“Golf is the loneliest sport. You’re completely alone with every conceivable opportunity to defeat yourself. Golf brings out your assets and liabilities as a person. The longer you play, the more certain you are that a man’s performance is the outward manifestation of who, in his heart, he really thinks he is.” – Hale Irwin
In the novel She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb, the main character, Dolores Price, loses weight by imagining all food is covered in mold. So she basically starves herself to lose 100 pounds. The reason she gained the weight in the first place is because she was sexually assaulted as a child by a neighbor and found comfort in food. After a failed suicide attempt, she’s institutionalized for seven years, and that’s where she sheds the weight.
The book came out in 1992. I was in high school, and for some reason, that part of the story always stuck with me. I was thinking about it again today—could we do that with people? If we don't want to think about someone, can we just mentally cover them in fuzzy mold? Repulse ourselves enough to stop remembering them?
In a way, I think we already do that. After a falling out, we latch onto all the bad memories to justify the distance. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” right? But memory is rarely accurate. It shifts. It softens. It distorts. Sometimes we rewrite entire stories just so we can sleep better at night.
I’ve kept a journal since middle school. I started because I was beginning to understand I was gay and needed a place to pour all my secrets. Journals became that quiet vault for my inner life—everything that couldn't be spoken out loud. When I was in relationships, sometimes I wrote about women I had crushes on, ones I’d never act on. I’ve filled pages with unspoken moments, private thoughts, and contradictions. Some of it’s messy. Most of it’s honest. All of it is mine.
My friend Kimi thinks I have a great memory. I used to. Now, it’s like trying to pull data from an old hard drive that’s overloaded and out of date. What I can’t remember, I’ve written down. I’ve chronicled every meaningful moment—and plenty of meaningless ones. Most of it’s from my vantage point, which means it’s probably biased as hell. But whose story isn’t?
Now that it’s been five years since that forced time of isolation during COVID—and we’ve been out here living our lives like a global pandemic didn’t kill millions of people—I’ve realized something. Life feels way more complicated when we have to keep functioning inside this capitalistic mess. That feeling of contentment I found during the quiet? It’s constantly challenged now. Just participating—in other people’s drama, in our country’s chaos—takes energy. It takes real effort to hold onto that peace.
And at the end of She’s Come Undone, Dolores doesn’t get all her answers wrapped up neatly. She just finally accepts her brokenness. That life isn’t about having all the answers—it’s about learning how to live with the questions.
How do I live my best life without measuring myself against everyone else? Because that’s all we’re taught: to measure ourselves. But isn’t that just chasing something that’ll never satisfy?
We’ll always feel like we’re lacking if the bar is set by someone else's highlight reel. And honestly? I hate that. I don’t have time for it. I don’t have the energy for it.
There’s so much judgment out there. It’s exhausting.
The second half of my life isn’t about proving anything to anybody. It’s about growing. About shaking the fuzzy mold off myself and learning new things. Staying curious. Staying alive inside.
What else am I supposed to do? Pretend I’ve already lived all there is to live? Push myself out to sea on an ice float?
Nah. I’ll keep living my best life. Because eventually, death comes for all of us.
Might as well like who you are until then.
And I think—finally—I do.
Thanks for being part of the story. ❤️
"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