"Man craves winter in summer, and when winter comes, he likes it not,
For he is never content with any state [of things], neither with poverty nor with a life of plenty.
May man be killed! How ungrateful he is!
Whenever he obtains guidance, he spurns it."
— Rumi
Rumi might’ve said it centuries ago, but the man really understood human behavior. Just look around.
We live in a country where people are more concerned with billionaire tax cuts than with feeding kids, funding schools, or supporting the health and dignity of the most vulnerable. We’ve got folks out here defending billionaires like they’re going to magically get added to a will if they tweet hard enough. Meanwhile, the majority of Americans are two paychecks away from financial catastrophe, not a vacation home in Aspen.
We are not okay.
And yet, the headlines keep coming: Egg prices are still wild. The country is fractured. Corey Booker filibustered for over 25 hours. Val Kilmer, our beloved Iceman, passed. A certain billionaire tried to buy a State Supreme Court seat—and lost, but barely. Meanwhile, banks are raising fees, and our accounts are shrinking, but corporate profits keep climbing.
It’s a mess. A full-blown, exhausting mess.
We’ve been through enough to know this: economies will always matter more than human lives to the people in power. It’s been that way since the beginning. The only difference now is we have TikToks to capture it in real time.
But here’s the thing—we’re still writing the story. And I want to believe the ending is up to us.
I keep coming back to the Exodus story. When Moses led the people out of Egypt, they weren’t taken directly into freedom. They didn’t get a welcome parade into the Promised Land. God made them wander in the desert for forty years. Why? Because they still had the chains of Egypt wrapped around their minds.
They knew oppression. They knew control. They knew what it meant to survive under Pharaoh’s thumb. Freedom? That was terrifying. It was unfamiliar. Risky.
So they wandered.
A whole generation lived and died in that desert. Not because they were lost—but because they weren’t ready. Because even though they were no longer enslaved, they hadn’t yet learned how to be free.
And I can’t help but feel like we’re living in a kind of wilderness right now. A national, spiritual, political, economic wilderness. We say we want change, but we’re scared to let go of the broken systems that made us feel safe. We want justice, but only if it doesn’t disrupt our comfort.
We long for the “normal” of before—but what if that “normal” was Egypt?
The truth is, we can't go back. And we shouldn't. Because if we do, we’re just wrapping the chains tighter and calling it nostalgia.
I see people resisting. I see folks pushing back against fascism, fighting for trans lives, for reproductive justice, for Black and Brown liberation. They’re not trying to bring back the past—they’re building something new. Something better.
I want to believe in that future. I want to walk toward that Promised Land, even if it means wandering a while. Even if the path is hard. Even if I don’t get to see it fully realized in my lifetime.
Because maybe the work we do now—the struggle, the questions, the resistance—is for the next generation. So they won’t carry our fear. So they won’t inherit our silence. So they’ll get to enter the Promised Land unbound.
Lenten Reflection: Wilderness is a Place of Becoming
📖 "The Lord said, 'I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out... and I am concerned about their suffering. So I have come down to rescue them... and to bring them up out of that land into a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey.'"
— Exodus 3:7–8
Lent is not about quick fixes or easy answers. It’s a time of stripping away, of confronting the wilderness within and around us.
🔹 Where am I still clinging to Egypt—what feels familiar, even if it’s harmful?
🔹 What comforts have I confused with safety?
🔹 How can I begin to live like someone who believes the Promised Land is still possible?
This Lenten season, may we wander with intention. May we loosen our grip on what was, and trust the journey toward what could be.
Take care of yourselves. And take care of each other.
📖 Read more reflections at flanneldiaries.com
"Peace and friendship with all mankind is our wisest policy, and I wish we may be permitted to pursue it." – Thomas Jefferson
Waking up every morning and reading whatever new disaster is happening with our federal government is disheartening and exhausting. It’s like watching a bad sequel to a movie no one liked the first time. Every day feels like another blow to what we thought democracy stood for. Didn’t we learn anything from the pandemic? About care, about empathy, about the impact of individual actions on the collective?
Apparently not.
What we learned instead is how many people are comfortable pretending that others' suffering isn’t their problem. That compassion is optional. That misinformation is more palatable than complexity.
What we need—desperately—is good leadership.
I used to teach leadership development for students and adults. One of the first things I’d tell people was this: The best leaders are the ones who lead by example.
Who show up. Who tell the truth. Who surround themselves with people smarter than them and actually listen.
At the end of the day, yes—leadership can be lonely. But no decision should be made in a vacuum. If you're leading with integrity, your decision isn’t just yours. It’s informed by people who hold you accountable, challenge you, and remind you that leadership is never about ego—it’s about responsibility.
The best leaders I’ve had were women. Period.
They had my back when I was accused—unjustly—by men in power. They trusted me. They believed in my work. They defended my name when others tried to tarnish it. And when I was in the wrong? They held me accountable with grace, and gave me the opportunity to do better. That’s real leadership.
We throw around the word “transparency” a lot, especially in politics, nonprofits, and public institutions. But transparency doesn’t come from clever PR campaigns—it comes from character. If you have leaders with integrity, transparency is a byproduct. It doesn’t need to be manufactured.
I’ve worked enough campaigns to know that messaging is everything. In eight words or less, you have to convince people why to vote for you or your cause. And most people don’t trust politicians, because too many of them will say anything to get elected.
