In Memory of Asal Khanghahi (1.16.1975 - 5.19.2011)
Written May 19, 2012 | By Vangie Castro
“Be Who You Are and Say What You Feel Because Those Who Mind Don't Matter and Those Who Matter Don't Mind.”-- Dr. Seuss
A year ago, I received a phone call late at night from a friend in the Bay Area. She said, "are you sitting down?" I told her, "it's late here; I'm laying down."
"Asal is no longer with us," Emme said in a somber and even tone. I knew what she meant when she said that.
While my friend was recapping what fragmented information she had received of Asal's passing, I was trying hard to wrap my mind around the news. A part of me was not surprised. We wouldn't find out the truth – and all the gory details of how she died and where she was found -- until a few days later. I won't go into all that, since that's not the important part of the story, but it was and is sad to think about.
I was hoping the next phone call I received about Asal would be from Asal, telling me she was sorry and that she wished we could be friends again. Friends get mad at each other; they have falling-outs; sometimes we just need to give each other time to cool off and figure stuff out. Asal and I had a similar situation four years into our friendship. Misunderstandings, deceit, and guilt kept us from talking for six months. Eventually, other friends pushed us to reconnect and make amends, forgive, and move forward. We became friends again, even closer than before, but we hide things even from our closest friends.
Two years prior, I received an email from Asal telling me, "Vangie, if you feel things are different between us it is because they are...I no longer want to be your friend." Asal and I had been friends for 10 years, best friends. We were even roommates at one point. We talked to each other every day; hung out at least once a week. It was a blow.
I read somewhere that people want to be lied to. Maybe the bitter pill of reality is easier to swallow with a coating of untruth. Are we that dysfunctional as a society that we are willing to sacrifice the care and well being of others because we don’t want to disrupt the perfect picture we have of ourselves and others? We want so badly to be perfect parents, perfect partners, perfect children, and perfect community members it’s actually more harmful to our collective psyche than helpful because perfection is unattainable. It breeds anxiety when we don’t meet society’s standards of perfection. We don’t allow our children to fail or make mistakes. We freeze out our friends or lovers when they hurt us. We blame our parents for why we suck as parents. It seems as if we don’t take accountability for our own behavior anymore, instead of admitting our faults and failures we rather hide, lie, and cover up. We have lost our way.
Asal had a diagnosed, untreated mental illness. Once the dust settled and plans for her cremation and memorial were worked out, more information about her last year of life slowly revealed itself. She had been lying about everything: She was no longer with her girlfriend, she dropped out of school and used the tuition money to go clubbing and do drugs, she was embezzling money from her ex, and she was unemployed and homeless. Everyone who knew the old Asal, who could have helped her, she had pushed away or cut off. We create perfect images of our lives in order to cover up the fucked-up-ness of our true reality. Sometimes our pride gets in the way of asking for help.
I finally got in touch with Asal's ex a couple days later. She had sent me a Facebook message a week earlier, asking me if I knew where Asal was -- she was missing. I didn't check my Facebook as much back then. The next message I got from her was that they found her, and she had committed suicide. Those were the messages that greeted me two days after I found out from Emme that Asal was dead.
I had just started coming out of my depression from my dad's death a year and half earlier, so all I was feeling was numb, confused, and guilty. I talked to Asal's ex. I told her I'd come back to the Bay for the funeral/cremation/memorial service the family planned on having for Asal. She would let me know in the next day or two when the services would be, so I could get my ticket and fly out as soon as possible.
I didn't know what else to do to help or console her, so I did what I'm good at: I offered to organize the memorial service/releasing of her ashes and get in touch with everyone I could to let them know. I started making phone calls. On Facebook, I found people I hadn't talked to or heard from in years. The reactions ranged from sadness to disbelief and anger.
It was a whirlwind of weirdness. Looking back on it now, it's like a scene from a bad Lifetime movie. It's a strange position to be in to have to convince people someone is dead. Then you wait...most reactions are fairly typical and the conversation is brief and they thank you for letting them know. Others you have to sit with and listen to them process as the information sinks in. Asal had burned a lot of bridges, so I also had to apologize for her, and ask for forgiveness as her representative.
