“About all you can do in life is be who you are. Some people will love you for you. Most will love you for what you can do for them, and some won't like you at all.” ― Rita Mae Brown
Maundy Thursday commemorates the Last Supper—Jesus’s final meal with his disciples before everything went sideways. Christians like to follow it up with something called Good Friday, which is the day he was crucified. I don’t know about you, but calling the day someone was tortured and killed “good” feels like a weird flex. Then again, I’m not a religious scholar—I’m just a queer Filipino kid who grew up Catholic and learned to question things early.
Let’s not forget: Jesus was a good Jewish boy. The Last Supper was probably a Passover meal. He gathered with his chosen family—his crew, his ride-or-dies. The folks he met on the road who followed him not because they had to, but because they chose to. That alone speaks volumes. Your table doesn’t have to be filled with blood relatives. Chosen family counts too—and sometimes, they love us more fiercely than the people we share DNA with.
There’s a moment in the Maundy Thursday story that gets overlooked a lot. Before dinner, Jesus washed the feet of his disciples.
Let me say that again: he knelt down and washed their dusty-ass feet.
Back in the day, that was a job for servants, not someone considered the Messiah. But Jesus flipped the script—he wanted to show that real love, real leadership, real community is about humility and service. He looked his friends in the eye and said, “What I’m doing for you? Do this for each other.”
“A new commandment I give to you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” – John 13:34
Not “tolerate.” Not “like only the people who vote like you.” Not “love, unless they piss you off.”
Nope. Just love one another. Period.
The world right now? It’s in chaos. Every day brings some new nonsense that feels like the foundations are crumbling. But Maundy Thursday reminds us that in the face of betrayal, fear, violence, and impending death, Jesus still chose love. He still chose service. He still broke bread.
If we want to live like that—not in performance, but in actual practice—then we have to show up for one another. Not just in moments of celebration, but in our grief, our uncertainty, and our brokenness.
Lenten Reflection: Washed Feet, Open Hearts
Tonight, whether you’re with your family, chosen or biological, or just quietly sitting with yourself—remember that love is active. It shows up. It serves. It kneels. It listens. It doesn't require perfection—just presence.
🔹 Who in your life needs to be reminded that they are loved?
🔹 In what small ways can you serve others, not from obligation, but from grace?
🔹 Where in your own life do you need healing—and who might help you find it?
Let this Maundy Thursday be about more than ritual. Let it be a reminder to love the hell out of each other. Because if this world needs anything right now, it’s that.
As above. So below.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
“Golf is assuredly a mystifying game. It would seem that if a person has hit a golf ball correctly a thousand times, he should be able to duplicate the performance at will. But such is certainly not the case.” — Bobby Jones
Golf is not cheap. Neither is living life. Shit’s complicated to navigate.
When I was in the Philippines, I went golfing with my nephew, Josh. The course was wild—in every sense of the word. Cow grass. Chickens. Goats. A random dog scurrying across the fairway like he had somewhere important to be. By the time we were sitting at the resort’s bar after the round, Josh looked at me and said, “Adulting is harder than I thought.”
I laughed. “Yeah, kid. Nobody prepares you for the back nine of life.”
I told Josh that I think life is a lot like golf. On the surface, it seems simple. Ball. Club. Hole. Try to get there in as few strokes as possible. Easy, right?
Wrong.
Just like life, it only looks easy to the untrained eye. It’s about learning the fundamentals—how to hold the club, how to shift your weight, how to breathe and swing—and then applying them over and over again with consistency and grace. You can’t fake your way through it. You have to show up. Practice. Stay grounded. Trust your body. Trust yourself. And when things go sideways? You regroup. You adjust. You play the ball where it lies.
It wasn’t until the 16th hole that day that it hit me: we need to be Zen about golf, and Zen about life. Breathe. Reset. Let go of that last bad shot—or bad decision—and swing again. Like all the Tarot readers say: It’s not that serious. Don’t overthink. Don’t obsess. And definitely don’t waste your energy worrying about what other people think of you. It’s not your business, and it never serves you.
Me? I just want to look back someday and say: “Yeah, I lived a really fucking amazing life. I loved a lot of brilliant, beautiful women. I had incredible, loyal friends. I made people laugh. I made a difference. I did the best I could with the cards I was dealt.”
That’s it. That’s the win.
But here’s the thing: life isn’t always Zen. Sometimes it’s a damn mess. People don’t always see what it took to get here. I didn’t arrive in this life by accident or ease. I worked my ass off. And I didn’t do it alone. Friends, chosen family, and the real ones held me down when everything else was trying to hold me back. They celebrated the wins and sat with me through the losses. That kind of love? That’s the kind that keeps you going.
There's this myth in America about rugged individualism—about how we’re all supposed to bootstrap our way to success. But when you look around, what do you see? Uniformity. Conformity. People clinging to their red caps, screaming about freedom while marching in lockstep behind fascism. They say they believe in “individual liberty,” but they also believe people like me don’t belong. That if you’re brown, queer, trans, or immigrant—you should just disappear.
The irony of that is almost funny. If it weren’t so terrifying.
