Forgiveness is a strange thing.
We like to think forgiveness means pretending something didn’t happen. Like if we say the words out loud, the past somehow disappears.
But that’s not really what forgiveness is.
Forgiveness doesn’t erase what happened.
Forgiveness is about letting go of what we’re still carrying.
Not for them.
For us.
It’s about reclaiming space in our hearts, in our bodies, and in our spirits. It’s about making peace with our own choices, even the ones that hurt.
It’s about releasing the quiet guilt of letting someone close enough to wound us in the first place.
Because vulnerability requires trust.
You don’t hand your heart to just anyone. You only bare your soul to someone who has shown they can hold it with care.
But sometimes people wear masks.
They come cloaked in promises of love, only to reveal later that their love was conditional.
“If only you weren’t so…”
“If only you could just…”
That’s not love.
That’s manipulation.
That’s control.
Sometimes we confuse love with trauma bonds because the pain feels familiar. But just because something is familiar doesn’t mean it’s safe. A lot of us enter relationships hoping someone else will fix the broken parts of ourselves.
We want to be seen.
We want to be chosen.
We want to be healed.
But healing doesn’t happen when we hand ourselves over to people who only want the version of us they can reshape.
We are not projects.
We are people.
And this society doesn’t exactly make emotional honesty easy.
It shames vulnerability.
It punishes difference.
It demands perfection while quietly thriving on our insecurity.
But I’ve been doing the work.
I’ve sat with my pain.
I’ve named my patterns.
I’ve stopped romanticizing emotional abuse.
I don’t want to be loved for my potential.
I want to be loved for who I am today.
Mature love, real love, requires compromise, not coercion.
Honesty, not gaslighting.
Empathy, not expectation.
We all carry scars.
But scars are not proof that we are broken.
They are proof that we have healed before.
Healing isn’t linear. It’s messy. It’s layered. It’s like new skin slowly forming under old emotional wounds.
And sometimes we keep picking at those wounds because they’re familiar. Because even pain can feel like home when it’s what we’ve always known. But I don’t want pain to feel like home anymore.
My dad has been gone for more than sixteen years.
I’ve carried more than enough hurt for one lifetime.
It’s time to let some of that go.
Lenten Reflection: The Work of Forgiveness
The letter of Epistle to the Ephesians reminds us:
“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:32)
That sounds simple when you read it on a page.
Be kind.
Be compassionate.
Forgive.
But forgiveness is rarely simple in real life.
Sometimes forgiveness is not about restoring a relationship.
Sometimes it’s about releasing the hold that pain still has on you.
Kindness and compassion don’t mean pretending someone didn’t hurt you. They don’t mean excusing manipulation, betrayal, or emotional harm.
They mean choosing not to let that hurt define the rest of your story.
Forgiveness is not forgetting.
It’s deciding that the past no longer gets to control the future.
And sometimes the person who most needs compassion in that process is yourself.
Lent invites us to take an honest look at the things we are still carrying.
Old resentment.
Old shame.
Old versions of ourselves we are still trying to outgrow.
Forgiveness doesn’t magically erase those things.
But it can loosen their grip.
And sometimes that small act of release is the first step toward healing.
Take care of yourselves.
And take care of each other. 💛
"Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless." — Mother Teresa
My friends love giving me dating advice because, let’s be honest, I’m not great at it. You’d think after as much dating as I’ve done, I’d be better at it.
One time, I told a friend how terrible I am at giving compliments. I tend to assume that if I’m dating someone, they already know I find them beautiful, hot, sexy, whatever. I mean… I wouldn’t be with them if I thought they were hideous, right?
Apparently, that logic does not translate well in romantic situations.
Looks aren’t everything, though. Real attraction comes from the inside out.
Kindness? Hot.
Compassion? Sexy.
A great sense of humor? Irresistible.
You can be stunning on the outside, but if you’re mean and cruel? Hard pass.
The problem is that I’m blunt. Sometimes painfully honest. And I hate tired, overused lines. My delivery could use… improvement.
A friend once asked me for an example of how I give compliments.
Me: “You look good.”
Them: “No, I don’t, Vangie. I don’t even have makeup on.”
Me: “Well, at least you don’t look like sh*t.”
Them: “Another classic Vangie compliment.”
Me: “You could’ve just said thank you.”
End scene.
Another classic moment:
Friend: “Do these pants make my butt look big?”
Me: “Blame it on the pants.”
Friend: “Blame it on the pants?”
Me: “No?”
Look, I try.
My friends are convinced I need help.
And honestly, they are not wrong.