Asal was amazing. She was beautiful, brilliant, funny, resourceful, imaginative, creative, charming, loving, and troubled. Her mind worked on a different level. That was her greatest gift and biggest downfall. Maybe if she was dumber, I could have helped her, helped her find a way to be good again.
Heartbreaking as it seemed, she had me convinced that I had done something wrong to end our friendship. How messed up is that!? I couldn't pick up the phone and call her to ask if we could work things out and be friends again. I was so hurt from her last email, I couldn't find the compassion to forgive her at the time. She wasn't there for my graduation, my father's passing, my moving away to Minnesota -- she wasn't there. Best friends make promises to always be there in each other’s lives through all the successes and failures. I wasn't there for her either, as her relationship was falling apart, her mind was starting to trick her, and she spiraled into a deep abyss of depression. I wasn't there. I guess some promises have expiration dates.
I finally got all the information I needed for the releasing of the ashes/memorial service and made preparations to get on a plane from Minneapolis to San Francisco.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t a pleasure trip, and I hate traveling. I'm a terrible traveler. It’s uncomfortable to the point of, "I really don't want to be doing this. I don't want to go back. I don't want to say goodbye." But I did.
My partner at the time was not coming with me on this trip. She had other obligations and she also said she thought it would be best if I went alone so I could spend more time with my friends. I knew at the time she couldn't go, but I would have given anything to have her by my side. I would have done anything, so I wouldn't have to go through this alone. But, there I was, in San Francisco, with my carry-on bag standing at the curb.
My last email to Asal was in response to her telling me she didn't want to be friends anymore. I can't tell you exactly what it said, but I do remember saying, "we've been through a lot, I would have thought we could talk about this. I'm always open to discuss, when you are ready. I respect your choice, but I hope this isn't goodbye. I love you." I would like to say that I'm okay, and it doesn't affect me, but it does. Deeply. If I didn't learn something from my dad's death, I certainly got the message this time around, like a big konk over the head or a brick in the face. I got it!
"When the world is filled with hate, its heart is filled with loss, and therefore it will violently mourn. But if we transform that hate into love, the void in the heart would fill with light, and we would celebrate instead." - Asal Khanghahi, 05/04/2011
Asal was small to begin with. It's alarming to see how small we really are when our remains are put into a beautiful aqua blue box. As her ashes were released into the San Francisco Bay, the stark reality of our mortality hit me. We try so hard to protect ourselves from our own pain, we end up inflicting it on others, out of sheer self-protection. What's the point? At the end of the day, we end up in little blue boxes. And that's it.
Asal's life isn't going to be remembered by the lies she weaved to make others believe she was something she wasn't. Her life will be remembered by the ones who loved her and truly knew her.I will always remember her sensitive nature, kind heart, and bright soul. I loved the way she danced; it always reminded me how Charlie Brown would dance. She always tried to hug and kiss me, even though she knew I hated it. She always gave me a hard time about being so rigid about morals, ethics, and politics, and just rigid in general. She always called me out on my stuff and held me accountable. She helped me be a better person. I loved her. And I miss her.
It's incredible how someone so bright can be gone so suddenly. It's like those dead stars in the sky. All you see is the light your eyes capture, even though the light source is no longer there. I don't think anyone could truly know or understand how important she was to me, how she saved me from some of my own darkest days. We saved each other. I just couldn't save her this last time.
I was glad to be back home, to Rochester, Minnesota. Where, I thought, things would start to make sense again. I came back different. I don't think I've ever been the same. I’m not an emotional person. But, when I think of her and the conversations we used to have, the times we spent together, and the adventures that we experienced over the years, I tear up. With every fiber of my being, I miss her. It’s a great loss for me. Her death and her life, changed me, profoundly, and I hope, for the better.
"The path to spiritual advancement is the least boring kind of living because it is really fulfilling. You can never get bored communicating with the universe and all its being. You find yourself thinking for hours about the miracles of sleeping and awakening; the miracles of birth and death; the miracles of finding peace within; and I guess we can call all those the miracle of life! It is so corny to say LOVE is everything, but it is." - Asal Khanghahi, 08/21/2004
Remember that scene from "Sleepless in Seattle," when Meg Ryan’s character, Annie, tells Walter she’s developed feelings for Sam Baldwin, even though they’ve never met? She basically falls in love with the idea of him after hearing him speak for a few minutes on a talk radio show about his late wife.
