going to survive.
That kind of honesty is terrifying. Because once you say it out loud, you can’t pretend anymore. You have to change something. And change, real change, is uncomfortable.
It means letting go of the identities you built just to survive.
It means questioning the roles you’ve been playing.
It means sitting with yourself without distraction.
I had to learn how to be alone without abandoning myself.
I had to become someone I could rely on.
Not in a performative, “I’ve got it all together” kind of way.
But in a quiet, consistent way.
I went to therapy. I built routines. I cried... a lot, and I hate crying. I feel no real relief from it. I also had to allow myself the space to grieve everything I had been carrying for years.
And at night, when there was no one else there, I had to be the one to tell myself, "You’re going to be okay."
At first, I didn’t believe it.
But I kept saying it anyway.
Because somewhere deep down, I knew, I’ve made it through hard things before. I can make it through this.
The biggest shift wasn’t external.
It was internal.
I stopped measuring my worth by what I did for others.
I stopped trying to earn love through productivity.
I stopped letting other people’s perceptions define who I was.
And I started asking a different question, "What do I think about myself?"
Because that’s the relationship I had been neglecting the most.
Self-exploration is scary.
Healing is exhausting.
The truth is, there were moments I wanted to give up.
But I didn’t.
And I think that’s the difference.
Not that I was stronger.
Not that I had fewer reasons to give up.
But that I was willing to do the work. Even when it hurt. Even when it was hard. Even when I didn't want to do it.
Here’s what I know now, "You are not who other people think you are."
You are the only one who knows who you truly are.
And if you don’t like who you are, you have to ask yourself why.
Not to shame yourself.
But to understand yourself.
Because what you believe about yourself will shape the life you live.
And that means something.
It means I get another day to choose differently.
To live more honestly.
To love myself better than I did before.
The struggle is real, yet...
I am still here.
Lenten Reflection: Staying Alive, Becoming Real
“Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my help and my God.” — Psalm 42:11 (NRSV)
Lent is not just about sacrifice.
Sometimes, it’s about survival.
About telling yourself the truth.
About choosing to stay when leaving feels easier.
About learning how to live with yourself, and maybe even love yourself, again.
This week, sit with this:
🔹 Where am I pretending I’m okay when I’m not?
🔹 What do I need to change, even if it’s uncomfortable?
🔹 What would it look like to choose myself fully, honestly, without apology?
You don’t have to have it all figured out.
You just have to stay.
Let’s keep going.
Take care of yourselves.
And take care of each other.
*** If you or someone you know is having suicidal thoughts, please reach out to a safe person, a professional, and/or call or text 988, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. You can also chat via 988lifeline.org.
Suicide prevention resources: https://afsp.org/suicide-prevention
“Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'" — The Velveteen Rabbit
When I was a child, all I ever wanted to be was happy.
I think that’s because, even then, I knew I was different.
A little shy. A little weird. A little strange.
And, if I’m being honest, a little alone.
I grew up in a busy house. The youngest of four kids, actually five. I had an older brother who died long before I was born. It wasn’t something we talked about much, but it was always there. His picture sat on the mantel. Frozen in time at five years old.
You don’t really think about it when you’re a kid. What that kind of loss does to a mother. Her first born. Her first son. Her first grief.
But it shapes everything.
How you’re loved.
What’s said and what isn’t.
The quiet weight that lives in a house without anyone naming it.
I think about that a lot now.
About the life I get to have.
And how, for a long time, I kind of… floated through it.
Just trying to figure myself out. Going with the flow. Doing what needed to get done and moving on. I was easygoing. Low maintenance. Didn’t make waves. Didn’t complain. Didn’t make a scene.
People liked me for that.
If I was unhappy, I just left.
That was my version of control.
As much as I loved my mother, I never wanted to be like her in that way. Staying in something that wasn’t good if I didn’t have to.
And the truth is, I’ve always known I could leave.
No matter how bad things got, I’d find a way out.
But there’s a cost to that, too.
Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Always bracing for the rug to get pulled out from under you.
Always a little guarded, even when you try not to be.
It’s exhausting.
The thing about being queer is that you don’t have to follow the traditional paths. The career. The marriage. The mortgage. The life that’s already mapped out for you.
I tried. I really did.
And it worked… for a while.
