"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us." —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
There are a few people in my life—okay, maybe more than a few—who think I’m vain or that my pride gets in the way of relationships. And I’m sure at least a couple of my exes would’ve happily hit me over the head with a shovel during our breakup if they had the chance. But there’s a reason I have a healthy sense of self. A reason I stand so firmly in what I believe.
I was raised with the classic immigrant blueprint: keep your head down, don’t make waves, work hard, blend in. The whole “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” mentality. And for a long time, I believed that’s what would get me ahead. That submission equaled success. That being “good” meant being quiet.
Wrong.
Back in the early 2000s, I lived with my friend Asal in Fremont. I once told her, “I’m just trying to blend in and not be noticed.” And she looked at me like I’d said the most ridiculous thing ever and shot back, “Vangie, it doesn’t matter what you do—you will stand out. Look at us. We’re brown. We’re butch. We’re attractive. You might as well own it. The rules are different for people like us. We have to try harder, and be better than everyone else to be half as good as people who are mediocre. You will never be mediocre, but you'll be compared to mediocre people. So shine as bright as you fucking can.”
She was right. She always was. And when I forget who I am, I hear her voice in the back of my head reminding me.
It’s taken me a long time to stop letting people walk all over me. Most folks, if given the chance, will take advantage of your kindness. And when you’re someone who gives, it can feel like your generosity becomes an open invitation to be used. But here’s the thing: I’m not a doormat. I may give freely, but I’ve also learned to protect my energy like it’s sacred. Because it is.
We live in a society obsessed with scarcity. We’re taught there’s not enough—resources, love, space, success—and so we hoard. We isolate. We buy into this lie that if you have more, I must have less. That in order to succeed, someone else has to fail. But that’s not truth—that’s capitalism talking.
We’re throwing away food while people starve. We’ve got billionaires launching penis rockets into space while unhoused folks are being criminalized for trying to survive. We could solve hunger and houselessness a dozen times over if we wanted to. But we don’t. Because we’ve been trained to believe some people are disposable.
People are not disposable. You are not disposable.
And if that makes me vain to say? Fine. Be vain. Be proud. Be a damn beast if you have to. Love who you are in this body, in this world, right now. Take up space. Be loud. Be you. Because the world would be better if we all stopped trying to be “normal” and just focused on being good. On being kind. On giving a shit.
Because it’s Earth Day, and you can’t love the earth if you don’t love the people on it.
We get one life. One planet. One wild, precious existence. So go out there. Tend to the soil. Protect the water. Hold your community tight. Fight for justice. Love like it matters. Because it does.
“What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” – Micah 6:8 (NRSV)
Post-Lenten Reflection: Earth, Pride, and Being Enough
Lent may be over, but the work of becoming—of healing, resisting, hoping, loving—is never done. This Earth Day, let it be a reminder that our sacred calling is to care deeply: for each other, for the land, for our spirits.
🌱 What parts of yourself have you reclaimed during this Lenten journey?
🌍 How can you show up for the earth and your community with renewed commitment?
🌺 What does living a life rooted in justice, pride, and joy look like for you?
This is holy work. Keep going. The world needs your light.
Happy Earth Day.
As above, so below.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
“He is not here; he has risen, just as he said.” — Matthew 28:6 (NIV)
When I was 21, I had this vision—if you could even call it that—where I imagined the great Divine in the sky looked like 70s Elvis. You know the one: bloated, sweating, red sequin jumpsuit. And in this weird spiritual daydream, I'm pondering the meaning of life, and Elvis just appears out of nowhere, smacks me upside the head, and says,
“Vangie, there’s no Big Picture. It’s just life. Deal.”
And for whatever reason, in this vision, he’s holding a sandwich. And while he’s talking, this piece of lettuce flies out of his mouth and smacks against my glasses. And I’m just standing there, scraping lettuce off my lenses, thinking:
“Seriously? This is it? I spent all this time searching for meaning and I get pot-bellied Elvis telling me nothing matters?”
But the truth is—I wanted to believe something mattered. I needed to believe there was a bigger purpose. A reason. A rhythm. A soul-level why.
I still do.
I want to feel good on the inside, not just look put together on the outside. I want to walk out the door without fear. I want to believe in something that stretches beyond this moment, beyond this pain, beyond the headlines and the cynicism and the nonsense.
And that's why I believe in something bigger than myself. In science. In the universe. In faith.
In justice. In grace. In good people doing good things when nobody’s watching.
Lots of people say they’re “spiritual but not religious.” I get that. Religious institutions have weaponized belief, turned sacred texts into exclusionary rulebooks, and used faith as a way to oppress instead of liberate. The Bible has been twisted to condemn the very people Jesus would’ve been out here breaking bread with.
People like me. People like you.
It took me decades to figure out what faith looks like for me. And spoiler alert:
It’s not Elvis with a turkey sandwich.
It’s Social Justice Jesus.
Brown-skinned, sandal-wearing, table-flipping Jesus.
Jesus who washed feet.
Who fed the hungry.
