“The best way to look back at life fondly is to meet it, and those along your journey, warmly, kindly and mindfully.” — Rasheed Ogunlaru
Living mindfully isn’t easy. But what does it really mean?
The simplest way I’ve found to explain it is through something ordinary. Washing a dish. When you’re washing a dish mindfully, you’re focused only on that act, the feel of the soap, the water, the texture of the dish in your hands. You’re fully in the moment. Nothing else exists.
It sounds simple, but it’s not how most of us live.
Researchers have shown that multitasking actually reduces productivity. Our brains can only fully focus on one complex task at a time. Think about trying to write an email while on a call. You’re either focused on what you’re typing or what the other person is saying, not both. And that’s when mistakes happen.
We know this. And yet we keep doing it.
I’ve always had a strong ability to focus. At work, I used to ask for a few minutes to finish what I was doing before shifting my attention. I’ve learned that our time and our presence are some of the most valuable things we can offer.
Law school has taken that and turned it into something else entirely.
Most of my time now is spent reading, briefing cases, memorizing rules, and working through complex hypotheticals. It requires a different kind of attention, not just focus, but precision. You’re not just reading for understanding. You’re reading to analyze. To separate facts from emotion. To identify what is legally relevant and what is not.
And that’s where things start to shift.
Because law school doesn’t just teach you how to think.
It teaches you how to think like a lawyer.
Which means learning, very quickly, that what is morally wrong is not always illegal. And what is illegal is not always morally wrong.
That tension sits with you.
You read cases where harm is obvious, but the law offers no remedy. Or where the law is applied in a way that feels technically correct but ethically unsettling.
And then you step outside the classroom and realize those same dynamics are playing out in real time.
Like legislation being passed that restricts where trans people can exist safely. Framed as something as simple as “bathroom policy.” But if you sit with it, even for a moment, you know it’s not really about bathrooms.
It’s about control.
It’s about defining who belongs and who doesn’t.
It’s about using the law to enforce boundaries that go far beyond the surface-level explanation.
It's about using the law to enforce morality.
And law school trains you to analyze that. To break it down. To understand the argument being made.
My Legal Writing professor once said that she took cases she knew she could win. Because at the end of the day, that’s what we’re being trained to do, build arguments and win.
And I get it. That’s the system. That’s the job.
But something about that hasn't been sitting well with me.
Because if the goal is always to win, then what happens to truth? What happens to justice? What happens when the system itself is built in a way that doesn’t treat people equitably?
It made me think about something I’ve noticed, not just in law, but in life.
There are rules. And then there are people who benefit from those rules. And sometimes, those same people are the ones who get to bend them, reinterpret them, or change them entirely.
So you start to wonder… what game are we actually playing?
And who decided the rules? Old white guys, that's who.
Because if the rules are constantly shifting to maintain power, then maybe the goal isn’t just to get better at playing the game.
Maybe the deeper question is whether we should be playing the game at all.
Maybe we don’t win by becoming the best at a system that was never built for everyone.
Maybe we win by refusing to lose ourselves inside it.
By choosing integrity when it would be easier not to.
By choosing people over power.
By remembering that behind every case, every policy, every argument… there are real lives being impacted.
Because in the end, the only thing that truly matters is how we treat each other.
Lenten Reflection
“To be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.” — Romans 12:2 (NRSV)
That’s where mindfulness comes back in.
Because it’s easy to get pulled into the mechanics of it all. The rules. The arguments. The frameworks. To start seeing everything as an issue to be spotted and analyzed.
But at some point, you have to pause and ask:
What do I believe is right?
What kind of lawyer am I becoming?
And what am I going to do with this way of thinking once I have it?
Lent is a season that invites us to sit in that tension.
Not to rush past it. Not to numb it. Not to over-intellectualize it.
But to stay present.
To pay attention not just to what we are learning, but to how it is shaping us.
Because rewiring your brain is one thing.
Holding onto your humanity while you do it?
That’s the struggle and that's the work.
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of each other. 💛
Happy Day After St. Patrick’s Day!!☘️
If you were out celebrating with green beer and corned beef, hopefully you enjoyed it. It was also Taco Tuesday, and instead of going to a crowded bar for corned beef, I decided to do something a little different, something more on brand for me. I went and had tacos and a margarita, which is also why this is a bit late… I fell asleep. 😂
Which, somehow, leads me right back to golf.
