This one started somewhere near the question of whether you can feel your blood moving through you right now — and ended up in the ocean.

I trace a memory of watching my children play in cold water without a care in the world, and the slow, inch-by-inch negotiation I had with myself to finally get in. The feet were fine. The calves were fine. The knees were fine. The belly was starting to think, oh, this is kind of neat. And still the mind held out, labeling the edge — that thin line where air meets water, where wet meets dry — as wrong, unwelcome, too much.

What I find there: that the edge is where a lot of the charge lives. The edge of a forest. The edge of a knife. The shoreline. The moment of getting in.

Along the way: a grandfather's zipper joke, teenage sleepovers and 7-Eleven runs, the comfort of hot tubs and hours in a bathtub, the question of whether any of this has something to do with being born — and the math of how we each arrived here at all: two, four, eight, sixteen, all the way to this extraordinary ordinary now.

"Every time I come to these recordings, it's like sitting down to a blank canvas. I never know what's gonna fall out."

Behind My Curtain arrives when it arrives. This one arrived at 2am.

The spoken telling is the heart of this — for an accurate, readable rendition of the audio, visit my Substack post here.

If you enjoy this offering, support can be made here. ❤️

The spoken telling is the heart of this — for an accurate, readable rendition of the audio, visit my Substack post here.

If you enjoy this offering, support can be made here. ❤️

This is a late-night meditation on home as shelter and threshold — on locked doors, fresh air, guardian spirits, and the growing capacity to hold more than one feeling at once.

The spoken telling is the heart of this — for an accurate, more readable rendition of the audio, visit my Substack post here.

If you enjoy this offering, support can be made here. ❤️

In this episode, Emma explores the living texture of the present moment: the ticking of a clock, sunlight through a window, birds outside, heartbeat under voice, and the subtle shimmer of sensation moving through the body. She reflects on full-body tingles, the sensitivity of fingertips, the hidden labour of blood and breath, and the protective parts of self that worry about being received imperfectly.

A slow, intimate, unscripted meditation on embodiment, presence, and the mysterious delight of sharing one now across time and space with another human being.

The spoken telling is the heart of this — for an accurate, more readable rendition of the audio, visit my Substack post here.

If you enjoy this offering, support can be made here. ❤️

Emma follows that noticing into a wider inquiry: what makes a place home? Is home the apartment, the city, the trees, the traffic, the ocean, the moon, the body, the Earth? Through memories of noisy streets, quiet hotel rooms, west coast storms, and city mornings, she explores the possibility of feeling peaceful not by controlling the outside world, but by softening into belonging within it.

An unscripted, heartbeat-backed reflection on sleep, sound, acceptance, and being warmly at home in oneself.

The spoken telling is the heart of this — for an accurate, readable rendition of the audio, visit my Substack post here.

If you enjoy this offering, support can be made here. ❤️

This episode wanders through the body as an instrument: vocal cords vibrating, heartbeat travelling through a phone on the chest, sound waves touching walls, windows, traffic, birds, and the unseen listener. Emma reflects on how voice localizes thought, how words both open and trap meaning, and how sound itself can become prayer, meditation, play, and contact.

A loose, laughing, kelp-swaying exploration of embodiment, frequency, rawness, and the treasure of meeting each other across time.

The spoken telling is the heart of this — for an accurate, more readable rendition of the audio, visit my Substack post here.

If you enjoy this offering, support can be made here. ❤️