Who forgave the unforgivable.
Who loved outcasts without question.
Who rose again—so we could rise too.
Every day, I try to be a better version of myself. Most days I fail.
But each morning I wake up, I get another chance.
Another sunrise. Another breath. Another beginning.
Easter is the Super Bowl of Christianity. It’s the big show—the resurrection.
But for a lot of folks, Easter just means coloring eggs and hiding them in the yard (which, let’s be real, is a flex with egg prices these days). Plastic grass. Chocolate bunnies. Sugar overload. Zombie Jesus memes.
Because let’s face it—capitalism has commodified the resurrection.
But the real story of Easter?
It’s this:
Hope refused to stay buried.
Love broke the tomb wide open.
And the Divine looked at a broken world and said:
“You still matter. You are still worthy. You still get to rise.”
So today, if you’re not sure what you believe, if you're hanging on by a thread, if you feel like your life’s been stitched together with duct tape and stubbornness—know this:
Resurrection is for you, too.
You are not too late.
You are not too broken.
You are not beyond repair.
You are here.
And you get to start again.
Lenten Reflection: The Final Day
🔹 What has died in me that needed to die?
🔹 What is trying to rise in its place?
🔹 Who am I ready to become next?
This Lenten journey has been messy, honest, and full of humor and heart. And now?
Let it be finished. Let something new begin.
Happy Easter.
✨ He is risen. You are too.
Amen. So be it. Zombie Jesus is risen.
🎶 “Jesus Christ, Superstar…” 🎶
Musical Intermission brought to you by 70s glam, sandals, and sass.
"...Tell me what you think about your friends at the top.
Who'd you think besides yourself's the pick of the crop?
Buddha, was he where it's at? Is he where you are?
Could Mohammed move a mountain, or was that just PR?
Did you mean to die like that? Was that a mistake, or
Did you know your messy death would be a record breaker?
Don't you get me wrong.
I only want to know.
Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,
Who are you? What have you sacrificed?
Jesus Christ Superstar,
Do you think you're what they say you are?"
— Jesus Christ Superstar, Andrew Lloyd Webber
Enjoy your Easter Sunday, friends.
May your eggs be deviled, your chocolate bunnies be hollow, and your faith be fierce.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
📖 More reflections at: flanneldiaries.com
“...I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
— Mary Oliver
Because it’s Satur-whatever-day, I’ve been reflecting. Not day drinking—okay, maybe a 9am mimosa counts, but it’s a holy weekend so let’s call it a sacred libation.
I remember awhile back, I was at my friend's place fixing their busted kitchen faucet because, well, if I didn’t, water was going to explode from the top handle like a scene out of a bad sitcom. And, I probably wouldn’t have been there to witness it, unfortunately. However, I knew the chaos was imminent. And I hate letting something be broken when it can be easily fixed.
But not everything can be easily fixed.
We live in a culture of planned obsolescence. Phones. Furniture. Relationships. People. Toss it when it’s worn out. Replace it when it gets complicated. Upgrade when it doesn’t serve you anymore. One friend once said to me, “Everything has an expiration date, Vangie.” That stuck with me. Milk has an expiration. Friendships, relationships, even this version of yourself—all eventually change, decay, transform, or dissolve.
One of the core tenets of Buddhism teaches that everything is impermanent. Transient. Inconstant. Or in one of my favorite underused words—evanescent. We forget how fleeting it all is. Until suddenly… we don’t.
Holy Saturday is this weird in-between day. The day after death but before resurrection. Jesus is in the tomb. Nobody knows what’s coming. That space between grief and hope? It’s uncomfortable. And yet… so familiar.
Maybe right now, we’re all in some kind of Holy Saturday. Mourning what’s lost. Questioning what’s next. Not knowing if the next chapter will even arrive. But we wait. We breathe. We keep going.
If what you’re doing right now brings you peace—do that. If it doesn’t, then ask yourself why. What’s keeping you from joy? What’s stopping you from becoming the best, truest version of yourself?
Mary Oliver asked, “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
I hope your answer is something bold. Something beautiful. Something unapologetically you.
Because here’s what I know: You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not too late. You are enough—right now, as you are. I see you. I love you.
The light in me sees, embraces, and amplifies the light in you.
Lenten Reflection: The Pause Between Death and Rebirth
“The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul that seeks him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.” – Lamentations 3:25–26 (NRSV)
Holy Saturday is a hinge. It asks us to sit with uncertainty, to resist the rush toward resolution. In this quiet middle space, we mourn, we rest, we listen. And in that stillness, something begins to stir.
🔹 What have I buried that is still asking to be resurrected?
🔹 What hope have I dared not name yet still quietly carry?
🔹 What version of myself am I ready to lay down—and what new self might rise?
You’ve made it 40 days. You’ve reflected. You’ve shown up. You’ve told the truth. And now?
Rest. Let the tomb stay shut a little longer. Let the silence speak.
Resurrection is coming. And you? You’re already being made new.
Namaste.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
📖 More reflections at: flanneldiaries.com