EMILY PRATT SLATIN

About

Press Kit

She/Her/Hers Lesbian

Former Career Fire and EMS Lieutenant-Specialist, Writer, and Master Photographer.

The Promise I Refused To Break

I used to watch other girls find their circles so easily. Some found it in adolescence—the popular girl holding court in the school cafeteria, or the tight-knit sorority sisters in college—forming bonds as natural as breathing. I envied that ease. In high school and even beyond, I always felt a half-step out of sync, like I’d missed the memo on how to fit in. While others were busy making memories at pep rallies or dorm parties, I was the quiet observer, lonely in a crowd, wondering when—or if—I’d ever have my turn to be truly seen. It didn’t happen for me in those years, or even in my turbulent twenties and thirties. In my case, belonging didn’t bloom until much later, almost taking me by surprise this year.

Looking back now, I realize a big part of that change was letting go. This year I cut loose a lot of people I once called friends. It wasn’t easy; in fact, it was like prying my fingers off a ledge I’d been clinging to out of habit and fear. These were people I thought I needed—some had been in my life for years—but many of those friendships had splintered into something one-sided or hollow. I finally admitted to myself that being lonely with people is worse than being lonely alone. So I opened my hands and let those connections fall away. And in doing so, something unexpected happened: my heart opened up. The space left behind by false friends made room for deeper, more substantial bonds—the kind I’ve always wanted. It’s as if clearing out the noise allowed the real music to be heard. The people who have come into (or remained in) my life since then are the ones I know I can count on—as much as they count on me.

This past weekend brought all of that into focus in the most beautiful way. I invited two close friends over to spend the night at my farm. Luke and Maddie are both twenty years younger than me—mid-twenties to my mid-forties—yet wise beyond their years. Age differences melt away in good company, and with these two, I barely notice it at all. They are two of the most amazing young people I’ve ever met, each with old souls and open hearts. We didn’t do anything particularly fancy; we didn’t need to. We simply enjoyed the kind of easy, meaningful togetherness that I once only dreamed about. On Saturday night, we all went to Rutland in my truck for dinner. By the time darkness settled, we were on our way to the grocery store to buy last minute snacks for the evening campfire.

As soon as we arrived back at the farm, we stoked up a little campfire in the yard—a ritual that’s becoming a favorite of mine—and circled around its warmth. Firelight has a way of drawing out stories, and that night was no exception. We found ourselves sharing pieces of our lives with an honesty that felt as natural as the smoke curling upward. I talked about some of my past struggles —the years of feeling like a nomad looking for home, the people I had to leave behind—and they listened without judgement, eyes reflecting the flames and a deep understanding. In turn, Luke and Maddie spoke about their own journeys, and I was struck by their insight. They may be decades younger, but life has seasoned them in ways that make them kindred spirits rather than juniors. We joked, we swapped advice, we might have even gotten a little teary-eyed once or twice (not that anyone would admit it outright). By midnight, we were roasting marshmallows on twigs, sticky-fingered and giggling like kids. It hit me in the glow of that fire: I was completely at ease, utterly myself, and deeply connected. This must be what belonging feels like—the gentle awe of being surrounded by people who truly see you and still stick around.

Later, long after the fire had died down to embers, we wandered back inside. Luke sprawled out on the bean bag in the living room and Maddie curled up in the guest room, and my normally quiet farmhouse was alive with the soft sounds of friends settling in for the night. I crawled into bed smelling of woodsmoke, my heart full and my mind replaying the evening’s highlights. There was a lightness in my chest that I can’t ever recall carrying before. As I lay there, I realized that I wasn’t worrying about saying “the wrong thing” or wearing out my welcome—those old anxieties that used to plague me in social situations were nowhere to be found. This is what it’s like to belong, I thought. Not to blend in or perform for others, but to simply be, and know that’s enough. I fell asleep to the distant sound of Luke’s light snoring down the hall and felt, for once, truly content.

By Sunday afternoon, after endless cups of coffee and a lazy late breakfast, my friends packed up to head home. We stood by their car, prolonging the goodbye with promises of “next time” and bear hugs that I can still feel. As their car rolled down my gravel drive, I felt that familiar sadness—the end-of-camp feeling. The weekend was over, and my farmhouse fell back into its familiar quiet. I was happy, I was sad, I was grateful all at once. I had successfully had a day of summer camp for adults. Watching them leave was like watching summer fade into fall: inevitable, natural, but a little heartbreaking nonetheless. I waved until they disappeared around the bend, then stood there for a moment in the silence, trying to parse the mix of emotions swirling inside me.

This afternoon, to help sort myself out, I took a walk down to the far end of my property, to the water’s edge. There’s a big old tree there (an oak, I think) that casts a cool shade over the riverbank. I leaned against its sturdy trunk and just waited—for what, I’m not exactly sure. Maybe for my heart to catch up with my head, or for the river to whisper some wisdom. The water was low and slow, trickling over the rocks in a soft melody that has become the background music of my life here. Sunlight danced on the ripples, and a few early autumn leaves drifted downstream, off to wherever it is leaves go when they are tired and their time on the tree is done.

I took a deep breath of that clean Vermont air, rich with the scent of damp earth and hay, and let the quiet wrap around me. In that moment, I was totally in disbelief at how far I’ve come. After decades of struggle, wandering, and wondering if I’d ever find a place to truly plant my feet, I’m finally here. I have an old farmhouse that stands strong on a piece of land I can call my own. Sometimes I refer to it as my own private park, and it’s not just a cute nickname—it genuinely feels that way. There are woods to explore, a river to lull me to sleep, fields that burst with wildflowers in summer and will soon blaze with fall colors. This place is everything I dreamed of and more.

There were times in my life I had no home at all—when I was sixteen sleeping in a car, or living out of duffel bags in my friends houses, I couldn’t have imagined this peace. Even in later years, hopping between tiny city apartments, I held this farm in my heart as a distant “maybe, someday” kind of wish. And now here I am: nearly half a century old, standing on my own land, listening to my own river. It doesn’t feel real. I half expect to wake up back in some rundown rental, dream over. This dream fought hard to become reality—and I fought hard to make it here—and I don’t take any of it for granted.

There were times in my life when I had nobody—nobody to understand me, nobody to hear my tears fall in the dark, nobody to sit with me in my heartache. Those were the years when silence became my cruelest companion, and I roamed endlessly with the weight of grief that had nowhere to go. I drifted from place to place, face to face, always searching for someone who could meet me where I was, but finding mostly walls or empty echoes. For years and years, I wandered like that, convincing myself that maybe I was too strange, too different, too hard to love.

It was this evening, standing out by the river with the cool air pressing in and the fading light turning the water to silver, that I realized something I had been too busy surviving to notice: I finally kept the promise I once made to my family—that no matter what happened out there, no matter how bad the call was, or how heavy the loss, I would always make it home. That vow carried me through some of the worst nights of my career, when the smoke still clung to me and the images wouldn’t let go, but I still managed to walk through the door, drop my gear, and try to be present for the people who mattered.

But more than that, home is my family—Amelia, who has stood beside me in ways I cannot begin to measure, and the small circle of friends I can finally call my people. The circle is not wide, but it is strong. It is made of those who show up when it counts, who hold space for me the same way I hold space for them.

I’m learning, slowly but surely, that home is so much more than a piece of land or a house filled with stuff. Home is the feeling I got watching my two friends make themselves comfortable in my living room, as if it were their home too. For the first time in my life, I have true friends. I have my people. And they might be younger, they might live miles away and have their own lives, but when we come together it’s like the pieces fall into place.