The snowstorm really put a damper on my hopes for an early season. The weekend looks promising for melting snow, but not so much for courses opening.
I have a bucket list. It changes as I get older. I add things once I’ve checked others off. One of those things was learning how to play golf. I figured it would be a good sport to pick up when I turned 40. Because when you’re in your 30s, you think 40 is old, and old people play golf.
I thought it would be a great activity for my later years, when I retire… which will probably be never.
When I turned 41, I finally decided it was time. Learn how to golf, Vangie.
Because that’s how I do most things in life. Thoughtful delay, followed by full commitment.
I didn’t grow up playing golf. My athletic background was tennis, basketball, track, and a brief but meaningful era of intramural softball in my 20s. I’ve always been someone who can pick up a sport and figure it out.
Golf humbled that assumption almost immediately.
Hitting a tiny ball with a stick sounds simple until you’re standing over it, overthinking everything, and then watching it fly directly into the woods, the water, or a sand trap. That’s where most of my balls ended up when I first started playing.
And honestly, at the start of every season? Still happens.
But because of that, I got really good at getting out of trouble.
In the sand. Under a tree. Behind a bush. I think I even hit a ball out of a pond once. Because you play the ball where it lies.
When I decided to learn, I bought a cheap set of clubs because I wasn’t even sure I’d like it. My friend Amy Monson took me out to Lewiston Golf & Country Club (now Heartland Country Club), a small nine-hole course surrounded by cornfields.
There’s something about that place that feels grounded. Unpretentious. A good place to be bad at something new.
A lot of people assume golf is only for wealthy folks. And it is… and it isn’t. It’s not cheap, but it’s also not as expensive as people think. Private country clubs with $3,000 memberships? Sure. But I think I paid maybe $30 for nine holes and a cart at Lewiston, including a chicken sandwich for lunch.
Public and municipal courses make it more accessible. Like anything, there are rules and etiquette. Some places require proper shoes and a collared shirt. Others are more relaxed. You just have to check.
A lot of that comes from tradition. Golf has always been considered a “gentleman’s sport.” It started in 15th-century Scotland, with people hitting pebbles over sand dunes. It was even banned for a while because it distracted from archery before gaining royal approval. Eventually, it became the 18-hole game we know today.
Back to Amy teaching me how to golf.
She showed me the basics, and I mean really basic, and then, without much ceremony, we just… played. Because she said the easiest way to learn is to play.
I wasn’t good. Not even a little bit. I was terrible. I could barely hit the ball 50 yards. I think I was taking 10 or 11 strokes per hole.
I was definitely getting my money’s worth.
But I was hooked.
Golf works with how my brain works. I like seeing improvement based on practice and effort. It’s a game of physics. You hit the ground before you hit the ball, which I still find both fascinating and slightly confusing.
It’s also a game of feedback. The smallest adjustment can send your ball 100 yards to the right with a beautiful banana slice.
After about ten years of playing, I’m what most people would call a bogey golfer, which is actually pretty solid.
There’s something peaceful about being on a golf course. The focus. The quiet. The sound of my club hitting bushes and branches while I search for my ball.
One of the pros at the golf store once told me, “Every shot is a new shot.”
You have to forget the last one, even if you shanked it straight into a tree.
My body knows what it needs to do to hit a good shot, straight, 180 yards off the tee. But if I have too many swing thoughts, if I’m having a bad day, or if my mind is somewhere else, it shows up in my game.
Over time, golf became more than just a hobby. It became one of the few places where my mind actually slows down.
When everything in my life feels loud, law school, relationships, the constant internal analysis I can’t seem to turn off, golf gives me somewhere to put all of that energy.
It asks for one thing: focus on this shot.
Not the last one. Not the next five. Just this one.
And that’s rare.
Because most of my life isn’t lived one shot at a time. I tend to think a few steps ahead, considering choices, understanding consequences, figuring out what actually matters. And if it doesn’t, I don’t hold onto it.
Golf doesn’t care about any of that.
It doesn’t care who you are, what you do for a living, or how many followers you have on TikTok. It’s just you and the course.
And there’s something really honest about that.
Over the years, I’ve upgraded my clubs a few times. The first time was after a breakup, a gift to myself, because why not?
I even convinced my friend Brandy to love golf. She’s one of the few people willing to golf with me when the ponds are still frozen.