You know those five love languages? Well, words of affirmation is not at the top of my list. Words of criticism might actually describe me better, at least toward myself.
If someone says to me, “Vangie, I see your effort. I know you can do better,” I usually will. Because that tells me you see me trying. You see me doing my best. And that means you care.
But criticizing just to criticize? Go away with that.
A lot of the dating and romance self-help advice floating around out there is part research, part speculation, and part anecdotal storytelling. Like most things in life, there’s usually a grain of truth somewhere in the mix.
People love differently. What they need from each other can look very different.
It took me a long time to understand that just because I show up, do the things someone asks of me, and give my best effort, that isn’t always how another person experiences love.
My primary love language is acts of service. That probably isn’t surprising.
I also believe time is one of the most valuable things we have. When someone takes time out of their day and their life to be with you, that means something. That means you matter.
There are people who have taken up a lot of my time that I will never get back. And there are people I spend time with where I wish we had more of it.
When I care about someone, whether they are friends or partners, I try to do all the things. I show up when I’m supposed to. I do the things that are expected. I say words of appreciation. I give gifts. I hold someone when they need to be held.
What I’ve learned over time is that loving people well often means meeting their love language where they are.
But let’s get back to words.
Because words matter more than we sometimes admit.
The funny thing is, the same conversations where we laugh about dating and terrible compliments often drift into much heavier territory.
One minute we’re talking about golf or relationships. The next minute we’re talking about jobs, finances, politics, and the general chaos of the world.
About how people are just trying to survive.
Trying to pay their bills.
Trying to keep their jobs.
Trying to hold on to whatever stability they can.
Meanwhile, the powerful keep protecting the wealthy while everyone else gets squeezed tighter and tighter. History keeps repeating itself because people refuse to learn from it.
Entire communities have carried generations of injustice that were never repaired or meaningfully acknowledged. And people wonder why the country feels like it’s unraveling. Sometimes it feels exhausting just fighting for the basic right to exist with dignity.
Which is why the conversations we have with each other matter so much. Because words aren’t just jokes and compliments.
They shape how people see themselves.
They shape how we understand the world.
They shape whether people feel valued or invisible.
Words can build someone up.
Or they can slowly grind someone down.
Lenten Reflection: Speaking Life Into People
The letter of Epistle to the Ephesians reminds us:
“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs.” (Ephesians 4:29)
That’s a deceptively simple instruction.
Speak words that build people up.
Not flattery.
Not empty politeness.
Not the kind of compliments we throw around without meaning them.
But words that actually strengthen the people around us.
I’ve learned over time that people receive love in different ways. Some people need acts of service. Some people need time and presence. Some people need physical closeness.
And some people really do need words.
Words that say, "I see you."
Words that say, "You matter."
Words that say, "You’re doing better than you think."
My instinct has always been to show love through action. I show up. I help. I do the things that need to be done.
But Lent has a way of inviting us to look a little closer at ourselves.
To ask where we could be more intentional.
More thoughtful.
More generous.
Because words carry weight.
They can build confidence.
They can heal wounds.
They can remind someone that they are not invisible in a world that often makes people feel that way.
So maybe part of this Lenten journey is learning to use our words with more care.
To speak truth.
To speak kindness.
To speak life into people whenever we can.
Even if it doesn’t always come naturally.
Even if sometimes our version of a compliment accidentally sounds like, “Well… at least you don’t look like sh*t.”
Progress, not perfection.
Take care of yourselves.
And take care of each other. 💜
Some posts don’t need to be rewritten. They just need to be shared again.
I wrote this last year when I was more or less face-down on the floor trying to pick myself back up. Trying to learn how to love myself again. Trying to figure out who I was and who I was becoming.
My time in the wilderness of KCMO and Kansas made me question just about every life choice I’ve ever made.
There were moments earlier in my life when I struggled with intrusive thoughts, especially when I was younger and trying to understand my sexuality. After one terrible breakup. Then another. The thirteenth one probably should have been my clue that maybe the problem wasn’t just a bad picker.
There were moments when I wondered whether my life still mattered. Whether staying was worth the pain I felt in my head, my heart, my soul, and sometimes my body.
So I understand something about the darkness that lives in people.
I understand the moment when someone decides, "Nope. I’m done. I’m out."
We don’t talk about that enough. Somewhere in some research study, someone decided that talking about suicide might give people ideas. But the truth is simpler than that, the people who are thinking about it have usually been thinking about it for a long time.
No one suddenly hands them the idea like a lightbulb moment.
Sometimes it’s a long quiet erosion.
Sometimes it’s an impulse.
Sometimes it’s a plan.
A permanent solution to what might have been a temporary storm.
