Updated: Jun 23, 2025
Today would have been my mom’s 91st birthday, and I’ve been thinking about her a lot today. About our relationship. About how differently my life might have turned out if she hadn’t loved me the way she did.
If my mom hadn’t been so quietly, fiercely supportive of me being gay, if she hadn’t just been cool about it, I don't know where I’d be. Her love wasn’t loud, but it was constant. Steady. The kind of love that changes everything.
My mom and I were 40 years apart. I think about her in her early 40s, uprooting her life to move to a brand-new country with four small kids and only what we could pack into our suitcases. She didn’t know much English. All she knew was that she was heading somewhere safer, somewhere with more promise for her children than the place we were leaving behind. She had survived a Japanese occupation, the loss of a child, martial law, a cheating husband, and the upheaval of moving her entire life to a whole ass new country. And she thrived while doing it.
My siblings and I were her dream, the reason for every risk and every sacrifice she ever made. We were able to get an education, to live out the American Dream my parents worked so hard for. We came here with nothing. I grew up in poverty. I became a naturalized citizen at 18. And through all of it, my mom gave me the love and support I needed to survive and thrive in a country that hasn’t always been kind to people like us. Strangers in a strange land.
But my parents made a life here anyway. They carved out space, they struggled with dignity, and they never thought of themselves as anything less than American. They earned their citizenship through years of hard work and determination, and they were proud of that.
Everything I am is because of my mother.
When I came out to my mom, I was twenty-one. I’d been gay for a while, but I still hadn’t come out to my parents. I don’t know what came over me that day, but it felt like the right moment. We were driving and I just said, “Mom, I’m gay.” She was quiet for a beat, then said, “As long as you're happy. Don’t tell your dad.” And that was it.
No dramatic conversations. No asking why. No guilt or confusion. No “we’re Catholic, you can’t be gay.” Just: you’re still my daughter, nothing changes. But your dad’s gonna be pissed (and yes, he eventually found out and reacted... as expected).
My mom, and even my dad, in his way, weren’t going to love me any less. What they feared wasn’t me being gay. It was the world. They knew the world could be cruel to someone like me. But I was their child. No matter what.
I wish more people could have that kind of experience. That kind of quiet, unwavering acceptance. The kind my mother offered me is why I’m fearless. Why I can live authentically. Why I strive to be good. Because my mother didn’t know how to love any other way.
When people ask me why I do what I do, it’s because of my parents. Because of my mother. Even though she’s no longer around, I am her legacy. I was her reason to keep pushing, keep struggling, keep surviving. I honor her memory, her heart, her soul, by being the best version of myself every single day. Because without her love, I honestly don’t know who I’d be.
My mom wasn’t a big woman, but to me she stood tall. Proud. She barely reached 4’11”. I remember her telling me back in 2009, “You’re big now, Vangie. You can carry me when I’m too old to walk.” I would carry my mother to the ends of the earth if it would bring her back. Even knowing my back would give out, I’d still do it. That’s how much I miss her.
Happy birthday, Mom.
I love you.
Mahal kita.
Let the Fumble Stay Fumbled
I’ve been fumbled before.
It's difficult to come to that realization; it wasn’t my job to recover the ball.
It was the beginning of law school, something I’d worked so hard to finally do. I was ready for the challenge, for the shift in my life. But I also believed I could balance both, a new path and a relationship. I was willing to hang on, even when things got hard. I told her that. I meant it.
But for her, it felt like too much. Like, there wouldn’t be enough of me left for her. She never said it outright, but I could feel the pullback. The hesitation. The growing distance. And when I stopped chasing and really thought about it, I realized I was the one still laced up, suited up, ready to give 110%.
Put me in the game, coach.
But what are we playing for if my teammate isn’t in it with me? If I can’t trust she’ll have my back, pick it up when I fumble, or trust me to do the same for her?
You can’t play with people’s hearts. Love isn’t a game. I know that better than most. I’ve had my heart broken enough times to know it’s not fun, not something I’d ever do just for sport. I’m not out here breaking hearts, for the thrill of it, I’m trying to make a real connection. I want the kind of love that catches you and holds you, even when things are messy, uncertain, or hard.
The kind of love where both of us show up.
I’m not asking someone to do all the work.
I’m just asking them to hang on with me. To meet me in the middle. To try.
Because when someone starts letting go, whether it’s emotional distance, silence where there used to be curiosity, or just… not showing up, it means something. And you feel it. In every delayed reply. In every gesture that doesn’t come.
Sometimes, sure, the fumble is recoverable. If both people reach for the ball.
But too often, it just hits the ground and stays there.
