"Check yourself. Sometimes you are the toxic person. Sometimes you are the mean, negative person you’re looking to push away. Sometimes the problem is you. And that doesn’t make you less worthy. Keep on growing. Keep on checking yourself. Keep on motivating yourself. Mistakes are opportunities. Look at them, own them, grow from them and move on. Do better, be better. You’re human. It’s okay." – Unknown
I've spent my whole life trying to do the right thing and be a good person. That can mean a lot of different things for a lot of different people. But for me? It means trying to move through the world with integrity—even when no one is looking. And because of that, my karma comes quickly.
I tried to steal a candy bar when I was a kid—not because my mom couldn’t afford it, but because I wanted to see if I could get away with it. Right before I made it out the door, the grocer stopped me and asked if I “forgot to pay.” I was nine. I doubt I was slick—shoving a candy bar down my pants wasn’t exactly Ocean’s Eleven. My mom was with me. She was embarrassed. She paid for it. I didn’t eat it. And when we got home, let’s just say I learned that day how swift Filipino discipline could be. I didn’t go back to that store for a long time. And I never tried to shoplift again.
I tell my friends I didn’t want to have sex before marriage—not just because I was raised Catholic—but because in 7th grade health class they showed us a giant picture of genital warts. Let me tell you: that moment rewired my brain. I think that’s when I officially became a germaphobe.
I’m not perfect. I have plenty of faults, and I work daily to be a better version of myself. When I was younger, I didn’t know how to express feelings. That took a toll on my relationships. Depression made it hard to know if I was just sad or if I was breaking. I started therapy in my early 20s. That was huge. It was the '90s. Prozac was new. Therapy was still taboo. I thought taking medication meant I was weak. I thought depression was something I could just walk off. I thought it was just situational. It wasn’t.
I carried shame around my mental illness for years. I rarely talked about it—not with friends, not with partners. That silence, that stigma, was heavy. I've lost two close friends to suicide. Since then, it’s been my mission to destigmatize mental health. Especially now. Especially with the world as chaotic as it is. We need space to talk about what we’re going through. Without shame. Without judgment.
One in four people live with a diagnosed mental health condition. That’s not small. That’s not rare. So if you're feeling foggy, forgetful, unmotivated, exhausted, or just… off? You’re not alone. That’s real. That’s human.
Most anger? It’s sadness in disguise. For a long time, I didn’t cry—I snapped. I got short. Defensive. Irritated. I masked sadness with anger because sadness felt too vulnerable. And let me tell you—experiencing microaggressions your whole life feels like death by a thousand cuts. That kind of chronic, ambient pain becomes part of your wiring.
So yes—I’m warm. I’m generous. I give all of myself until I can’t. Then I shut down. I freeze people out. It’s not always graceful. It’s my trauma response. Fight, flight, freeze. I fight. And when I can't fight, I disappear emotionally.
But here's the thing: I know this about myself. I work on it. I go to therapy. I read. I reflect. I own my shit.
We can't be strong all the time. When I’m mentally tapped out, I retreat—not because I don’t care, but because I need to regroup so I can care again. I’m learning I don’t have to win every argument. I don’t need to die on every hill. And I’m definitely not staying in relationships—romantic or platonic—that make me question my sanity.
I’ve been working hard my whole adult life to be healthy, whole, and high-functioning. And I think I’ve done a damn good job. I’m an amazing friend when I’m treated with care and respect. But if you use me? If you lie? Manipulate? Drain my energy for your own selfish gain? Peace out.
I don’t need that in my life. I’ve built too much to be brought down by someone who hasn’t done the work.
Lenten Reflection: Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself
“Give careful thought to the paths for your feet and be steadfast in all your ways. Do not turn to the right or the left; keep your foot from evil.” – Proverbs 4:26-27 (NRSV)
Lent isn’t just about giving up soda or sugar—it’s about checking ourselves. It’s about being honest. Sometimes we are the problem. And that doesn’t make us worthless—it makes us human.
🔹 What patterns am I repeating that are hurting me or others?
🔹 When have I mistaken independence for isolation?
🔹 Where do I need to offer myself—and others—grace and accountability?
Forgiveness isn’t a one-time thing. It’s a practice. And growth is messy. But we keep showing up. Because healing matters. Because we matter.
📖 Read more reflections at: flanneldiaries.com
Updated: Apr 9
"Golf is the closest game to the game we call life. You get bad breaks from good shots; you get good breaks from bad shots—but you have to play the ball where it lies."
— Bobby Jones
If you want to become who you’re meant to be, you have to let go—no, scratch that—you have to destroy who you thought you were supposed to be. That’s the raw truth. There’s no going back. Not to the old normal, not to the old job, not to the old love that almost broke you. And to be honest? I don’t want to go back.
