"Be like a tree and let the dead leaves drop." — Rumi
Life is an endless dance between holding on to what matters and releasing what no longer serves. It takes courage to do both, to endure through hardship and to let go when your heart feels heavy.
Fall is a very melancholic time of the year for me. Two close friends moved on into the void around this time, and my dad’s death anniversary always brings me back to that space between love and forgiveness. He was a complicated man, stoic, stubborn, brilliant, difficult, and extremely flawed. He never said “I love you,” not once that I can remember, not even when he was dying. But he did say he was proud of me, and maybe that was his version of it.
He named me after himself and made sure we shared the same initials. It’s strange, like he wanted me to carry him forward, to be a reflection of him. To carry on his legacy. And maybe, in some weird way, I am and I’m not. He was hardworking, driven, and a little narcissistic, the kind of man who believed the world bent to willpower. And maybe that’s the part of him that lives loudest in me: that relentless belief that I can make things work, that I can rebuild even after ruin. It’s both my gift and my burden, a mirror of the man who made me. Both a blessing and a curse.
He showed love the way men of his generation often did, through work, provision, and persistence. He taught me devotion to family, the immigrant determination to make the best out of difficult situations, and the unshakable belief that you can rebuild from anything. He also taught me what silence costs, what happens when love gets buried under duty and pride until it turns into something unrecognizable, and even toxic.
At the end, he wanted to know if he was a good man, a good father. And I told him he was, even when he wasn’t. Because love isn’t easy, and people aren’t either. He made me both hate myself and believe I could do anything I set my mind to. That contradiction lives in me still, the rebel and the conformist, the dreamer and the realist, the lover and the villain.
Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to quiet kinds of love, the ones that show up instead of the type that speaks up. The ones that hide feeling behind function. But I’ve also learned how that kind of love, when pushed down and hidden, can twist itself into strange, self-protective shapes. Love unspoken becomes love undefined. Love unwritten.
Fall has a way of reminding me that letting go can still be beautiful. That even the most complicated endings can hold grace. That we’re all just trying to be good, good people, good parents, good partners, good children, even when we fall short. Especially when we come up short.
My dad taught me that. He wasn’t always right, but he kept showing up. He kept making it work. And maybe that’s all any of us can do: to keep trying, keep forgiving, keep growing, to let go of what’s no longer good, and believe that even after the hardest seasons, we can still be good again.
My friend Kimi thinks it’s weird that I still grieve my father. But I loved him. As messed up as he was, and as complicated as our relationship was, he was still my father. In his quiet, convoluted way, I knew he loved me too.
No one gets to tell you how to grieve. No one gets to decide for you how long is long enough. And no one but yourself gets to know your grief.
Grief changes over time, but in the end, it is still grief. What I’ve learned from knowing grief and knowing love is that you get one life, one weird, unpredictable, beautiful, magical life. Don’t waste it. Don’t waste it thinking you aren’t good enough, or that you aren’t deserving of wonderful things. This world is stupid and sucks a lot, and so what if it does? This is it. This is what we have to work with.
So, in the words of teacher, mentor, and fashion guru, Tim Gunn: “Make it work.” 👔✨
Updated: Jul 23
“Authenticity without empathy is selfish. Authenticity without boundaries is careless.” — Adam Grant
My birthday is coming up in five days, and I’m turning 51. Reflecting on these 50 years of living and adulting, one thing is clear: many people assume they have access to me, my time, my energy, my emotions. The truth is, they don’t. Most haven’t earned that kind of personal access.
We live in a victim-blaming society where bad behavior is excused everywhere we turn. That’s privilege in action. It’s exhausting to witness, and I witness it regularly.
Our reality is steeped in hypocrisy. It’s acceptable to watch violence on TV -- people being raped, mutilated, and killed -- but it’s not okay to see a woman’s nipple when she’s breastfeeding her baby. We talk about democracy, yet politicians seem intent on codifying discrimination and limiting the freedoms of women, LGBTQ+ folks, immigrants, differently abled, and people of color through law.
As a nation, we’ve lost sight of what we truly stand for because it feels like we’re falling for anything, brought to you by this or that billionaire. It’s gross.
It’s okay to believe what you want and exercise your personal freedoms. It’s not okay to believe your beliefs are righteous and infallible to the point of fascism. I don’t think the Constitution or the Bible were ever intended as weapons to harm or destroy others. Sure, anything can be twisted into a weapon, but those two documents were created to bring people together, provide guidance, and offer a blueprint for being good, as a nation and as human beings.
We live comfortably in this country while ignoring its painful history: genocide of Native peoples, the enslavement of African Americans followed by segregation under Jim Crow laws, and ongoing racism against the Black community. The continued xenophobia toward immigrants. And a horrifying record of violence against women and children. One in four women report being raped; each year, 2,000 children die from abuse or neglect. Yet, we blame trans people for the violence and abuse caused by cis-straight men.
We fool ourselves if we think prayer or “traditional family values” alone will fix this nation. Oh Mylanta, that has never saved anyone...let alone an entire country. What we really need are people who care. Leaders who care. Who care about each other regardless of race, gender, religion, socioeconomic status, ethnicity, political beliefs, physical abilities, or mental capacity. We all have the ability to care and show kindness. Show our humanity.
But kindness isn’t something we teach well. We train people to kill and subdue but don’t teach compassion and empathy. Yes, some will take advantage of our kindness. More often than not. Yes, scammers exist. Don't fall for that Nigerian Prince or Princess. But that shouldn’t stop us from being thoughtful and concerned. God forbid, show each other love.
