Updated: Apr 18
When I was 25, I was your classic angsty queer adult (and I use “adult” loosely). I was emotionally unavailable, moody as hell, and had no idea what I was doing with love. My friend John, who had known me since middle school, once told me he thought I was actually commitment-phobic. We were debriefing yet another breakup, and he just said it. Flat out. No judgment—just truth.
And the thing is? He was right.
I think it’s important that your ride-or-die friends can call you out on your shit. I sat with it for a while and started looking at my pattern. I didn’t know how to stay in a relationship, and part of that was who I was choosing to date—and part of it was who I was in the relationship. A bad combo on both ends.
In the Bay Area, it’s easy to date a lot. And if it doesn’t work out? Chances are you’ll never run into that person again. Breakups can feel like vanishing acts. I kept trying to treat dating like an adventure—boldly going into uncharted territory, learning something new about myself and others. But over time, I got tired. Really tired.
And here’s why.
My second girlfriend was still in love with her ex—and I didn’t know that until we had sex. The first time we slept together, she cried. Not because it was emotionally overwhelming in a good way. But because she was thinking about someone else. That kind of thing rewires you on a cellular level. It messed me up.
Of course, being the ever-empathetic lesbian that I am, I held her and comforted her. But on the inside? I was crumbling. She cried almost every time we slept together. Eventually, we stopped sleeping together altogether.
Naturally, I wrote a poem about it. Because of course I did. Processing through poetry? That’s very on brand. It's also been almost 30 years so I'm good with sharing my youthful angst:
Just For One Night by Vangie Castro
I feel a breeze
cooling the sweat on my brow.
The intensity builds
as I move harder, faster—
a rhythm growing strong,
methodic,
desperate.
I’m spinning,
slipping into another world,
exploring the fantasies
I’d dared to keep hidden.
Touching.
Needing.
Wanting.
Consumed by passion
that rolls and crashes over me—
Until it stops.
Something’s wrong.
She turns away and cries.
I reach for her tears,
but they aren’t mine.
They belong to another.
To a love she still yearns for.
And my body mourns,
knowing it won’t be satisfied tonight.
Still—
I wrap my arms around her.
Hold her close.
And hope, just for one night,
I can keep her safe
from the ghosts she can’t let go.
Just for one night.
It’s amazing how quickly I’ve always been able to rebound from disappointment. You’d think after all the heartbreak, I’d be more risk-averse. More guarded. But nope. Either I’m a secret optimist or a romantic masochist. Still not sure which is worse.
But I keep going. I keep dating. I keep trying. Because even in the chaos, there’s beauty. Even in the heartbreak, there’s humor. And yes—even in betrayal, there’s a story worth telling later over drinks with friends.
Or like Jesus said on this very day: "I thirst." (John 19:28)
Same, Jesus. Same.
Historical Context: Good Friday
Good Friday commemorates the crucifixion and death of Jesus Christ. It’s the culmination of Holy Week—the day when love incarnate was nailed to a cross. The paradox of calling it “good” lies in the belief that through Jesus’ death came the promise of resurrection, redemption, and grace.
This day calls us to sit in the tension. To reckon with betrayal, loss, sacrifice, and silence. It’s a day where even divinity seemed abandoned. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). If you’ve ever felt unseen, unloved, or unworthy, know that even Jesus felt that.
And yet—he still chose love.
He forgave. He stayed. He thirsted. And in his final breath, he said: “It is finished.” (John 19:30)
Lenten Reflection: Love in the Ashes
Good Friday isn’t about tying a neat bow around suffering. It’s about holding space for it. It’s about standing in the rubble of what didn’t work, what broke you, what wasn’t enough—and saying, “Even here, I will rise.”
🔹 What grief are you carrying that needs to be named?
🔹 Where in your life are you still mourning something that never got closure?
🔹 Are you willing to believe in the promise of resurrection—that something beautiful could still grow from the pain?
Lent has taught us that love isn’t neat. It’s messy and costly and brave. And it doesn’t always come wrapped in fairy tales. But it’s worth it. It’s worth everything.
Hold tight. Sunday is coming.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other. As above. So below.
“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