"God always offers us a second chance in life." —Paulo Coelho
A while back, I was on the phone with my friend Kimi and she said something that made me laugh:
Kimi: Yeah, it’s funny—I either really like your girlfriends (now exes) or I can’t stand them.
Me: That tracks.
Kimi: Remember that one we had lunch with at Santana Row? The one from the East Coast—I liked her.
Me: Shmelissa?
Kimi: Yeah! That’s her.
Me: She was a pathological liar.
Kimi: Oh. Well, I remember she was really nice.
Me: Sure, she was nice. Still lied about everything though.
Kimi: Yeah, too bad. I liked her.
Me: Yeah… she was really hot.
Sometimes that’s how it goes, right? You fall for someone who seems perfect—at least on the surface—and completely ignore the tiny red flags flapping in the wind like a pride parade for bad decisions. The heart wants what it wants, and sometimes it wants a disaster in a leather jacket with a great smile.
I want to believe we go through these messy, ridiculous, painful relationships for a reason. That we’re supposed to grow and evolve with each one. And yet—I still catch myself ignoring that little voice in my head. You know the one. That barely-a-whisper voice that says, “This probably isn’t a good idea.” And me? I say, “Shhhh. Let’s just see what happens.” Spoiler: it’s never not a disaster.
When I was 28, I was dating this woman my friends joked was my “non-relationship-relationship era.” These days we call it a “situationship.” Apparently, I was ahead of my time. It started casual—but casual has a way of catching feelings when you're not paying attention. And suddenly, I found myself invested in something that was never meant to be serious.
We weren’t exclusive, but I wasn’t dating anyone else. She came into my life during my Saturn return—the season when your whole life unravels so it can be rewoven into something better. I wasn’t a fully-formed human back then, and I was weirdly okay with that. But I’ll be real. I had no business dating anyone at that point. I had just come out of a bad relationship. I told myself, Vangie, get your shit together first. But then there she was. Kind, gorgeous, emotionally available. So very tempting. How could I not?
People say dating teaches you what you don’t want more than what you do. And that’s true. But I’ve also dated a few people who were amazing—just not at the right time. Sometimes it’s not about love not being enough. Sometimes it’s about timing is terrible. Sometimes it’s about you not being who you needed to be yet.
I’ve learned a lot in relationships. But I’ve learned even more in the space between them. I regret some things. I’ve made poor choices. But I try to gather every lesson, even from the disasters. Especially from the disasters.
Finding a healthy relationship as an adult feels like finding a unicorn in a Costco parking lot. Most of us are a little broken by now. Some of us are healing. Some of us are hardened. But I still believe in trying. If I’m going to show up in someone else’s life, I want to be the version of me that adds to theirs—not subtracts. That whole “take me or leave me as I am” energy isn't very cute. But growth is sexy. Accountability is sexy. Knowing your worth and wanting to be worthy—that’s hot.
I’ve ignored that little voice in my head so many times—usually muffled by a pillow called hope. Hope that things would be different. Hope that I was wrong. Hope that love would be enough. But ignoring your gut rarely ends well. That voice? It’s usually right.
Still, I’m a sucker for risk. I’ll run the data in my head, analyze the cost-benefit ratio, and still say, “Eh, let’s see what happens.” Because when it comes to love, isn’t that what we all do? We pick the person we’re willing to risk our heart for and hope they’re doing the same.
But next time? I’m going to listen more carefully. Because love is worth the risk—but only if you’re risking it for the right reasons.
More often than not, my little Jiminy Cricket knows what they're talking about.
Lenten Reflection: Trust the Voice Within
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” – Proverbs 3:5-6 (NRSV)
Lent is a time of deep listening—not just to the world around us, but to the still, small voice inside. That voice we often push aside. The one that whispers truth even when we’re not ready to hear it.
🔹 Where have I ignored my inner voice in favor of fantasy or fear?
🔹 What regrets still need to be turned into lessons?
🔹 How can I show up in love—ready, whole, and rooted in truth?