Caring.
Kindness.
Thoughtfulness.
Concern.
Compassion.
Honesty.
Integrity.
Courage.
We can all embody these traits. Standing up, speaking out, calling people out. That’s how we begin to heal and create a safer society. We must have zero tolerance for as$holish behavior. People like to call it being "real." Being a real arsehole, more like it.
Because when we allow poor manners and awful behavior to persist, we normalize a culture of violence, cruelty, and disrespect.
It begins with us. It begins with me.
If not me, who? If not now, when?
As I step into my 51st year, I commit to honoring my own boundaries, protecting my energy, and demanding respect, not only for myself but for everyone. I invite you to join me. Let’s choose empathy, courage, and kindness every day. Let’s hold ourselves and others accountable. Let’s be the change we want to see.
If I plan on living another decade or two on this planet, I want to be the change I seek, and live in a world I actually want to keep living in. Looking away when awful things happen, like the growing unhoused population, deepening political division, and the traps of post-capitalism, is no longer an option.
Here’s an example of our community’s willful blindness: In Rochester, we’ve spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on strategies to get rid of crows downtown. Multiple solutions so Mayo and the City can keep up appearances as an amazing, thriving metropolis. Yet, I regularly encounter the unhoused population here, and it’s deeply depressing. It’s a revolving door of pushing people to the margins (jail), then off to underfunded nonprofits that don’t have the staff or resources to address the poverty, untreated mental illness, and substance abuse plaguing this community. And just to be real: the unhoused population is part of Rochester. Suppose businesses, Mayo, and the city can invest time, resources, and energy into chasing away birds. In that case, I believe it’s time to seriously start figuring out how to address human suffering here. #IMHO
In the end, to live a good life, we must let go of the things that keep us chained.
Here’s to growing older, wiser, and stronger, either together at the least individually.
For my birthday, I don’t want anything for myself. Not gifts, not your time, not tokens of appreciation. I can buy myself a cake and do all the things that make me happy.
What would truly bring me joy is this:
Please donate to a local charity working with the unhoused population.
Feed someone who’s hungry if you’re able.
Volunteer with a shelter.
Offer compassion, not judgment.
Give someone else a reason to believe life can be less awful...even for one day.
Bonus: Learn to golf and then come golfing with me.
That would mean the world to me.
Thank you.
Be kind to yourself and each other, always.
Updated: Jun 23
Today would have been my mom’s 91st birthday, and I’ve been thinking about her a lot today. About our relationship. About how differently my life might have turned out if she hadn’t loved me the way she did.
If my mom hadn’t been so quietly, fiercely supportive of me being gay, if she hadn’t just been cool about it, I don't know where I’d be. Her love wasn’t loud, but it was constant. Steady. The kind of love that changes everything.
My mom and I were 40 years apart. I think about her in her early 40s, uprooting her life to move to a brand-new country with four small kids and only what we could pack into our suitcases. She didn’t know much English. All she knew was that she was heading somewhere safer, somewhere with more promise for her children than the place we were leaving behind. She had survived a Japanese occupation, the loss of a child, martial law, a cheating husband, and the upheaval of moving her entire life to a whole ass new country. And she thrived while doing it.
My siblings and I were her dream, the reason for every risk and every sacrifice she ever made. We were able to get an education, to live out the American Dream my parents worked so hard for. We came here with nothing. I grew up in poverty. I became a naturalized citizen at 18. And through all of it, my mom gave me the love and support I needed to survive and thrive in a country that hasn’t always been kind to people like us. Strangers in a strange land.
But my parents made a life here anyway. They carved out space, they struggled with dignity, and they never thought of themselves as anything less than American. They earned their citizenship through years of hard work and determination, and they were proud of that.
Everything I am is because of my mother.
When I came out to my mom, I was twenty-one. I’d been gay for a while, but I still hadn’t come out to my parents. I don’t know what came over me that day, but it felt like the right moment. We were driving and I just said, “Mom, I’m gay.” She was quiet for a beat, then said, “As long as you're happy. Don’t tell your dad.” And that was it.
No dramatic conversations. No asking why. No guilt or confusion. No “we’re Catholic, you can’t be gay.” Just: you’re still my daughter, nothing changes. But your dad’s gonna be pissed (and yes, he eventually found out and reacted... as expected).
My mom, and even my dad, in his way, weren’t going to love me any less. What they feared wasn’t me being gay. It was the world. They knew the world could be cruel to someone like me. But I was their child. No matter what.
I wish more people could have that kind of experience. That kind of quiet, unwavering acceptance. The kind my mother offered me is why I’m fearless. Why I can live authentically. Why I strive to be good. Because my mother didn’t know how to love any other way.
When people ask me why I do what I do, it’s because of my parents. Because of my mother. Even though she’s no longer around, I am her legacy. I was her reason to keep pushing, keep struggling, keep surviving. I honor her memory, her heart, her soul, by being the best version of myself every single day. Because without her love, I honestly don’t know who I’d be.
My mom wasn’t a big woman, but to me she stood tall. Proud. She barely reached 4’11”. I remember her telling me back in 2009, “You’re big now, Vangie. You can carry me when I’m too old to walk.” I would carry my mother to the ends of the earth if it would bring her back. Even knowing my back would give out, I’d still do it. That’s how much I miss her.
Happy birthday, Mom.
I love you.
Mahal kita.