Until it didn’t.
And then I started to wonder if maybe I’m not built for that kind of life. Not built to follow a straight, predictable path.
Maybe I’m supposed to be something else entirely.
The weird, fun gay aunt. The one who shows up differently.
And for a long time, that felt like enough. But lately, I keep coming back to this idea of becoming. And here’s the truth I don’t really want to say out loud... I have absolutely no idea who I’m becoming.
All I know is that I want a good life.
Sometimes I think I have it.
Sometimes I think I’m getting closer.
And sometimes I wonder if I’m just… tired.
Tired of taking chances.
Tired of getting hurt.
Tired of hurting myself.
Tired of being disappointed by people.
And if I’m being fair, tired of disappointing people, too.
It takes a lot of effort to be me.
And lately, I think I’m just tired of becoming.
The Skin Horse says becoming real takes time. That it happens bit by bit. That by the time you get there, you’re a little worn down. A little rough around the edges.
And maybe that’s where I am.
A little worn.
A little tired.
Still trying to figure it out.
But still here.
Because maybe being real isn’t about finally arriving at some perfect version of yourself.
Maybe it’s this.
Still showing up.
Still trying.
Still choosing to live a life that feels like your own, even when you don’t have it all figured out.
Maybe being real isn’t about becoming something new.
Maybe it’s about finally allowing yourself to just be.
Lenten Reflection: The Practice of Becoming
“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?”
— Psalm 13:1–2 (NRSV)
Day 27 are we there yet?
Lent is not just about reflection. It’s about formation.
And sometimes, formation doesn’t feel peaceful or clear.
Sometimes it feels like questioning.
Like wrestling.
Like wondering how long you have to sit in the in-between.
This week, sit with this:
🔹 Who am I becoming in this season of my life?
🔹 What parts of myself am I holding onto, and what parts am I losing?
🔹 Am I becoming someone I can live with?
Becoming isn’t about perfection.
It’s about awareness.
It’s about intention.
It’s about choosing, over and over again, not to lose yourself in the process.
Even when it’s slow.
Even when it’s uncomfortable.
Even when you don’t have clear answers yet.
Let’s keep going.
Take care of yourselves.
And take care of each other. 🧡
I’ve been missing my friend Kimi Serrano in California.
We talk on the phone as often as we can because she’s one of the few people who refuses to go back and forth on text. And honestly, I respect that. Some conversations deserve voice. Tone. Presence.
We’ve known each other for over 25 years.
That means she’s seen every version of me, from my mid-20s to now. She knows my flaws, my strengths, my stubbornness, and my growth.
And she’s still here.
That means something.
We’ve had adventures, laughs, highs, lows, and probably a few moments where we drove each other completely insane. She could tell you exactly how I’ve changed over the years. But more importantly, she could tell you how I haven’t.
She has been a witness to my life.
My successes.
My losses.
My terrible decisions.
Especially my terrible decisions.
There was a moment after my third (technically my 4th) girlfriend was still fvcking with me. Kimi looked at me and said, “What do you need me to do to make you see how terrible she is?”
And I said, “I don’t know… shake me?”
So she did.
And we laughed.
But the truth is, it worked.
Because sometimes you don’t realize your choices are hurting you until you see how they’re affecting the people who love you. The ones who are stuck watching you go in circles, wanting better for you than you’re choosing for yourself.
Kimi has always been that person for me.
She tells me the truth about myself. That I’m the dumbest smart person she knows. That it still surprises her how much I’ve dated, considering how avoidant I am when it comes to dating.
And she’s not wrong.
Sometimes you need someone who can mirror your ridiculousness. Keep you humble. And at the same time believe in you so deeply it feels like oxygen.
She’s been there through everything.
The deaths of friends.
The loss of our parents.
The end of relationships.
She was the first person I told when I was thinking about taking the LSAT and applying to law school.
She didn’t hesitate. “Good. I’m glad you’re finally doing something for yourself.” No doubt. No hesitation. No questioning whether I could do it.
That kind of belief?
It heals something in you.
For some reason, all of this made me think about an old Tom Hanks movie, "The Man with One Red Shoe." It’s an 80s comedy built on mistaken identity, bad assumptions, and pure chaos. A simple misunderstanding turns into something way bigger than it should have been.
