Have you ever made one little mistake and instantly convinced yourself your whole life was over?
Have you ever messed up something small and suddenly your brain starts screaming, “Pack your bags, girl, we are moving to a new state under a fake name”?
Have you ever felt so ashamed over something tiny that you wondered why you keep ruining everything?
If you said yes to any of those questions… welcome to my emotional support circle. Grab a seat. Grab a snack. Grab a helmet. It gets bumpy.
This is a blog about trauma, perfectionism, embarrassing childhood moments, adult meltdowns, my husband’s Instagram, and somehow FedEx saving my entire existence in the most dramatic plot twist ever. So buckle up. We are going on a journey of tears, laughter, self hatred, redemption, and a moral that would make even Joel Osteen whisper “Amen.”
Here’s the truth. Trauma didn’t just visit me. Trauma moved in, decorated the living room, and set up shop like it was paying rent. Growing up in an Asian household, perfection wasn’t a goal. It was oxygen. If you weren’t perfect, you were practically auditioning for your funeral.
I never did drugs. Never snuck out. Never partied. My rebellious streak was talking too long on the phone. Yes. The phone. Some kids were out drinking and breaking curfew. Meanwhile I was over here giggling with my friends and my parents were inside planning my sentencing.
I remember being grounded for months. One time six straight months. And for what? I wish I could tell you it was something juicy. But nope. Probably because I talked on the phone for eight minutes too long. Honestly, writing this out, I realize maybe that is why I barely talk now. You punish someone long enough for doing something joyful and guess what? They stop doing it. Trauma be like that.
Then there was the day I thought my parents were going to kill me. Fourth grade me. Tiny. Dramatic. Traumatized. I open my report card and see one B. Not a failing grade. Not a C. A B. And I immediately accepted death. I didn’t even think about lying or hiding it. Nope. My little dramatic self went straight to the kitchen, grabbed a butter knife, marched to my parents and said, “Here. Just kill me now.”
Who does that at age nine? I hadn’t even lived life yet. I had barely developed eyebrows. My parents did not kill me, thank God. But they were very upset. Asian disappointed parent energy is the equivalent of death anyway. It follows you around, whispers in your ear, and reappears every time you hesitate before hitting submit on a form.
Now fast forward. I’m grown. Married. Being a pastor. Being a pornstar. Being a comedian. Writing books. Filming YouTube. Building an empire. And yet one mistake turns me into a puddle on the floor whispering, “I am trash.”
Self hatred became my part-time job. Failure became my biggest fear. And every time I messed up, my brain went straight to:
“I hate myself.”
“I failed again.”
“Everyone will be disappointed.”
“Do I even deserve to be alive?”
Reading the book Midas Touch by Donald Trump and Robert Kiyosaki changed something in me. They talked openly about their failures. Their embarrassing ones. Their expensive ones. Their gigantic ones. And guess what? They still succeeded. My brain went, “Hold up… if these two men can fail that big and still thrive, maybe failure isn’t a sign I need to disappear.”
It didn’t fix everything. But it cracked the wall.
But then… the Instagram collapse happened. Stephen is in prison. He trusted me with his social media. His business. His followers. And I… forgot to check it. Life got busy. I got ditzy. My memory got foggy. I got lazy. And one day… poof. It was gone. His entire Instagram account vanished like it had been Raptured.
I told him. I expected pain, sadness, yelling. He worked hard for that account. My reaction? Divorce.
Not a conversation. Not a “my bad.”
I straight up said I wanted a divorce.
Not over cheating. Not over betrayal.
Over Instagram.
My husband committed a crime. We’ve survived hell, suffering, chaos. But the second I mess up? I want to dissolve our marriage like it’s expired milk. He said, “You want a divorce… over Instagram?”
I said, “Yes. Because I’m a horrible person.”
That is how deep failure runs in my blood.
And it gets worse. In this season, mistakes have been hitting me like dodgeballs in gym class. The self hatred these last few months has been intense. Heavy. Dark. But I am working on it. Fighting it. Learning to heal.
Then today… I failed again. I drove all the way to San Diego for my stand-up comedy gig and realized I forgot my flyers. The flyers are my business. My follow up system. My new fans. No flyers means wasted stage time. Wasted makeup. Wasted gas. Wasted jokes.
Old me would’ve spiraled into a panic attack. Old me would have cried for hours. Old me would have crawled into a blanket burrito of shame.
But today? I did something new. I took a breath.
A literal inhale. Exhale.
Then I asked myself, “How do we fix this?”
I found a place that prints same day.
I called FedEx.
I uploaded my PDFs from Canva.
And by 8 pm… the flyers were done.
Do you hear this character development?
This emotional comeback?
This growth arc?
This “I deserve a Lifetime movie” moment?
For the first time maybe in my entire life, I didn’t beat myself up. I didn’t call myself names. I didn’t spiral. I found a solution. I solved the problem. I acted like… a functioning human. I almost want to give myself a trophy.
Because today—I won. Not because I didn’t fail. But because when I did fail… I didn’t destroy myself. I chose to try again. And that is a victory.
So here’s the lesson.
We all fail.
We all forget.
We all mess up.
We all drop balls like we are juggling with butter-covered hands.
Failure is not the enemy.
Self hatred is.
Life is not ruined because you forgot something.
Life is not over because you made a mistake.
Life is not pointless because you slipped up.
What matters is what you tell yourself afterward.
You can say, “I’m so stupid.”
Or you can say, “I’ll do better next time.”
One leads to shame.
The other leads to growth.
Today, I chose growth.
And if I can do it with my dramatic trauma-filled brain…
You can too.
Remember you are my lovers, whether you love me or love to hate me you are still my lover!
Don’t forget Jesus loves you and so do I!