“Lies come out of fear, and the truth will set you free. Don't be afraid and stand in your truth.” – Unknown
I remember reading The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie and feeling a deep ache in my chest. Disclaimer: I know he’s problematic. The allegations of sexual misconduct are real, and he’s been called out publicly. He's also apologized publicly for the abuse and harm. Yet, it doesn't excuse or forgive his bad behavior. However, this particular essay? It got me. It reached into something I didn’t have words for at the time.
In the story, Victor, a Native character, walks into a 7-Eleven to buy a creamsicle. The cashier watches him closely—just in case he needs to describe him to the cops. Victor feels it. That silent, heavy suspicion. That othering. The story flashes back to when he was living in Seattle with his white girlfriend. He remembers walking outside after a fight and getting stopped by the police. They tell him he doesn’t “fit the profile” of the neighborhood. In his mind, Victor says, I don’t fit the profile of the entire country, but he swallows it. He knows better. He knows saying that truth out loud could get him killed.
That story gave me a language for something I didn’t know how to name. It helped me recognize how being in certain relationships—especially with white women—often put me right back in that same space. I’ve dated women of many backgrounds, but my longest relationships were with white women. And I began to realize, after a few breakups and a lot of therapy, that cultural difference isn’t just about different holidays or food or music. It’s about identity. It’s about how we navigate the world—and how the world treats us differently for it.
Small misunderstandings would spiral. Little things would turn into big fights, and I couldn’t always explain why something seemingly “small” triggered something big inside me. I’d given up so much of my Filipino identity just trying to survive in this country, and here I was doing it again—just to stay in love.
People are surprised when they find out I wasn’t born in the States. I don’t have an accent. But that wasn’t an accident. I learned quickly that accents invite mockery from kids and discrimination from adults. I learned to sound “American.” And over time, I lost the fluency in my first language—Visayan. My mother spoke it until the end of her life. In those last years, she reverted back to her native tongue, and I couldn’t keep up. I had to rely on my nephew to translate. And honestly, I wasn’t always sure I could trust what was being said. That hurt more than I can say.
Losing a language is more than losing words. It’s losing the ability to speak to your ancestors. It’s losing a piece of yourself.
And still—despite all that—I tried so hard to explain my world to my partners. I translated, I softened, I bridged the gap. I thought that’s what love required: bending, adjusting, explaining. And for a long time, I didn’t even realize how much of myself I was giving up in the process. I was fluent in assimilation. That’s what it means to grow up between two worlds.
One therapist once told me: if you keep pushing your emotions down, they’ll explode in ways you don’t expect. That’s exactly what was happening. I didn’t have the language. I didn’t have the tools. So I started running. Playing sports. Hitting balls at the batting cage like it might knock something loose in my chest. I thought if I exerted myself enough, I’d release all those feelings I didn’t want to feel. I used to think emotions were dumb. Dangerous. Feelings get people fired, arrested, or worse—if you’re brown and too loud about it—unalived.
Eventually, I turned to writing. I figured, if I could put all those jumbled thoughts down on paper, I might be able to let them go. There’s a saying in politics: if you don’t tell your story, someone else will. So I started telling mine.
Naming what hurts is the first step toward healing. Reading that essay gave me a mirror. I saw what I needed to heal: the loss of cultural identity, the way I kept trading it away just to belong. Just to be loved.
And here’s the truth that hurts the most: loving your colonizer always ends in heartbreak. When the power dynamics are baked into the relationship, no matter how much love you pour in—it’ll leak out the cracks.
Can we find love in a hopeless place, like Rihanna asks? I don’t know. Maybe. But only if we bring our full selves to the table. Unapologetically. Only if we learn to hold onto our identity while we hold someone else's heart.
And that starts with standing in our truth, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
Lenten Reflection: Standing in Truth
“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.” – John 8:32 (NRSV)
Lent invites us into a season of reflection and reckoning. Not to shame us—but to free us.
🔹 Where have I quieted my voice to be accepted?
🔹 Where have I traded parts of myself in the name of love?
🔹 What truth about myself or my story do I need to finally speak?
This season, may we reclaim the pieces of ourselves we’ve buried. May we speak our stories before they’re erased. And may we remember: healing doesn’t begin when we’re perfect—it begins when we’re honest.