Brandy: “Why are we doing this?”
Me: “Because we love golf. And we’re Minnesotan.”
I love to golf with friends, but I’ve realized I also love golfing alone. It’s one of the few times my mind is completely quiet. I’m not thinking about work or stress. I’m just thinking about that little ball and trying to keep it out of the big pond.
But golf has also given me something I didn’t expect... community.
When I decided to join league, I wasn’t sure what it would be like. I just knew I wanted to play more consistently. What I didn’t realize was how many incredible women I would meet because of it.
Golf has this way of bringing people together. You spend a few hours walking or riding alongside someone, talking between shots, laughing at the bad ones, celebrating the good ones. There’s time. There’s space. You actually get to know people.
Some of the friendships I’ve built through golf have been real, solid, and unexpected. The kind where you show up for each other on and off the course.
And I think that’s part of why I keep coming back to it.
It’s not just the game.
It’s the people I get to share it with.
Golf is a lot like life.
One moment, you hit an absolutely terrible shot. The next, you hit something surprisingly beautiful.
It takes persistence. Patience. Practice.
Three things that make us better at anything.
I’m good at a lot of things because I love to learn, and I’m tenacious. I’m never going to go pro, but every season, I get a little better.
Golf even helped rehabilitate my back after my 2017 injury. I told my physical therapist if anything I want to still be able to golf. She said, "we can make that happen." My back isn't perfect, but it feels better than it did 7 years ago. And if you’ve ever herniated a disc (try 3), you know… it’s awful. Zero stars don't recommend.
Lenten Reflection: Keep Going, One Shot at a Time
Lent is a season that reminds us growth is rarely clean.
Romans 5:3-4 tells us: "Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope."
But perseverance isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it looks like quiet consistency. Like choosing to show up again, even when you’re tired. Even when you’re unsure. Even when the last attempt didn’t go the way you wanted.
Where in your life are you trying to play the entire course at once instead of focusing on the next shot?
Where are you being asked to slow down, to trust the process, to stay with something long enough to see what it can become?
This season isn’t about getting everything right.
It’s about staying in it.
Taking the next step.
Making the next swing.
Trusting that even imperfect progress is still progress.
The fairway might be long. The course unpredictable.
But you don’t get there all at once.
You get there one shot at a time.
☘️ Happy St. Patrick’s Day!! May your shots be a little straighter, your patience a little deeper, and your faith steady enough to keep going.
“We fear that evaluating our needs and then carefully choosing partners will reveal that there is no one for us to love. Most of us prefer to have a partner who is lacking than no partner at all. What becomes apparent is that we may be more interested in finding a partner than in knowing love.” — bell hooks
In my early twenties, I remember reading "The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven," by Sherman Alexie and feeling something shift in me. A deep, quiet ache settled in my chest. The kind that recognizes truth before your mind can explain it.
He was naming something I had felt but didn’t yet have language for.
In one story, Victor, a Native man, walks into a 7-Eleven to buy a creamsicle. The cashier watches him closely, just in case he needs to describe him to the police. Victor feels it. That silent, heavy suspicion. That othering.
The story flashes back to when he was living in Seattle with his white girlfriend. After a fight, he steps outside and is stopped by the police. They tell him he doesn’t “fit the profile” of the neighborhood. In his mind, he thinks, I don’t fit the profile of the entire country, but he swallows it. He knows better. He knows saying that truth out loud could get him unalived.
And if you really sit with that, it tells you everything.
Especially when Native people were here long before any of us.
What I didn’t understand then, but do now, is that this feeling doesn’t just live in public spaces. Sometimes, it shows up inside our relationships.
I’ve dated women from different backgrounds, but my longest relationships were with white women. And over time, through breakups and a lot of therapy, I had to face something I didn’t want to admit.
Cultural difference isn’t just about food or holidays or music.
It’s about identity.
It’s about how you move through the world.
And how the world responds to you.
There were moments in those relationships that didn’t make sense on the surface. Small misunderstandings would spiral. Little things would turn into big fights, and I couldn’t always explain why something “small” felt so big inside me. But it wasn’t small.
I had already given up so much of my Filipino identity just to survive in this country. And there I was, doing it again, just to stay in love. The truth is, I was already fluent in shrinking. I learned early how to assimilate. People are often surprised when they find out I wasn’t born in the United States. I don’t have an accent. That wasn’t accidental. That was learned. I learned to sound “American.”
