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.
Let the Fumble Stay Fumbled
I’ve been fumbled before.
It's difficult to come to that realization; it wasn’t my job to recover the ball.
It was the beginning of law school, something I’d worked so hard to finally do. I was ready for the challenge, for the shift in my life. But I also believed I could balance both, a new path and a relationship. I was willing to hang on, even when things got hard. I told her that. I meant it.
But for her, it felt like too much. Like, there wouldn’t be enough of me left for her. She never said it outright, but I could feel the pullback. The hesitation. The growing distance. And when I stopped chasing and really thought about it, I realized I was the one still laced up, suited up, ready to give 110%.
Put me in the game, coach.
But what are we playing for if my teammate isn’t in it with me? If I can’t trust she’ll have my back, pick it up when I fumble, or trust me to do the same for her?
You can’t play with people’s hearts. Love isn’t a game. I know that better than most. I’ve had my heart broken enough times to know it’s not fun, not something I’d ever do just for sport. I’m not out here breaking hearts, for the thrill of it, I’m trying to make a real connection. I want the kind of love that catches you and holds you, even when things are messy, uncertain, or hard.
The kind of love where both of us show up.
I’m not asking someone to do all the work.
I’m just asking them to hang on with me. To meet me in the middle. To try.
Because when someone starts letting go, whether it’s emotional distance, silence where there used to be curiosity, or just… not showing up, it means something. And you feel it. In every delayed reply. In every gesture that doesn’t come.
Sometimes, sure, the fumble is recoverable. If both people reach for the ball.
But too often, it just hits the ground and stays there.
And it can’t always be me running down the field, stiff-arming and jumping defenders, carrying the entire weight of the team. I’ve done that. I know how that story ends.
Relationships, real ones, aren’t built on one person fighting to keep it alive while the other retreats. They’re built on two people choosing each other. Over and over. Even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient.
I’ve shown up. I’ve held on. But I know my limit now. And I’ve learned that once someone starts letting go, it’s not always my job to chase.
Sometimes the kindest, clearest act of self-love is letting the fumble stay fumbled.
And walking off the field with my head held high.
Because the right person?
She won’t drop it in the first place.
And if she does?
She’ll scramble to pick it up with me. Not alone. Not late. Not “maybe someday.” But together.
And I deserve nothing less.
If I decide to step back into the dating field,
I hope, whoever she is, she’ll show up in her own way, when she’s ready.
Sure, dating often starts casually.
But maybe, just maybe, it grows into something more.
Something real between two people who realize they’ve been looking for each other all along.
I’ve learned I can care. I can try.
Without losing myself in the process.
Because I know exactly what I bring to the table.
On the field, in life, and in love.
And I’m not afraid to hold out for someone who knows how to hold on, too.
