Lent 2025 Day 32: Loving in a Hopeless Place

“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 

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