Don’t call Me

Episode Title: Home Is a Diagnosis

Season 3, Episode 2 | Say It Happened

After fleeing abuse and returning to New York in silence, Em hoped to reclaim time with her children. Instead, she was met with judgment, false accusations, and a mother who called her sick at first sight.

This episode details the aftermath of exile, the weight of returning without welcome, and the systems that enabled harm by choosing comfort over truth.

This isn’t a story about reunions. It’s about what happens when your survival disrupts the version of you they needed to believe in.

Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of those not responsible for harm.

Episode Title: The Cut

Season 3, Episode 1 | Say It Happened

In this opening episode of Season 3, Em takes us back to the moment before the escape. Before the healing. Before the microphone. When survival looked like silence, exile, and a pair of clippers in a borrowed bathroom. This isn’t a story about reinvention. It’s about reclamation.

She wasn’t sick. She was done.

This chapter holds the quiet, brutal holiness of shaving her head in the wake of estrangement, system failure, and the unbearable distance from her children. It’s not a metaphor. It’s not performance. It’s what happened.

A house that looked like home.

A memory just out of reach.

And a choice not to take what wasn’t offered.

In this episode, Em revisits the shadow of a former life through a dream set a few towns away from where the real heartbreak happened. What unfolds is a quiet reckoning with the past, the people we once were, and the boundaries we now keep.

This one is about restraint, perspective, and the power of choosing not to go back.

Listen in. The dream will meet you where you are.

In this episode, Em shares a quiet dream that lingers like the memory of almost-love. Through a kiss that never deepened, a song that never existed, and a pair of pants that no longer fit, she explores the ache of shrinking for someone else’s comfort—and the quiet liberation of deciding not to.

This is a story about emotional inheritance, the intimacy of longing, and the unspoken power of outgrowing who you used to be.

Sometimes the dream doesn’t start where you thought it did.

This is the real story—before the tornado. Before the stairwell. Before the door.

It begins with rainbow chalk, with memory as protest.

It moves through false accusations, the sacredness of motherhood, and whales crashing into concrete like gods coming home.

And it ends with a choice: turn back, or let the wind in.

In this episode, I remember everything.

Not just the storm.

But what came before it.

Because survival isn’t always about escape.

Sometimes it’s about holding your ground

when the world tries to rewrite you.

What if the storm isn’t something you survive…

but something you seal off?

In this dream, the tornado came from outside.

Everyone else ran.

I turned back.

Because someone had to close the door.

This episode isn’t about being fearless.

It’s about choosing where the chaos ends.

About being the body that holds the line

quietly, without praise,

so no one else has to hear the wind.

I didn’t need to be seen.

I needed the silence that followed.

And I earned it.

I started this dream on a city bus and ended it at the head of a boat—singing a language I didn’t know, calling people home from the wreckage.

In between?

Glass ceilings that shattered on command.

Starving fish that bit but didn’t mean harm.

A collapsing bridge, a message from the dead,

and a stranger who said, you’re finally here.

This is a dream about survival that refuses to be small.

About being mistaken for a victim—until you remember you’re the one doing the calling.

Welcome to The Sea Dried Up and I Kept Singing.

Stay if you’re ready.

Swim if you’re not.

What if your seat was never in question—just waiting on you to claim it?

In this episode of Dreams Between Lives, I share a dream where I almost missed a flight… not because I wasn’t ready, but because I stopped to change. It’s a story about identity, timing, the power of naming yourself, and what happens when you decide to walk anyway—even if the limo already left.

Sometimes, the door doesn’t open with a knock.

It opens when you say your name like you mean it.

Listen in, and then ask yourself: what truth are you still trying to look ready for?

What do you do when you know it’s all about to collapse—and no one believes you?

In this episode, I take you inside a dream where I’m trapped in a house that’s already dying. A sliding stairwell, a splintering beam, two patients too bitter to move, and a room full of people pretending nothing’s wrong. I warned them. They didn’t listen.

This isn’t just a dream about a crumbling structure—it’s about the weight of being the one who sees the end before it comes. It’s about staying too long, carrying what isn’t yours, and whispering it’s coming while everyone else tells you to calm down.

The house didn’t fall.

Not yet.

And that’s the wound.

What begins as a strange walk through a train museum becomes something much deeper—an unmarked map of the self. Curated by someone who once helped me find my voice, this dream wasn’t just memory. It was movement. Misdirection. And a confrontation with power disguised as silence.

I flew through houses that weren’t homes.

I tried to call out and got called something else.

And still—there was a way through.

This episode is about being seen, about refusing shame,

and about learning that the way out was never locked.

It was always me.

I dedicate this episode to John R.