Honestly? I’m tired. I’m tired of acting like things are normal when everything around us is on fire. I’m tired of pretending this country is still a functioning democracy when we all know it’s teetering. And what do we do? We just... keep going to work. Keep shopping. Keep smiling. Like nothing’s happening.
It’s not that I don’t want to keep showing up. I do. But I also don’t know how to show up anymore in a world that never accepted me to begin with—and is now actively trying to erase me.
And the scariest part? Most people who aren’t like me have no idea how dangerous this world is becoming for me.
Lenten Reflection: Playing Through the Rough
“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” – Psalm 73:26 (NRSV)
Lent is like the back nine of a hard course. The wind has picked up. The sun is setting. Your body’s tired. But you keep swinging.
🌿 Where am I trying too hard to play a perfect game, instead of trusting my instincts?
🌿 What lie have I believed—that I have to go it alone, that rest is weakness, that I’m too much or not enough?
🌿 Who are the people still walking the course with me when the fairways get narrow and the storms roll in?
This week, let’s remember: we don’t have to swing perfectly. We just have to keep showing up. Let’s choose courage over control. Let’s breathe, reset, and take the next shot—together.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
📖 More reflections: flanneldiaries.com
“When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.” —Maya Angelou
Let me keep it real with y’all: I’ve experienced some hard moments in relationships, but I’ve also been blessed to share incredible ones with some truly amazing women. That deserves to be said upfront.
That said… yeah, I’ve been kind of a jerk in my younger days. And when I’m unhappy in a relationship, I can be a lot. I know that about myself. But I try to show up as honestly and openly as I can. I’ve learned to be clear with my intentions from the start. If I say, “I’m not looking for a relationship,” I mean exactly that. It is not code for “please try to change my mind.” I’m not sending mixed signals. I’m just trying not to waste anybody’s time—including my own.
"Jerry Maguire" ruined an entire generation with that “You complete me” line. Healthy relationships aren’t about finding someone to fill your empty spaces. They’re about two whole-ass people choosing to build something together. If I ever go into something thinking, “Maybe she’ll change,” I already know I’ve messed up. That’s not love. That’s fantasy.
I’m not a fan of dishonesty. Deception erodes trust, and once that’s gone, what are you even doing? If I’m into someone, they’ll know. If I feel unwanted, I leave. That’s it. I don’t stick around where I’m not welcome. I’ve got my dignity, and I don’t play the desperation game. If someone doesn’t want me, I’m not chasing. I’ll catch the message the first time, thanks.
But if I’m in it with you, I’m all in. I’ll work hard to make it work. I’ll exhaust every reasonable option before walking away. What I don’t do anymore is go back to a relationship once it’s ended. Break up, make up, break up again? Nah. I’m too grown for that emotional roller coaster.
I don’t believe in settling just to not be alone. If I’m with someone, it’s because they add something real to my life. Kindness is non-negotiable. Give me someone who wants to make the world a better place, who values justice and community, who can see underneath my armor. Someone secure enough to challenge me and strong enough to grow with me. I don’t need to be fixed or taken care of. I just want someone to share space with—someone I want in my life, not someone I need in it to feel whole. That’s not love. That’s co-dependence. I’m good on my own. I’m hilarious, I’m interesting, and I play a lot of golf. I know how to enjoy my own company.
I don’t date to break hearts. I date because I genuinely enjoy women—their company, their energy, their wisdom, their joy. And I learn something new about myself in every connection. I’m always growing. I’ve made mistakes, but I try not to make the same one twice. And if I do? It means the first lesson didn’t stick. Like a fine wine (or a well-aged scotch), I truly believe I get better with time.
I’ve fallen in love a few times, and I think everyone should. Falling in love is part of the human experience. It's like a roller coaster ride. Sometimes it’s magic. Sometimes it makes you want to throw up. Sometimes it’s both in the same ride. But it’s worth it. Every single time.
Even if I’m not sure I’ll be a better partner as I get older, I do know what I want—and more importantly, what I can give.
I still have those moments where I think, Yeah, it would be nice to have someone to share all of this with. All the wins. All the weirdness. All the late-night snacks and early morning coffee. I want to cheer someone on. I want someone to see me—all of me—and still choose to stay. Maybe someday. Maybe never. Either way, I’m okay.
It is what it is.
But if it does happen? Let it be like Ruth said—“Where you go, I’ll go.” That’s the love I’m holding out for. Not perfect. But honest. Mutual. Rooted in choice.
Lenten Reflection: Choosing with Intention
“But Ruth said, ‘Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God.’” – Ruth 1:16 (NRSV)
Lent is a season of truth-telling. Of letting go of the illusions we cling to and being honest about what we really need—and what we’re really offering.
🌿 Am I showing up as a whole person in love—or just hoping someone else will complete me?
🌿 Am I letting my fear of being alone keep me in half-hearted connections?
🌿 Do I trust that love, when it’s real, is rooted in choice—not codependence?
This season, let’s clear the way for the kind of love that says, I choose you—not to fix me, but to walk beside me. Let’s become the kind of people we’d want to walk beside, too.
📖 More reflections: flanneldiaries.com