ACT 5: Blocking The Scene

What if the real stage was in our living rooms? What if growth came as a rehearsal, before the performance?

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Eighteen hours after the blowout in ACT 4, the Spellings returned.

Emerson wore his guilt like cologne. Erin walked behind him but not with him. Sylvie kept her headphones in until the last possible moment. Aaron brought his keyboard, clutching it like armor.

The Facilitator—an acclaimed clinician who insisted on anonymity—stood like a director watching a cast not yet off-book.

"Today," they said softly, "we won’t talk about your conflict. We’ll perform it."

They cast the scene. Four chairs in the center. “Sit where you sat last night.”

“Say what you couldn’t say,” the Facilitator instructed. “Not what you should. What your 10-year-old self wants to scream.”

Emerson folded his arms. “This is stupid.”

“Thank you,” the Facilitator replied. “Let that part speak.”

“That I tried,” Emerson snapped. “That no one sees how hard I’m trying.”

Erin rolled her eyes. “That’s always your line.”

Aaron tapped his keyboard. Boom.

The Facilitator raised a hand. “Freeze. What are we seeing?”

“They’re not in their rational minds,” I said.

“Exactly. These are parts. Wounded children with microphones.”

“Erin,” the Facilitator said, “let’s see the People Pleaser Polka.”

Erin blinked. “The what?”

“Minimize. Apologize. Tiptoe. Collapse.”

“She’s done it all week,” Sylvie said. “It’s like watching her dance around Dad’s ego.”

“And Emerson,” the Facilitator added, “you do the Narcissist Waltz. Defend. Inflate. Retreat. Repeat.”

“I’m not a narcissist.”

“No. But a part of you performs like one.”

They invited me into the center.

“You’re a screenwriter. Rewrite the scene.”

I turned to Emerson. “What if you said: ‘I’m scared you’ll leave me if I fail again’?”

Then, I turned the grand music room into a writer’s room:

A beat. Erin’s Inner Coach reframes, then rewrites dialogue for her Inner Critic.

ERIN’S INNER COACH: I’m allowed to take up space, even if someone’s uncomfortable.

Emerson’s Inner Critic enters. Ready to do what he does best.

EMERSON’S INNER CRITIC: I have to win to be loved.

EMERSON’S INNER COACH: I’m already worthy of love. Even when I lose.

I stepped out of the scene. It was time for the other actors to step into their parts.

Erin replied: “I’m tired of being the emotional support animal in your redemption arc.’”

Aaron added softly: “I’m not your reason to heal. I’m your son.”

“Perfect,” I said.

The Facilitator turned to Emerson and Erin. “Who comforted you when you failed at ten?”

Erin looked away. Emerson froze.

“IFS teaches us we all carry parts that adapted to survive. Some protect. Some hide. They show up in how we parent—not because we’re broken, but because they’re still waiting to be witnessed.”

Sylvie wiped a tear. Aaron looked at both parents—not with blame, but understanding.

The Facilitator gestured to two volunteers. “Ideal Mother. Ideal Father. Stand behind them.”

No words. Just gentle hands on shoulders.

Erin: “I was never safe to have my own dreams.”

Emerson: “I was never taught how to witness someone else’s.”

The Facilitator stepped forward again.

“This isn’t therapy. It’s rehearsal. Not performance—a different kind of play. The kind that lets our younger parts feel safe enough to come out.”

They looked at me. “You’re not just rewriting scenes. You’re recasting roles.”

Sage nodded, stepped into the center of the room and said, “The work begins here—workshopping the many parts we play for others, and to ourselves. That work unfolds in four stages:

The Self Stage: Where we learn to love ourselves.
The Family Stage: Where we learn to love each other.
The Town Stage: Where we bring that love into community.
The World Stage: Where we dream together.”

“The World Stage? That’s too big of a stage! We’ll get lost on it,” Sylvie blurted, cutting off the demo.

Sage smiled and stepped forward. She picked up the mic.

Before she spoke, she let the silence stretch.

Then:

“There’s one rule before we head to The World Stage and hand you the mic.”

She turned slowly, making eye contact with each of them.

“You have to inspire one person with your dream. That’s the only test. We call it the Message Mic.”

She offered the microphone to no one in particular.

“Because if you can’t reach one heart… why should the world listen?”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, to my surprise, and everyone’s in the room—Emerson grabbed the mic.

Emerson: “I always dreamed of building something that mattered. But I didn’t know how to include anyone in it.”

Erin: “I dreamed of a home that felt safe. But I didn’t know how to get you to slow down and be in it.”

“I thought the dream had to be big,” Emerson said. “Maybe it just had to be shared.”

“Maybe we bring them together,” Erin replied. “You build the stage. I make it home.”

I looked up. “Now that’s a message someone would want to share.”

Sage grins. She has an idea. She excuses herself from the group and returns from the other room holding an acoustic guitar.

Still holding the moment lightly, she says, “You know, if we were scoring this breakthrough... it wouldn’t be a solo.”

Sylvie half-smiled. “More like a group song.”

Aaron nodded, still at his keyboard. He tapped out a few tentative notes. “Something like...” he murmured, “embrace every part...”

Sage picked it up: “All the light and all the dark.”

No one said they were writing a song. They just began humming. Erin added: “Turn away from the places...” Another voice: “And look at all the faces.”

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As the group quieted, Sage stayed at the edge of the circle, still holding the melody in her throat. She stepped gently toward Aaron’s keyboard and picked out the next few notes. Then she sang it—softly, but clear enough for the whole room to hear:

“Embrace every part / all the light and all the dark...”

Aaron laughed, joyous.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh before.

The Facilitator couldn’t help but laugh with him, then said: “We’re done for today. Not because the work is over—but because your nervous systems need time. Gottman says it takes 20 minutes for the heart rate to drop. Until then? You’re just trading trauma.”

They smiled. “This is theater. Education. Practice for presence. And presence rewrites the past.”

Sage added, “Artists teach joy without money. That’s why we’re here—not to be muses. To be mirrors.”

I closed my notebook. “Or a family that doesn’t need to be perfect to be worth loving.”

The Facilitator softened.

“I’ve spent twenty years in clinical work. I’ve seen breakthroughs—but rarely on a couch. Real change happens on real couches. Real kitchens. Real family rooms. Because how we show up in a 60-minute session isn’t who we are in life.”

The Facilitator continued:

“That’s why we interrupt patterns in the moment. Why community change works. It’s accountable. And more fun than a couch and a clock.

I’ve seen wealthy kids suffer more than anyone. Because money lets parents outsource the emotional work. But no one else can raise your kids’ nervous systems but you.

So I asked myself—where should we invest? And the answer was clear: in the people raising our kids. Emotional health compounds. Families who grow across class and generational lines? They’re more grounded. More joyful. Because they’re not stuck proving they’re enough.”

And for the first time in a long time, the Spellings sat side by side. Not as a brand. Not as a breakdown.

But as a family starting to understand the shape of something new.

Emerson glanced around the circle, then down at his hands. "Is this... what it’s supposed to feel like?"

Aaron answered first. “I think this is the thing you were trying to build.”

Sylvie added, “And it’s already working. Just not the way you thought.”

Erin looked between them. “Maybe this isn’t a startup. Maybe it’s a stage.”

Emerson looked at her. “And maybe the dream wasn’t mine alone to begin with.”

They didn’t say it out loud—but they all knew:

This wasn’t just healing. This was the Songa model.

They had lived it.

---

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