And it can’t always be me running down the field, stiff-arming and jumping defenders, carrying the entire weight of the team. I’ve done that. I know how that story ends.
Relationships, real ones, aren’t built on one person fighting to keep it alive while the other retreats. They’re built on two people choosing each other. Over and over. Even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient.
I’ve shown up. I’ve held on. But I know my limit now. And I’ve learned that once someone starts letting go, it’s not always my job to chase.
Sometimes the kindest, clearest act of self-love is letting the fumble stay fumbled.
And walking off the field with my head held high.
Because the right person?
She won’t drop it in the first place.
And if she does?
She’ll scramble to pick it up with me. Not alone. Not late. Not “maybe someday.” But together.
And I deserve nothing less.
If I decide to step back into the dating field,
I hope, whoever she is, she’ll show up in her own way, when she’s ready.
Sure, dating often starts casually.
But maybe, just maybe, it grows into something more.
Something real between two people who realize they’ve been looking for each other all along.
I’ve learned I can care. I can try.
Without losing myself in the process.
Because I know exactly what I bring to the table.
On the field, in life, and in love.
And I’m not afraid to hold out for someone who knows how to hold on, too.
The truth about Asal? She was battling a lot of internal demons. She lied, schemed, and hurt people, including me. I’m not here to make excuses. She hurt me when she pushed me away and ended our friendship. And she hurt me when she took her own life.
The other day, my friend Kimi and I were laughing about some of our chaotic adventures with Asal, and she said, “I bet Asal would be tickled pink knowing we’re still talking about her.” She absolutely would be.
This one story pretty much sums her up: it was the early 2000s. I was freshly free from my latest ex and trying to decompress on the couch. I’d just eaten a "funny" brownie when there was a knock at the door, Asal. She came in totally unhinged, ranting about how our exes were probably sleeping together now. I told her, “I don’t care. Let them. We’re broken up.”
She was pacing, manic energy on full display, killing my buzz. I remember saying, “Calm your tits, Asal. I’m trying to relax here, and you're harshing my chill. Stop obsessing over what they could possibly be doing. I don't really care or I'm trying not to anyways. They don’t deserve our energy.”
Somehow, through her conspiracy theory logic, she convinced me to go on a sapphic espionage mission to “confirm” her suspicions. Classic. She had no boundaries, was wildly persuasive, and loved a good fate-driven quest, flipping coins to make decisions like heads, which bar to hit, or tails, whether to even go out at all. We were in our twenties. Directionless and lacking purpose. We had lots of fun. We also had some truly painful moments.
Asal was my best friend for years. And it’s devastating to realize that I didn’t really know her. At all. I loved her like family, like a sibling. But eventually, I had to let go of who I thought she was and see the truth: she was drowning in unhealed trauma. And being around her, I was drowning in it too. I didn’t have the capacity to deal with her pain and mine at the same time. I was losing my dad. Already grieving. Already exhausted.
I will always love her. The her that I only knew. Now, that part of my life is done. I don't regret the friendship, but I do mourn what could’ve been. When she died, the consequences of her choices ended. So did her opportunity to be accountable. And I’ve had to keep forgiving myself for wishing she’d made different choices.
I don’t agree with what she did, but I understand why she did it.
Asal was brilliant. She was charismatic. And I wish she’d used her power for good. When she was mentally well, she was extraordinary. But when she wasn’t… she did some really shady, damaging things. She betrayed people’s trust. She hurt people emotionally and financially. And what hurts most is, she didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. She didn’t give me a choice. Everyone deserves redemption. She never gave herself that chance.
Generational trauma is a bitch. Healing is possible, but only if you're willing to seek and accept help. That’s it. That’s the whole sad secret.
If you're struggling, get help. Real help. Deep, consistent, compassionate therapy, especially the kind that can address generational or historical trauma. This world can be brutal to soft hearts, neurodivergent minds, misfits, and creatives. But we can still choose to heal.
I think I’m okay, mostly. Some days I’m just so very tired. But I’m still here. I’m still living. And maybe that’s part of the work now, staying alive and telling the truth for those who couldn’t. “Get busy living or get busy dying,” as Red said in Shawshank Redemption.
Asal once posted on my Facebook, months before we stopped speaking, “Would you still love me if I was a Republican?” Back then it was an easy yes. Now? We’d definitely need to talk about it. LOL. Miss you, friend. I hope you found peace. Cheers!
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of self-harm or suicide, please know that help is available. You are not alone. In the U.S., you can contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by calling or texting 988 or visiting 988lifeline.org for 24/7, free and confidential support.
Please reach out. Your life matters. ❤️