📖 More reflections: flanneldiaries.com
#Lent2025 #HealingThroughTruth #DecolonizeLove #BrownQueerFaith #OwnYourStory #MidwestThugLife #ReclaimAndRise
“The greatest humanistic and historical task of the oppressed: to liberate themselves…” ― Paulo Freire
What does that mean?
For me, it means ending codependency. It means rejecting patriarchy’s version of love and rewriting the story from a place of liberation—not oppression.
Let’s be real: marriage wasn’t created out of love. Historically, it was a transaction. A contract between a man and a woman’s father—literally a transfer of ownership. Women were property. Children were property. And while it feels ridiculous to even say that out loud in 2025, let’s not pretend that those ideas aren’t still lingering. Embedded in laws. In expectations. In certain churches and family traditions. There are still folks walking around believing they own their partner. That love equals possession.
Fu@k that s#it!
No one owns you. The only person who should ever “own” you—is you.
To decolonize love is to untangle it from control, from punishment, from fear. Love shouldn't feel oppressive. It shouldn’t make you question your worth or trap you in someone else’s insecurity. If it does? Get out. Run. That’s not love. That’s power and control dressed up like a Hallmark movie.
White supremacy and patriarchy are everywhere—even in how we love. There’s this tired hypocrisy we don’t talk about enough: when men cheat, it’s forgiven. When women cheat, it’s scandalous. Shameful. “Unnatural.” Why? Because we’re still taught that men are allowed to want—sex, variety, affection—while women are supposed to be these pure, self-sacrificing vessels of virtue.
Meanwhile, rates of intimate partner violence remain staggering. Known but unspoken. The silence is part of the system.
Why do we accept it? Why do we still measure “success” in love by how much we’re willing to suffer for it?
We deserve better.
We deserve love that lifts, not crushes. That expands, not confines. But we’ve been sold fairytales. Happily-ever-afters that somehow always come after a woman gives up everything to be chosen.
And that’s where I say: decolonize love.
It starts with me.
If I could write a letter to younger Vangie, I’d probably say:
“Don’t date that girl. Go back and finish school.”
Then maybe:
“Rip up the plan. Toss it out the window. The Universe has jokes. You’ll think you’ve figured it all out, but nope—it’s about to get weird. You’re going to make the same mistakes again and again until you finally get it. You’re going to break some hearts. You’re going to break your own.
“But it’ll be okay.
“You’ll be okay.
“You’ll have amazing adventures. You’ll meet people who see you. People who challenge you. People who disappoint you. And people who believe in you even when you’re not at your best. Hold on to those ones. Love them hard. Trust them deeply. They’re your people.”
And I’d add:
“Be kind to yourself. You’re going to doubt a lot. You’ll carry shame that doesn’t belong to you. You’ll spend years thinking you were too much, or not enough. But you were always worthy.
“Protect your peace. Get the good health insurance. 2019 was just the warm-up. 2020? Unprecedented. 2024? Bruh. But you? You’re a phoenix, and the ashes aren’t the end.
“Forgive yourself often. Stand in your truth. Don’t ever dull your shine to make someone else feel better. Love with your whole damn heart. Trust your gut. It’s wiser than you think.
“You are whole. You are worthy. You deserve real love.
“And when it gets hard—and it will—remember: you’ve made it through before. Don’t quit now.
“You got this.”
Love,
Future You
Lenten Reflection: Liberation Is Love
“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” – Romans 12:2 (NRSV)
Lent isn’t just about sacrifice. It’s about transformation.
It’s about walking into the wilderness of who we are—and shedding what no longer fits.
🔹 What inherited ideas about love and worth are you ready to release?
🔹 What systems or expectations have shaped the way you show up in relationships?
🔹 What does it look like to choose love that is rooted in freedom, not fear?
