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.

This episode is a return.

To grief.

To silence.

To the shoreline that held me when I couldn’t hold myself.

It’s a story carved across Charlotte, Carbondale, Avonia, and Rochester.

Across eclipses.

Across motherhood.

Across memory.

I speak about Shiv—not as a romance, but as a soul-recognition.

About the stones I collect at Avonia Beach after dropping off my children.

About grief that rides in the passenger seat.

And the moment I stopped trying to be okay

and started building from what was true.

They didn’t forget I was sacred.

I did.

And now—

I remember.

She thought she was just visiting a cave.

But the stone knew her name.

The water anointed her hands.

And the darkness remembered her before she remembered herself.

In this episode, Em returns to a memory buried since childhood—

a dream of stairs behind a door,

a temple beneath the surface,

and a life lived in service to something ancient and sovereign.

This is not a story of seeking.

It’s a story of returning.

Of striking the stone and hearing your own voice echo back.

Of hitting your head and calling it holy.

Of washing your hands in sacred silence—twice.

Once to remember.

Once to release.

She is not here to be named.

She is here to remind you

that you were never lost.

You were always becoming.

Don’t Call Me: Dreams Between Lives

Not all healing comes from collapse.

Some begins in a room that asks nothing of you.

No story. No apology. No performance.

In this dream, I was exhausted. Unwashed. Unfiltered.

And for once, no one looked away.

He stayed still.

Not to rescue me.

Not to possess me.

But to hold his shape long enough

for me to lay mine down.

This is the moment I stopped surviving

in the presence of someone who expected nothing

but truth.