So today, let’s talk about Robin Jorden. I think what people want to believe is that if everything is perfect, the perfect job, the perfect spouse, house, and dog, the perfect children, then you’ll be happy.
Maybe.
But no one is happy all the time.
Happiness is fleeting. And without sadness, you can’t truly appreciate happiness. Without tragedy, you can’t fully understand joy.
Life isn’t just a roller coaster.
It’s a freakin’ funhouse, a carnival, and one of those spinning rides that makes you want to puke. That’s what life feels like sometimes. A gosh darn carnival ride.
Mine certainly does.
This one is hard to talk about because I didn’t answer her last call. It was November 2013. Thanksgiving week.
Robin had called to talk about a movie she had just watched, "Blue Is the Warmest Color." It’s a movie about exploring sexuality, falling in love, and experiencing heartbreak... the kind that changes you.
She was trying to heal a broken heart and wanted to talk about it. The movie had made her think about everything she had been struggling with after that breakup.
Robin and I talked a lot when I lived in California. And we kept talking after I moved to Minnesota. She was one of the only friends who braved a Minnesota winter to come visit me. She knew, just from the sound of my voice on the phone, that I wasn’t doing well. That I was homesick. That I needed someone to show up.
And she showed up.
She loved tennis and went to the US Open every year.
She asked me to go with her that year.
I told her I’d see if it worked with my schedule.
It didn’t.
So I didn’t go.
She did. And that was the year she took her life.
I knew she wasn’t doing well. I could hear it in the way she spoke. In the silences between her words. But I was a thousand miles away and I didn’t know what I could do to help.
I listened.
I talked.
I tried my best to be there for her.
And yet…
It still wasn’t enough.
I saved the last message she left me. Sometimes I listen to it just to hear her voice again. I don’t talk about Robin enough.
Maybe because I still feel guilt.
Maybe because I still can’t believe she’s gone.
But I know she’s gone.
Because if she were here, we’d be on the phone right now talking about how completely messed up the world is. Goddess, I’ve had so much loss in my life that sometimes I don’t even know how I get through the day.
But I do.
I always do.
My world has not been the same since she left. It is still a struggle to make sense of the nonsense, but I persist. Sometimes I think I try to live a good life because that’s what she would want.
Maybe I’m just hoping to find some way to fill the void her friendship left behind. But it doesn’t work like that.
The void stays.
The missing stays.
You just learn how to live around it.
I want to believe that her essence, her spirit, her energy, her ancient universal dust, has moved on to the next life. The next dimension. Some corner of the universe where she is finally happy and no longer in pain.
I want to believe that.
But the pragmatist in me sometimes thinks it’s just emptiness. That she is gone and there is nothing where her life used to be except this strange quiet absence.
And still.
We carry on.
We carry the memories of the people we loved.
Their hearts.
Their names.
Their laughter.
I still catch myself looking at my phone, hoping her name will pop up.
I know it won’t.
I know it never will.
And yet the world keeps turning.
Round and round.
There is so much more I could say about Robin, and yet I struggle to say it. My feelings are tangled. My heart is heavy. Sometimes it feels like my grief is a dam holding back an entire river.
I don’t know if it’s a gift or a curse to love people so deeply when you know they will eventually leave.
But I do know this.
Loving her was worth it.
Our friendship was worth it.
And that is what I carry with me.
Lenten Reflection
Lent is a season that asks us to sit with difficult things, loss, grief, uncertainty. But it is also a season that reminds us we are not alone in those moments.
Psalm 34 tells us:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
That verse doesn’t promise that heartbreak won’t happen. It promises that God is present when it does.
Grief is the weight of love that suddenly has nowhere to go. When someone dies, the love we had for them doesn’t disappear. It lingers. It searches for a place to live.
Sometimes it lives in memory.
Sometimes it lives in the way we care for other people.
Sometimes it lives in the quiet ways we keep someone’s story alive.
Robin is gone.
But love stays.
Her kindness.
Her laughter.
Her friendship.
They remain in every memory I carry forward.
Maybe that’s what faith really is.
Not certainty.
Not perfect answers.
Just the willingness to keep loving, keep remembering, and keep moving forward. Even when it hurts.
Life isn’t about flawless filters, curated perfection, or pretending we’re fine when we’re not.
Life is about loving people while they are here.
And honoring them after they are gone.
I honor Robin by remembering her.
By living a life that still has room for joy.
By carrying her love forward.
She loved mint chocolate chip ice cream.
On her birthday, April 4th, I’ll eat some in her honor.
You should, too.
Love stays.
Always. 💙
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of each other.