Peak 80s camp.
The kind that reminds me of the simple, slightly unhinged adventures of our childhood.
Kimi and I grew up in the same era, just in different parts of California, her in San Diego, me in the Bay Area. We were those kids riding bike until the streetlights came on.
Drinking hose water.
Figuring things out in real time.
Trying not to get caught doing something we absolutely should not have been doing.
Because if our parents found out?
They would kill us.
Bring us back to life.
And then kill us again.
She was raised by an immigrant mother from Japan.
I was raised in an immigrant Filipino household.
We talk about trying to recreate the meals our moms cooked growing up. And how it never quite tastes the same.
Because it’s not just about getting the ingredients right. It’s the absence of our mothers in it. That’s what’s missing. And still, we keep cooking those dishes anyway. Trying to stay close to the memory. Trying to get just a little bit of it back.
I always laugh when Kimi tells the story about asking her mom for a recipe. It drove her crazy. Her mom would just say, “A little bit of this, a little bit of that… I don’t measure.” Yeah. You season until the ancestors tell you to stop.
I watched my mom cook the same way. No measuring cups. No spoons. Just instinct. Muscle memory passed down through generations. Recipes carried by ancestors. Adapted with whatever ingredients were available at the international market down the street.
We both had complicated relationships with our parents. But we came out of it with similar values, similar morals, and a shared understanding of loyalty.
The lesbro code is real.
I remember once, I was already in a relationship with someone, and we ran into a woman I had an… let’s call it complicated history with.
Later, Kimi asked me if it would be okay if she asked her out. Not because she needed permission. But because she cared about me. She wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything unresolved. That it wouldn’t create friction between us.
And that’s the difference.
It wasn’t about ownership.
It was about respect.
Honestly, if more people communicated like that, there would be way less messy queer drama.
And then there’s this whole other conversation happening in the world right now. You’ve got these red-pill podcast guys running around saying you need to be toxic, emotionally unavailable, and disconnected to be a “real man.”
Which is wild. Because masculinity, real masculinity, doesn’t have to be toxic to be powerful. Power doesn’t have to be loud.
Sometimes it’s quiet.
Respectful.
Grounded.
I’ve never wanted to be a man. I like the body I’m in. But I do express myself in ways that people read as masculine.
Probably because I grew up wearing my brother’s hand-me-downs. They just fit better. My sister was skinny as a child, I was not. And somewhere along the way, I kept what felt right and let go of what didn’t.
That’s all any of us are really doing. Curating ourselves. Keeping the parts that feel like truth. Letting go of the parts that don’t.
But we’re living in a time where instead of questioning systems, patriarchy, capitalism, all of it, we’re blaming individuals. Men blaming women for the “male loneliness epidemic” instead of looking at the systems that taught them not to feel, not to connect, not to be vulnerable.
Blaming people with less power instead of questioning the structure itself.
It’s exhausting.
And honestly?
It’s lazy.
But back to friendship. Because that’s the part that matters. What I have with Kimi is something I will never be able to replicate.
And I don’t want to.
Not every relationship is meant to be duplicated.
But what I do believe is this, there is nothing wrong with having high standards for the people you let into your life.
You don’t need people who envy you.
Or resent you.
Or try to make you smaller so they can feel bigger.
You need people who see you.
Who tell you the truth.
Who let you be exactly who you are, and still choose to stay.
What I love about Kimi is that she has always loved me without trying to control me.
She has believed in me.
Trusted me.
Let me live my life, even when it was messy.
And yeah… there have been some very cringey moments.
But she stayed anyway.
That kind of loyalty?
It’s rare.
Everyone deserves a friend like that. A friend who has your best interest at heart.
Kimi, thank you.
For all of it.
You’re the best.
Lenten Reflection: Two Are Better Than One (Sometimes)
“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.” — Ecclesiastes 4:9–10
Not everyone is meant to stay in your life forever.
But some people do.
And those are the ones who remind you who you are when you forget.
Who tell you the truth when you don’t want to hear it.
Who love you enough to stay, but not so blindly that they let you lose yourself.
Pay attention to those people.
Be that person for someone else.
Because in a world that constantly pulls us apart, real connections, honest, loyal, grounded connections are sacred. And worth holding onto.
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of each other.
