“Check yourself. Sometimes you are the toxic person. Sometimes you are the mean, negative person you’re looking to push away. Sometimes the problem is you. And that doesn’t make you less worthy. Keep on growing. Keep on checking yourself. Keep on motivating yourself. Mistakes are opportunities. Look at them, own them, grow from them and move on. Do better, be better. You’re human. It’s okay.” — Unknown
I am a good person. There are, of course, groups or people who would say otherwise. But what does it even mean to be a good person?
It can mean different things depending on who you ask. But for me, it’s always been about moving through the world with integrity, even when no one is watching. And especially when people are.
The Universe has an interesting way of dealing out my karma, and sometimes that bus is coming 100 miles an hour straight at me.
When I was eight or nine, I tried stealing a candy bar. Not because I needed it, I just wanted to see if I could get away with it. Of course, I didn’t. I guess I wasn’t a very sneaky child. The grocer caught me before I made it out the door. My mom was right there. Embarrassed. She paid for it. And I didn’t even get to eat it.
When we got home… let’s just say Filipino discipline is swift, and she made sure that lesson stuck.
I never tried to shoplift again. Even when all my friends were doing it, because let’s be real, that’s what bored teenagers do.
For a long time, I thought being a “good person” meant doing everything right. Not messing up. Not hurting people. Not being the problem.
But life doesn’t work like that.
I am far from perfect. I’m riddled with flaws. I’ve hurt people. I’ve shut down. I’ve been reactive. I’ve been guarded. I’ve been the person I would struggle to deal with if I met me on the wrong day.
And that’s a hard thing to admit.
For the most part, I’ve been able to manage my mental health fairly well. But when it’s unmanaged, it complicates everything.
When I was a teenager, I didn’t know how to express what I was feeling. I didn’t have the language. Depression made everything feel dull. I didn’t know if I was just sad or if something was actually wrong.
I started therapy in my early 20s, for anger management. Back when it still felt taboo. Back when taking medication felt like admitting weakness. I thought I could just push through. Sleep better. Eat right. Exercise. Journal. Do all the “right” things.
And for a long time, I carried shame about that.
There were times I couldn’t push through.
When I was 21, I tried to hurt myself. I was unsuccessful, but the marks were hard to hide. My manager saw them. She knew exactly what I had tried to do. She pulled me aside and said, “If you need anything, or just someone to talk to, I’m here. And don’t ever fvcking do that again.”
I didn’t talk about it. Not with friends. Not with partners. I kept it quiet, thinking if I ignored it, it would go away.
It doesn’t work like that.
It was my father, honestly the last person you’d expect, who said, “Our health insurance covers therapy if you need it.”
I’ve lost two close friends to suicide.
That changes you. It shifts how you see everything, yourself, other people, what people are carrying that you can’t see. And as I’ve gotten older, I understand more why people get to that point. Living is exhausting, mentally, physically, spiritually. Especially with everything happening in the world right now.
Because of all that, it’s been important to me to talk about mental health openly. To not shame or blame people who are doing the best they can with what they have.
Because silence doesn’t protect us.
It isolates us.
One in four people live with a diagnosed mental health condition. That’s not rare. That’s not abnormal. That’s human.
And still, we act like we’re supposed to have it all together. All the time.
We don’t. Not even a little.
Most anger? It’s sadness in disguise.
For a long time, I didn’t cry. I snapped. I got short. Defensive. Irritated. I masked sadness with anger because sadness felt too vulnerable. Anger gives you something to do. You can lash out. You can push people away. Sadness… you have to sit in it.
And sitting in it feels useless. Unproductive. Ineffective.
But that’s the hard part, right? Sitting in the feeling, no matter how uncomfortable it gets. And eventually, it moves through you.
That’s the human experience.
Let’s not minimize how heavy depression or anxiety can be. And when you layer that with a lifetime of microaggressions, being questioned, corrected, misunderstood, it builds.
Quietly. Over time.
Death by a thousand cuts.
So yeah, I’m warm. I’m generous. I give a lot. Until I can’t. And when I can’t, I shut down. I pull back. I freeze people out. It’s not always graceful. It’s not always fair. But it’s real. And it’s how I used to cope.
And here’s the difference now. I know this about myself.
I work on it.
I go to therapy.
I take my meds.
I reflect.
I take accountability.
Not to prove anything to anyone.
But because I have to live with myself.
We can’t be strong all the time.
Sometimes stepping back isn’t avoidance, it’s survival. It’s regrouping so you can come back with clarity instead of causing more harm.
I’m learning I don’t have to win every argument. I don’t have to prove every point. I don’t have to stay in spaces romantic, platonic, or otherwise, that make me question my sanity.
It’s messy.
But it’s growth.
I’ve worked too hard to be healthy, whole, and self-aware to give that up. And at the same time, I have to hold space for this truth too.
Sometimes, I’m the problem.
And that doesn’t make me unworthy.
It makes me human.
Lenten Reflection: Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself
“Give careful thought to the paths for your feet and be steadfast in all your ways.” — Proverbs 4:26 (NRSV)
Lent isn’t just about giving things up.
It’s about being honest.
Sometimes we are the ones who need to change.
Sometimes we are the ones causing harm, intentionally or not.
And that truth isn’t meant to shame us.
It’s meant to wake us up.
Just for today, sit with this:
🔹 What patterns am I repeating that are hurting me or others?
🔹 Where am I avoiding accountability in the name of self-protection?
🔹 How can I hold myself accountable and offer myself grace?
Growth is messy.
Healing is ongoing.
But we keep showing up.
Because healing matters.
Because people matter.
Because we matter.
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of each other. 🧡
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. 🧡