And over time, I lost fluency in my first language, Visayan. My mother spoke it until the end of her life. In her final years, she returned to it fully, and I couldn’t keep up. I had to rely on my nephew to translate. And even then, I wasn’t always sure I could trust what was being said.
That kind of loss is hard to name.
Losing a language is more than losing words. It’s losing access. To memory. To intimacy. To your ancestors. It’s losing a part of yourself you can’t easily get back.
And still, I kept trying to make relationships work.
I translated. I softened. I explained. I thought that was love. Bridging the gap. Meeting in the middle. Making myself easier to understand.
But that “middle” was rarely mutual.
More often than not, it was me moving closer to them.
I am a brown person living in a white world who will never be white. And for a long time, I navigated that world by becoming fluent in assimilation.
One therapist told me that when you suppress your emotions, they don’t disappear. They come out sideways.
That’s exactly what was happening.
I didn’t have language for what I was feeling, so it showed up as frustration. As distance. As running. I would hit balls at the batting cages, play sports, run until my body gave out, anything to physically exhaust something that was emotional.
Because for a long time, feelings felt dangerous.
Feelings get you labeled. Too much. Too loud. Too emotional.
And when you are BIPOC in this country, those labels don’t just come with judgment.
Sometimes, they come with consequences.
So I learned to manage my emotions.
Until I couldn’t.
Writing became the place where I finally started telling the truth. Because if you don’t tell your story, someone else will. And more often than not, they will not tell it kindly.
Naming what hurts is where healing begins. That essay gave me a mirror. And what I saw reflected back was this... I had been trading pieces of myself in the name of love. Over and over again.
And here is the truth that took me a long time to say out loud, Loving your colonizer will always lead to heartbreak.
When power dynamics are built into the relationship, love alone cannot undo them. No matter how much care you offer, something will leak through the cracks. Not always all at once. Not always in ways you can easily point to.
But slowly. Quietly.
In the compromises you make.
In the things you don’t say.
In the parts of yourself you soften so the relationship feels easier to hold.
Until one day, you look up and realize you have been disappearing inside something that was supposed to be love.
That doesn’t mean those relationships weren’t real.
It means racism is.
Being a white person who loves a Black or brown person does not automatically make someone anti-racist. Not if they are unwilling to do the work. Not if they are unwilling to confront power, unlearn dominance, and actively participate in decolonizing both heart and mind.
Liberation is not passive.
But there is also this, when we begin to liberate ourselves, we give others permission to do the same.
So can we find love in a hopeless place, like Rihanna asks?
Maybe.
But only if we bring our full selves to the table.
Unapologetically.
Without translation.
Without shrinking.
Only if we learn how to hold onto our identity while we hold someone else’s heart.
And maybe that’s where it begins.
Not with finding the right person.
But with refusing to leave yourself behind in the process.
Because love that lasts requires truth.
The kind that lets you show up fully.
The kind that does not ask you to become smaller to be held.
And maybe, just maybe, that is what makes love possible at all.
Lenten Reflection: Standing in Truth
“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.” – John 8:32 (NRSV)
Lent is a season that asks us to tell the truth.
Not the polished version. Not the version that makes other people comfortable. The real one.
The truth about where we’ve been quiet.
The truth about where we’ve made ourselves smaller.
The truth about what we’ve carried just to be loved.
And the hard part is, truth-telling isn’t just about what has been done to us. It’s also about what we’ve done to ourselves to survive.
Where have I quieted my voice to be accepted?
Where have I traded parts of myself in the name of love?
What truth about myself or my story am I still avoiding?
Lent is not about shame. It’s about liberation.
Because the truth doesn’t just expose what hurts.
It also shows us what’s still ours to reclaim.
This season invites us to gather the pieces we’ve buried. To name them. To hold them. To bring them back into the light, even if our hands shake when we do it.
Healing doesn’t begin when we become perfect.
It begins when we become honest.
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of each other.
***
Disclaimer:
Sherman Alexie has been accused of sexual misconduct, and those allegations are real. He has publicly acknowledged harm and offered apologies. That matters. And at the same time, it does not excuse or erase the impact of that harm.
I’m not lifting him up as a person. I’m engaging with a piece of writing that impacted me at a specific point in my life.
Two things can be true at once: harm can exist, and so can meaning. Naming one does not cancel out the other.