Sometimes the universe answers your questions—but never in plain English. It doesn’t come with flashing neon lights and an instruction manual. It answers in the form of weird dreams, oddly timed conversations, and text messages from people you haven’t heard from in years.
Someone messaged me the other day—someone who doesn’t usually reach out—and said, "Don’t go back to the place that hurt you. There’s a reason you’re not there anymore." She meant jobs. But damn, didn’t that line land like a ton of bricks.
Why do we revisit the places, the people, the roles that broke us? As if maybe this time it won’t hurt the same. Maybe the pain has softened. Maybe we’ve changed. So we circle back, stick our hand in the fire again, only to get burned again. Lesson learned—again.
If I look back at who I was a year ago, I wouldn’t have guessed I’d be here now. Maybe that’s a blessing. Maybe I wouldn’t have had the courage to make the choices I did if I knew how much it would cost me. But I also know: I wouldn’t be me without the hard parts. The breakups, the burnout, the heartbreaks, the breakdowns. That was the road. And the road was mine.
Like golf—you don’t always get to tee it up perfectly. Sometimes your ball ends up in the rough, or wedged between tree roots, or sunk into the sand. But you play the ball where it lies. And what I’ve learned is… sometimes that ugly lie sets you up for a beautiful shot.
I’ve been in co-dependent relationships and didn’t even realize that’s what they were at the time. I thought I was fiercely independent. I thought I had healthy boundaries. But no—what I had was exhaustion masked as self-sufficiency. What I had was unresolved trauma disguised as fierce independence.
We’re taught that love is supposed to fill the empty parts inside us. But no one tells you what to do when that "filling" turns to erosion. When the void in you starts eating everything whole. That void is soul deep.
And here’s what I’ve come to: No one else can fill that void. Not fully. Not forever. It’s mine to understand. Mine to tend to. It’s not my partner’s job to fix me. It’s not anyone’s job to make me whole. That’s mine.
I was golfing with a friend of mine—she’s a single straight woman—nothing against her for that, of course. We got into a conversation about how society treats single women differently. As a masc-presenting lesbian, I often get the benefit of the doubt that my singleness is intentional. People assume it’s a choice—that I’m independent, self-sufficient, maybe even admirable for choosing solitude over settling. I get space. I get autonomy. Sometimes I even get a little reverence for not being “tied down.”
But for her? It’s a whole different game. She told me how married people use their status as an automatic excuse—"Oh, I can’t, my husband, my kids, my family…" and everyone just accepts it, no questions asked. But when you're a single straight woman? You don’t get that kind of pass. People assume you're available for everything. That your time isn’t as important. That you should be more flexible, more helpful, more willing. As if singleness equals free labor.
Society seems to constantly question her life choices, like there’s something inherently wrong with being single. That if you’re a woman without a husband or children—especially past a certain age—people either feel sorry for you or treat you like a mystery that needs solving. And if she doesn’t belong to anyone, then she must be missing something.
There’s this persistent idea that straight women are only valuable if they’re partnered, especially as they get older. And that’s exhausting.
I read that single people pay an average of $5,500 more per year than couples on basic living costs. That dating apps, travel packages, and financial systems are designed with couples in mind. That being a single woman—especially one over 40—comes with a weird sort of social suspicion.
She agreed with the being "single tax." I couldn’t help but think about how messed up that is. Two friends, both single, both thriving, but only one of us is treated like we’re living a full life. Because I’m a masc-presenting lesbian, people assume I’m single by choice—like it’s some independent, powerful stance. Some people may even be envious of. But for straight women, especially as they age, singleness is often treated like failure. Seen as some crone that should be pushed out to sea on some ice float. That double standard still blows my mind.
Like you’re unfinished. Like you’re a problem waiting to be solved.
I’ve been single by choice or necessity—depending on how you want to look at it. I could probably not be single if I didn’t mind all the work that goes into it. But I mind. I’m tired. And dating these days feels like tiptoeing through a minefield with your peace of mind—never knowing which step might blow up in your face.
So I’m pouring my energy into other things—like law school. Like healing. Like becoming the kind of person I’d actually want to come home to. And I’ll let the rest take care of itself.
Because identity and self-worth shouldn’t be tied to who you date or what job title you hold. You are not your career. You are not your partner. You are not the worst thing that’s happened to you. And you are not your relationship status.
But let me tell you something: I’m not unfinished.
You are whatever the hell you decide to be. And that? That’s power.
Lenten Reflection: Play It Where It Lies
"When Pharaoh let the people go, God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, although that was nearer; for God thought, ‘If the people face war, they may change their minds and return to Egypt.’ So God led the people by the roundabout way of the wilderness toward the Red Sea." – Exodus 13:17-18 (NRSV)
Lent is the desert space—the in-between, the wilderness, the dry stretch between what was and what might be. It’s not comfortable. It’s not safe. But it’s where new things are born.