This season, may we decolonize our hearts. May we liberate ourselves from the chains that shame, silence, or confine us. And may we move toward a love that is expansive, rooted in truth, and undeniably ours.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
📖 More reflections at: flanneldiaries.com
"Check yourself. Sometimes you are the toxic person. Sometimes you are the mean, negative person you’re looking to push away. Sometimes the problem is you. And that doesn’t make you less worthy. Keep on growing. Keep on checking yourself. Keep on motivating yourself. Mistakes are opportunities. Look at them, own them, grow from them and move on. Do better, be better. You’re human. It’s okay." – Unknown
I've spent my whole life trying to do the right thing and be a good person. That can mean a lot of different things for a lot of different people. But for me? It means trying to move through the world with integrity—even when no one is looking. And because of that, my karma comes quickly.
I tried to steal a candy bar when I was a kid—not because my mom couldn’t afford it, but because I wanted to see if I could get away with it. Right before I made it out the door, the grocer stopped me and asked if I “forgot to pay.” I was nine. I doubt I was slick—shoving a candy bar down my pants wasn’t exactly Ocean’s Eleven. My mom was with me. She was embarrassed. She paid for it. I didn’t eat it. And when we got home, let’s just say I learned that day how swift Filipino discipline could be. I didn’t go back to that store for a long time. And I never tried to shoplift again.
I tell my friends I didn’t want to have sex before marriage—not just because I was raised Catholic—but because in 7th grade health class they showed us a giant picture of genital warts. Let me tell you: that moment rewired my brain. I think that’s when I officially became a germaphobe.
I’m not perfect. I have plenty of faults, and I work daily to be a better version of myself. When I was younger, I didn’t know how to express feelings. That took a toll on my relationships. Depression made it hard to know if I was just sad or if I was breaking. I started therapy in my early 20s. That was huge. It was the '90s. Prozac was new. Therapy was still taboo. I thought taking medication meant I was weak. I thought depression was something I could just walk off. I thought it was just situational. It wasn’t.
I carried shame around my mental illness for years. I rarely talked about it—not with friends, not with partners. That silence, that stigma, was heavy. I've lost two close friends to suicide. Since then, it’s been my mission to destigmatize mental health. Especially now. Especially with the world as chaotic as it is. We need space to talk about what we’re going through. Without shame. Without judgment.
One in four people live with a diagnosed mental health condition. That’s not small. That’s not rare. So if you're feeling foggy, forgetful, unmotivated, exhausted, or just… off? You’re not alone. That’s real. That’s human.
Most anger? It’s sadness in disguise. For a long time, I didn’t cry—I snapped. I got short. Defensive. Irritated. I masked sadness with anger because sadness felt too vulnerable. And let me tell you—experiencing microaggressions your whole life feels like death by a thousand cuts. That kind of chronic, ambient pain becomes part of your wiring.
So yes—I’m warm. I’m generous. I give all of myself until I can’t. Then I shut down. I freeze people out. It’s not always graceful. It’s my trauma response. Fight, flight, freeze. I fight. And when I can't fight, I disappear emotionally.
But here's the thing: I know this about myself. I work on it. I go to therapy. I read. I reflect. I own my shit.
We can't be strong all the time. When I’m mentally tapped out, I retreat—not because I don’t care, but because I need to regroup so I can care again. I’m learning I don’t have to win every argument. I don’t need to die on every hill. And I’m definitely not staying in relationships—romantic or platonic—that make me question my sanity.
I’ve been working hard my whole adult life to be healthy, whole, and high-functioning. And I think I’ve done a damn good job. I’m an amazing friend when I’m treated with care and respect. But if you use me? If you lie? Manipulate? Drain my energy for your own selfish gain? Peace out.
I don’t need that in my life. I’ve built too much to be brought down by someone who hasn’t done the work.
Lenten Reflection: Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself
“Give careful thought to the paths for your feet and be steadfast in all your ways. Do not turn to the right or the left; keep your foot from evil.” – Proverbs 4:26-27 (NRSV)
Lent isn’t just about giving up soda or sugar—it’s about checking ourselves. It’s about being honest. Sometimes we are the problem. And that doesn’t make us worthless—it makes us human.
🔹 What patterns am I repeating that are hurting me or others?
🔹 When have I mistaken independence for isolation?
🔹 Where do I need to offer myself—and others—grace and accountability?
Forgiveness isn’t a one-time thing. It’s a practice. And growth is messy. But we keep showing up. Because healing matters. Because we matter.
📖 Read more reflections at: flanneldiaries.com