This season, let’s learn to trust that voice. Let’s learn from the past, not live in it. And let’s move forward knowing we’re allowed to grow, to start again, and to love more wisely than before.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
📖 More reflections: flanneldiaries.com
“Lies come out of fear, and the truth will set you free. Don't be afraid and stand in your truth.” – Unknown
I remember reading The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie and feeling a deep ache in my chest. Disclaimer: I know he’s problematic. The allegations of sexual misconduct are real, and he’s been called out publicly. He's also apologized publicly for the abuse and harm. Yet, it doesn't excuse or forgive his bad behavior. However, this particular essay? It got me. It reached into something I didn’t have words for at the time.
In the story, Victor, a Native character, walks into a 7-Eleven to buy a creamsicle. The cashier watches him closely—just in case he needs to describe him to the cops. Victor feels it. That silent, heavy suspicion. That othering. The story flashes back to when he was living in Seattle with his white girlfriend. He remembers walking outside after a fight and getting stopped by the police. They tell him he doesn’t “fit the profile” of the neighborhood. In his mind, Victor says, 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 killed.
That story gave me a language for something I didn’t know how to name. It helped me recognize how being in certain relationships—especially with white women—often put me right back in that same space. I’ve dated women of many backgrounds, but my longest relationships were with white women. And I began to realize, after a few breakups and a lot of therapy, that cultural difference isn’t just about different holidays or food or music. It’s about identity. It’s about how we navigate the world—and how the world treats us differently for it.
Small misunderstandings would spiral. Little things would turn into big fights, and I couldn’t always explain why something seemingly “small” triggered something big inside me. I’d given up so much of my Filipino identity just trying to survive in this country, and here I was doing it again—just to stay in love.
People are surprised when they find out I wasn’t born in the States. I don’t have an accent. But that wasn’t an accident. I learned quickly that accents invite mockery from kids and discrimination from adults. I learned to sound “American.” And over time, I lost the fluency in my first language—Visayan. My mother spoke it until the end of her life. In those last years, she reverted back to her native tongue, and I couldn’t keep up. I had to rely on my nephew to translate. And honestly, I wasn’t always sure I could trust what was being said. That hurt more than I can say.
Losing a language is more than losing words. It’s losing the ability to speak to your ancestors. It’s losing a piece of yourself.
And still—despite all that—I tried so hard to explain my world to my partners. I translated, I softened, I bridged the gap. I thought that’s what love required: bending, adjusting, explaining. And for a long time, I didn’t even realize how much of myself I was giving up in the process. I was fluent in assimilation. That’s what it means to grow up between two worlds.
One therapist once told me: if you keep pushing your emotions down, they’ll explode in ways you don’t expect. That’s exactly what was happening. I didn’t have the language. I didn’t have the tools. So I started running. Playing sports. Hitting balls at the batting cage like it might knock something loose in my chest. I thought if I exerted myself enough, I’d release all those feelings I didn’t want to feel. I used to think emotions were dumb. Dangerous. Feelings get people fired, arrested, or worse—if you’re brown and too loud about it—unalived.
Eventually, I turned to writing. I figured, if I could put all those jumbled thoughts down on paper, I might be able to let them go. There’s a saying in politics: if you don’t tell your story, someone else will. So I started telling mine.
Naming what hurts is the first step toward healing. Reading that essay gave me a mirror. I saw what I needed to heal: the loss of cultural identity, the way I kept trading it away just to belong. Just to be loved.
And here’s the truth that hurts the most: loving your colonizer always ends in heartbreak. When the power dynamics are baked into the relationship, no matter how much love you pour in—it’ll leak out the cracks.
Can we find love in a hopeless place, like Rihanna asks? I don’t know. Maybe. But only if we bring our full selves to the table. Unapologetically. Only if we learn to hold onto our identity while we hold someone else's heart.
And that starts with standing in our truth, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
Lenten Reflection: Standing in Truth
“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.” – John 8:32 (NRSV)
Lent invites us into a season of reflection and reckoning. Not to shame us—but to free us.
🔹 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 do I need to finally speak?
This season, may we reclaim the pieces of ourselves we’ve buried. May we speak our stories before they’re erased. And may we remember: healing doesn’t begin when we’re perfect—it begins when we’re honest.