And I’ve always been like… wait, what?
Because she just spent Valentine’s weekend with Walter picking out china at Tiffany’s. They’re engaged. This man is committed, present, and very much real. And she breaks it off based on a feeling that some guy on the radio might be her soulmate?
It’s honestly amazing Walter didn’t dump champagne over her head and call her a liar and a w h o r e.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he calmly says to her, “I don’t want to be someone that you’re settling for. I don’t want to be someone that anyone settles for. Marriage is hard enough without bringing such low expectations into it, isn’t it?”
And Annie’s response? “I don’t deserve you.”
And then she just… leaves. Goes off to chase a feeling. Like, damn.
I’ve always admired Walter for that. You have to be so grounded in yourself to not spiral in that moment. To not beg. To not argue. To not try to convince someone to stay.
That’s a level of self-respect a lot of us are still working toward. Because the truth is, he was right. No one should be settled for. No one should be someone’s placeholder. Not in marriage. Not in relationships. Not ever.
And if I’m being honest, I’ve seen this from both sides. I don’t want to be someone’s “they’re alright for now” person. The in-between warm body. The soft place to land while they figure their shit out. The backup plan and "maybe this will work out," attempt.
I’ve been that. No Thanks!
And I’ve also stayed longer than I should have, trying to make something work that I knew, deep down, wasn’t it. That quiet voice in your head that says, this isn’t right? Yeah. I’ve ignored that one more times than I’d like to admit.
There were times I channeled Walter. And there were times I was messy. Bitter. Let my bruised ego run the show. But eventually, when everything settled, I’d come back to that moment.
“I don’t deserve you.”
And instead of taking that as an insult, I started hearing it as clarity. Not everyone is meant to meet you where you are. Not everyone is capable of choosing you the way you deserve to be chosen. And that’s not something you argue with. That’s something you accept.
Maybe it’s the pragmatist in me, but I still think about Walter sometimes. Did he find someone who actually chose him? Someone who wasn’t comparing him to a fantasy? Someone who saw him clearly and stayed anyway?
I hope so.
Because even though he was a little basic, stable, predictable, and yeah, allergic to everything, he was a good man.
And honestly? The fact that he didn’t create a scene in that fancy restaurant is kind of mind-blowing when you really think about it. No drama. No ego. That’s some next-level emotional regulation right there.
I really hope Walter wasn’t completely traumatized by Annie and that he found someone who actually fit him better. Someone who wasn’t chasing a fantasy or falling in love with a feeling, but who could recognize what was right in front of them.
Because here’s the thing no one really tells you. Love, the kind that actually lasts is kind of… boring.
It’s the in-between stuff.
The everyday stuff.
The choosing each other over and over again when nothing exciting is happening.
And that’s the funny part, isn’t it?
Because the reason Annie fell in love with Sam in the first place… is because he talked about that exact kind of love.
The simple things.
Holding hands.
Being known.
Showing up, day after day.
She heard it. She believed in it. She just couldn’t recognize it when she already had it. And there is absolutely someone out there who wants exactly that. That’s the kind of love I believe in now.
Not the dramatic, cinematic, “run to the Empire State Building” kind. But the kind where two people choose each other fully.
Honestly.
Without hesitation.
Without one foot out the door.
No settling.
Just two people who want to be there.
Together.
Lenten Reflection: The Courage Not to Settle
"Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good." – Romans 12:9 (NRSV)
Walter had it right. Love is already hard enough without lowering the bar. Lent is a season of honesty. A time to examine our expectations, our choices, and how we show up for ourselves and others.
🔹 Where have I accepted less than I deserve, just to avoid being alone?
🔹 Have I treated others as placeholders, rather than people worthy of deep, authentic love?
🔹 What would it look like to love with clarity instead of fantasy?
Today, let us check our hearts, not just for who we love, but how. May we refuse to settle. May we choose with courage. And may we become the kind of people worthy of the love we seek.