When I got involved in political organizing, I always tried to choose campaigns I could stand behind honestly. During the Vote No campaign for marriage equality, I wasn’t personally invested in marriage—but I believed deeply in people’s right to love and choose their own path. That was enough for me to knock on doors and have hard conversations with strangers.
I’ve lost three campaigns myself. It’s humbling. It shakes your confidence. But what it taught me is that the system is deeply broken—and the average person doesn’t vote based on policy. They vote based on fear, soundbites, and the illusion of what they’re being promised. And then they wonder why they never get a slice of the pie. Spoiler: some of us never even get crumbs.
We live in a country that, for better or worse, voted for this moment. And now we’re watching the consequences unfold. My hope is that people are starting to re-evaluate what they really value. Was it the promise of healthcare? Of equity? Of safety nets that actually catch people? Or was it just white supremacy and capitalism dressed up in populist language?
The jury’s still out. But my hope hasn’t disappeared yet.
Lenten Reflection: Leadership as Spiritual Practice
“When the righteous thrive, the people rejoice; when the wicked rule, the people groan.” – Proverbs 29:2 (NIV)
Lent is a time to reflect not only on our personal choices, but on the systems we uphold and participate in. We are invited to ask:
🔹 What kind of leaders are we choosing—and why?
🔹 Where are we complicit in injustice because it benefits us?
🔹 How can we model integrity, even when no one is watching?
We don’t need to be elected officials to lead. Leadership is how we show up in our relationships, how we use our platform—however small—and how we respond when injustice knocks at our neighbor’s door.
May we be the kind of people who don’t just hope for better leadership—but embody it.
Take care of yourselves. And take care of each other.
📖 Read more at: flanneldiaries.com
Updated: Apr 1
“Life is amazing. And then it’s awful. And then it’s amazing again. And in between the amazing and the awful it’s ordinary and mundane and routine. Breathe in the amazing, hold on through the awful, and exhale during the ordinary. That’s just living heartbreaking, soul-healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life. And it’s breathtakingly beautiful.” -- LR Knost
Isn't it wild how you can love someone so completely—build dreams with them, imagine a shared future—and then, just like that, they want nothing to do with you? One day you're planning vacations, homes, forever—and the next, they'd be perfectly fine with you falling off the face of the Earth.
That's some devastating, soul-crushing shit. And it leaves you wondering: Was it even real? Were their feelings genuine, or were you just convenient? Replaceable? Disposable?
People's feelings are complicated. They shift like clouds in the sky—some days bright, some days stormy, some gone without warning. After a breakup, I spiral into that raw space of self-doubt. I start questioning everything—my worth, my choices, my instincts.
Where does that leave me?
Trying to figure out what kind of love I deserve. I might be a running joke in my lesbian friend group. But behind that humor is someone still healing. This last breakup hit me differently. I’ve always had confidence. I know who I am. But this time, it felt like it cracked something in me—shook my foundation. Maybe it’s midlife. Maybe it’s menopause. Maybe it’s the grief of losing something you thought would be solid.
Whatever it is, it’s real. And it’s taken every ounce of emotional grit I have to get back to a place where I can say:
I am enough.
Losing yourself takes seconds. Finding yourself again? That takes time. And truthfully, the version of you that returns might not be the one you lost. Hopefully, they're wiser. Stronger. Softer in the right places. Hardened only where they need protection.
Time does heal. But not the way we want it to. Healing doesn’t erase the hurt. It teaches us how to carry it.
Back when I worked with youth, I used to do this activity to talk about bullying and emotional wounds. I’d give everyone a heart-shaped piece of paper—bright, smooth, and whole. Then I’d tell them to crumple it, stomp on it, even throw it on the ground—but not to tear it. Then I’d say: “Now say sorry to the heart. Try to make it look like it did before.”
And of course, they’d try. They’d smooth it out. Press it flat. But it never looked the same. The creases stayed. The damage was done. I’d say, “This is what words can do. Even if you say sorry, the imprint remains. The scars stay.”
That’s how I feel after a breakup. That’s how I feel right now. Crumpled, but not torn. Still whole—but different.
And the truth is, goodbyes suck.
There’s no poetic way to put it. They just do. Even when the relationship wasn’t working. Even when it wasn’t healthy. Even when you know it’s the right choice.
Some people aren’t right for you. And that’s okay. I’m finally starting to accept that. And even after everything—I still hope the best for my ex. That’s not me being some kind of saint. That’s me choosing peace. Choosing release. Choosing to believe that just because it didn’t work between us doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve love and joy somewhere else. Maybe that’s what healing looks like. Not erasing the pain. But learning to carry it. Learning to let go.
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” – Psalm 147:3
Lenten Reflection: What We Carry
🔹 Where am I still carrying grief disguised as guilt?
🔹 What emotional scars am I trying to smooth out?
🔹 Am I willing to grow—even when it means letting go?
Psalm 147:3 reminds us: He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. Even in our lowest, loneliest, most rejected moments—we are not alone. This Lent, may we allow grief to shape us, not shatter us. May we become people of deeper empathy, stronger boundaries, and softer hearts.
As above, so below.
Take care of yourselves and take care of each other.
📖 More reflections at flanneldiaries.com