📖 More reflections: flanneldiaries.com
#Lent2025 #HealingThroughTruth #DecolonizeLove #BrownQueerFaith #OwnYourStory #MidwestThugLife #ReclaimAndRise
“The greatest humanistic and historical task of the oppressed: to liberate themselves…” ― Paulo Freire
What does that mean?
For me, it means ending codependency. It means rejecting patriarchy’s version of love and rewriting the story from a place of liberation—not oppression.
Let’s be real: marriage wasn’t created out of love. Historically, it was a transaction. A contract between a man and a woman’s father—literally a transfer of ownership. Women were property. Children were property. And while it feels ridiculous to even say that out loud in 2025, let’s not pretend that those ideas aren’t still lingering. Embedded in laws. In expectations. In certain churches and family traditions. There are still folks walking around believing they own their partner. That love equals possession.
Fu@k that s#it!
No one owns you. The only person who should ever “own” you—is you.
To decolonize love is to untangle it from control, from punishment, from fear. Love shouldn't feel oppressive. It shouldn’t make you question your worth or trap you in someone else’s insecurity. If it does? Get out. Run. That’s not love. That’s power and control dressed up like a Hallmark movie.
White supremacy and patriarchy are everywhere—even in how we love. There’s this tired hypocrisy we don’t talk about enough: when men cheat, it’s forgiven. When women cheat, it’s scandalous. Shameful. “Unnatural.” Why? Because we’re still taught that men are allowed to want—sex, variety, affection—while women are supposed to be these pure, self-sacrificing vessels of virtue.
Meanwhile, rates of intimate partner violence remain staggering. Known but unspoken. The silence is part of the system.
Why do we accept it? Why do we still measure “success” in love by how much we’re willing to suffer for it?
We deserve better.
We deserve love that lifts, not crushes. That expands, not confines. But we’ve been sold fairytales. Happily-ever-afters that somehow always come after a woman gives up everything to be chosen.
And that’s where I say: decolonize love.
It starts with me.
If I could write a letter to younger Vangie, I’d probably say:
“Don’t date that girl. Go back and finish school.”
Then maybe:
“Rip up the plan. Toss it out the window. The Universe has jokes. You’ll think you’ve figured it all out, but nope—it’s about to get weird. You’re going to make the same mistakes again and again until you finally get it. You’re going to break some hearts. You’re going to break your own.
“But it’ll be okay.
“You’ll be okay.
“You’ll have amazing adventures. You’ll meet people who see you. People who challenge you. People who disappoint you. And people who believe in you even when you’re not at your best. Hold on to those ones. Love them hard. Trust them deeply. They’re your people.”
And I’d add:
“Be kind to yourself. You’re going to doubt a lot. You’ll carry shame that doesn’t belong to you. You’ll spend years thinking you were too much, or not enough. But you were always worthy.
“Protect your peace. Get the good health insurance. 2019 was just the warm-up. 2020? Unprecedented. 2024? Bruh. But you? You’re a phoenix, and the ashes aren’t the end.
“Forgive yourself often. Stand in your truth. Don’t ever dull your shine to make someone else feel better. Love with your whole damn heart. Trust your gut. It’s wiser than you think.
“You are whole. You are worthy. You deserve real love.
“And when it gets hard—and it will—remember: you’ve made it through before. Don’t quit now.
“You got this.”
Love,
Future You
Lenten Reflection: Liberation Is Love
“Do not be conformed to this world, but 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)
Lent isn’t just about sacrifice. It’s about transformation.
It’s about walking into the wilderness of who we are—and shedding what no longer fits.
🔹 What inherited ideas about love and worth are you ready to release?
🔹 What systems or expectations have shaped the way you show up in relationships?
🔹 What does it look like to choose love that is rooted in freedom, not fear?
This season, may we decolonize our hearts. May we liberate ourselves from the chains that shame, silence, or confine us. And may we move toward a love that is expansive, rooted in truth, and undeniably ours.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
📖 More reflections at: flanneldiaries.com