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of each other. 🧡
“The next day the large crowd that had come to the festival heard that Jesus was coming to Jerusalem. So they took branches of palm trees and went out to meet him, shouting, ‘Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord, the King of Israel!’” —John 12:12–13 (NRSV)
Palm Sunday. The beginning of the end.
The moment when people welcomed Jesus as a savior.
Waving palms. Shouting “Hosanna,” which literally means, "Save us."
And within days? Those same voices were shouting for his death. We like to think we would’ve been different.
We wouldn’t have turned.
We wouldn’t have followed the crowd.
We wouldn’t have been so easily swayed.
But history, and honestly, current events, tell a different story.
Because we are still doing it.
We are still looking for someone to save us.
Still putting people on pedestals.
Still believing the loudest voice in the room must be the right one.
Still confusing power with truth.
We are being sold the same story over and over again.
That someone strong will fix everything.
That someone loud will protect us.
That someone in power will make things “great” again.
And every time, we fall for it.
Meanwhile, the people actually doing the work?
You don’t know their names.
They’re not on stages.
They’re not building brands off outrage.
They’re not promising salvation.
They’re doing the quiet work.
Feeding people.
Showing up.
Organizing.
Healing.
Changing themselves while they try to change the world.
That’s the part we don’t like.
Because it’s not flashy.
It’s not immediate.
It doesn’t feel powerful.
And it doesn’t let us off the hook. Because if we’re being honest…
We don’t actually want to be saved.
We want to be comfortable.
We want someone else to fix things without requiring anything from us.
We want transformation without sacrifice.
We want justice without accountability.
And that’s not how this works. It never has been. The people in Jerusalem thought they were welcoming a king.
Someone powerful.
Someone who would overthrow systems.
Someone who would fight for them.
Instead, they got a teacher. A poor brown man riding in on a donkey. Telling them to love their enemies.
To feed the poor.
To stand with the marginalized.
To examine themselves.
And that wasn’t what they wanted.
So they turned on him.
That kind of reversal feels painfully familiar.
We see it all the time, putting people on pedestals, only to watch them crash when we realize they’re flawed, human, or just disappointing. These days we call it “cancel culture.”
But it’s not new. It’s ancient. And it says more about us than it does about the people we tear down. So in the crucifixion story, ask yourself, "Who would you be?"
Would you be Peter, who loved Jesus but denied knowing him when things got hard?
Would you be Pilate, who knew better but still washed his hands of it all?
Would you be Judas, who betrayed his friend with a kiss?
Would you be the crowd, easily swayed by power, pressure, and propaganda?
Or would you be Mary, who stayed, even when it cost her everything?
The truth is… we’ve been all of them.
At different points in our lives, we’ve betrayed, denied, abandoned, judged, or stayed silent when it mattered most. And we’ve also grieved, resisted, and held space for truth in the face of injustice.
We haven’t changed as much as we think we have. We still reject the message when it asks too much of us. We still crucify truth when it disrupts our comfort. We still follow crowds when it’s easier than thinking for ourselves.
And while we’re arguing over who belongs in bathrooms, who gets rights, who deserves dignity... Power is consolidating quietly. Systems are being reshaped. And we’re distracted. Just like we’ve always been.
Palm Sunday isn’t just about what they did. It’s about what we’re still doing.
If we want to fix this world;
If we want to dismantle broken systems; and
If we want to rebuild something better.
We don’t start out there. We start here. With ourselves.
Because we cannot destroy what’s broken in the world
if we refuse to confront what’s broken in us.
That’s the work.
Quiet.
Unseen.
Uncomfortable.
Real.
Maybe the problem was never that we didn’t recognize the savior.
Maybe the problem is we don’t want to become the people the message requires.
Lenten Reflection: Who Are You in the Story?
“Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord, the King of Israel!” — John 12:13 (NRSV)
Palm Sunday asks a hard question. Not who Jesus was. But who we are.
This week, sit with this:
🔹 Where am I looking for someone else to save me?
🔹 Where am I avoiding the work required of me?
🔹 When have I followed the crowd instead of standing in truth?
Faith isn’t about performance.
It’s about transformation.
And transformation starts within.
But blessed are we, too, when we refuse to follow the crowd, and choose instead to walk the way of compassion, resistance, and radical love.
🕊️ As above, so below.
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of each other.