🔹 What “former things” am I still holding on to?
🔹 Where have I gone back to the place that hurt me, hoping it might not hurt this time?
🔹 Where is God calling me to make a way in my own wilderness?
Let this season be a practice of release—not because what came before wasn’t real, but because it’s no longer yours to carry. Play the ball where it lies. And trust—deeply—that the next shot could be the one that changes everything.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
📖 More reflections: flanneldiaries.com
Updated: Apr 9
“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding… so must you know pain.” – Khalil Gibran
It’s fascinating how often I see posts from men—grown men—acting like women’s bodies are mythical, unknowable landscapes. Mysterious. Dangerous. Like they’re explorers stepping into a haunted forest. Beware: The Womb! As if we’re some kind of ancient curse they can’t figure out.
The truth? Women’s bodies are miraculous. Sacred. Divine.
We bleed and survive.
We bring life into the world.
We carry pain and power and tenderness in every curve.
What’s so scary about that?
I used to work for Planned Parenthood as an Education and Outreach Manager. I taught teens and adults about healthy relationships, reproductive health, and comprehensive sex ed. I’ve always believed a lot of gender inequality stems from how rigidly we’ve been taught to see gender—as binary. But it’s not. Not even close. Neither is sex. Neither is sexuality.
They’re all on spectrums.
And you know what? That fluidity—that expansiveness—is beautiful. It’s human.
Young people today talk about “catching feelings” like it’s an unfortunate accident. Like it’s something to be embarrassed about. I don’t know what dating is even like anymore. It’s not like when I was in my twenties, but I do know that this generation is navigating something we weren’t given language or tools for at that age. They’re defining their identities in real-time, under the weight of climate anxiety, economic collapse, and growing up with the internet permanently embedded in their nervous systems.
I’ve been single for a while now—and living through global collapse solo has been both… interesting and traumatizing. When I was in relationships, I remember spending a huge portion of my day focused on someone else. Sometimes too much.
In hindsight? Some of them spent a whole lot of their time telling me what was wrong with me.
But now? I spend that time with myself. And let me tell you—I’m not always easy company. There are days I can’t stand me. So, shout out to all my friends who’ve had to endure me during my existential spirals. I get it. You’re heroes.
I lean into humor because otherwise, this political hellscape would be too much. And I am not perfect. Far from it. But I’ve spent a lot of time in community work, which often means having a “public persona.” It’s exhausting. People think they know you, but they don’t. Not really. They know the version of you that gets the job done. That shows up. That keeps it together. But they don’t know the soft, confused, overly analytical version that cries in the shower after a rough week or stares at the ceiling wondering what’s next.
I love women. All women. Their strength. Their softness. The complexity. There’s nothing more intoxicating than someone who owns her power and her tenderness at the same time.
But dating while being “a public person?” That’s a whole different game. I remember a conversation I had with a State Legislator from Wisconsin who told me, “You can’t be single and in politics.” You can’t be out here swiping on Tinder. People will use that against you. Especially if you’re queer. She told me, “I wish I had someone to come home to. A safe place to land. A soft place, after all the fighting and partisan vitriol.”
But here’s the truth: sometimes that person isn’t a safe place. Sometimes the people we think will catch us, drop us.
And if we’re not honest—really honest—about what we need, we end up hoping someone will become what we want them to be, instead of accepting who they are. We fall in love with potential instead of reality. And that’s where things go sideways.
Especially in queer dating culture, there’s a lot of hoping. A lot of projecting. A lot of, “Maybe they’ll change.” And not enough clear, grounded communication. That’s where the misunderstandings happen. That’s where the weirdness creeps in. In dating. In bed. In life.
We need to say what we mean. We need to ask for what we need. We need to stop being afraid of being “too much” and start being unafraid to be fully ourselves.
Lenten Reflection: Sacred Bodies, Resurrected Hearts
The Fifth Sunday of Lent calls us to consider resurrection—not just of Christ, but of ourselves.
“Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?’” — John 11:25-26
Where in your life have you died to something too small for you? Where are you being called to rise again?
🔹 Have I accepted half-truths in my relationships instead of asking for honesty?
🔹 Am I showing up as my full self—or the version I think others want?
🔹 What parts of me are ready to resurrect?
This week, may we see our pain not as punishment, but as the shell breaking open so our hearts can stand in the sun. May we hold sacred the bodies we’ve been taught to fear. May we speak boldly, love bravely, and trust that we are always being led somewhere deeper.
Take care of yourself. Take care of each other.
📖 Read more reflections at: flanneldiaries.com (link in bio)
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