The Archaeologist of My Souls : 1 in 8.3 Billion

I should not exist.Not as motivation. Not as inspiration. Literally, statistically, by every calculation that matters — the person speaking these words has no business being alive.This episode is the math. The number in the title. The one I've been building toward since the first episode.1 in 8.3 billion.The current population of Earth is 8.1 billion.I'm going to walk you through the calculation — trauma by trauma, survival rate by survival rate — until the number lands. Until you understand that what you've been listening to isn't just a memoir. It's a statistical impossibility speaking directly into your ears.The cassette tape was the evidence. This is the proof.Two forms of it, actually. The rational — the math that says I shouldn't be here. And the mystery — the provisions, the synchronicities, the artifacts that kept appearing exactly when I needed them. Both are true. Both are grace. And they're not separate. They're the same force operating at different frequencies.This episode is the finale of Book One. The testimony. The proof that impossible survival happens.But it's also an invitation.Because here's what should either terrify you or change your life: I'm not the exception. I'm the demonstration. The universe showing you — through the raw data of one completely fucked-up human life — that every reason you think you can't heal, can't change, can't love is just another equation waiting to be rewritten.If consciousness can override 8.3-billion-to-one odds, what exactly do you think you can't overcome?You found this podcast for a reason.The dig site is open.archaeologicaldna.com — the framework for excavating your own provisions. Free. Open source. No certifications. No paywalls. Just the map.thehaiframework.com — what came next. The collaboration that changed everything. The part I'm still documenting.Those who know will know.

"DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY ASSHOLES I HAD TO GO THROUGH TO BE HERE?!"That's not a metaphor. That's my soul — erupting from somewhere atomic — announcing itself for the first time.Its directive was immediate: Tell the story.This episode is the origin. The nuclear material. The moment Archaeological DNA™ stopped being "a neat idea" and became real.It involves a cassette tape. 35 years old. Recorded without my knowledge by my father. Holding one of the worst days of my life.The last time I heard it, I was a victim.This time, I pressed play as The Witness.It started in Southeast Asia — the silence, the stillness, the scrubbing clean of decades of static. Then the provisions began. The universe leaving receipts I couldn't ignore. Then Istanbul — being taken apart in one of the holiest cities on earth so I could finally learn to see. And then the morning I was given a role: The Witness. What the tape revealed when I was finally ready to hear it.This is my testimony. My awakening in real time.And if THIS breaks your understanding of what's possible — wait for Episode 19.That number in the title? 1 in 8.3 billion?The tape was just the evidence.The math is coming.archaeologicaldna.comThose who know will know.

You ever get the sense that life's trying to kill you—gently?Not with a bang. Not a car crash. Not a scandal.But something quieter. Something slower.A kind of spiritual carbon monoxide leak: office lights that flatten your soul intospreadsheets, silent resentment fermenting in conference rooms, casual racismdelivered with NPR diction, and brunches with people you secretly hope cancel lastminute.That kind of death. The slow erasure. The quiet suffocation.That was me, right before Southeast Asia, before I started to suspect that every placeI'd ever been called to might not be random, that maybe I'd been collecting somethingall along without realizing it—experiences, memories, moments that felt important forreasons I couldn't name yet. And honestly, can't hurt to pay attention, right? I've beencalled worse than curious.nI was turning sixty. And my husband Anthony—God love him—booked us a trip toSoutheast Asia. Luxe. Gorgeous. Expensive. Thoughtful.And borderline dangerous.Not because of the travel. But because he was walking straight into my trauma zonewith a smile and a travel itinerary, unknowingly carrying me toward another talisman Ididn't know I needed.See, I don't do birthdays. Haven't for decades.When you grow up broke and half-forgotten, birthdays are less about celebration andmore about confirmation: no one's coming. No cake. No candles. No one planningshit. Just another day reminding you how invisible you really are.So yeah—I don't do birthdays. And I definitely don't do surprises.The last time someone tried that, I opened the door, saw thirty smiling faces and a sadlittle banner, and without a word, turned the fuck around and walked back out. Didn'teven flinch. Didn't even wave. Just... left. People were still yelling "SURPRISE!" as thedoor closed behind me.At the time, I couldn't explain it. This incident piled more shame on my alreadyoverflowing supply.But now? I can tell you exactly why.Because trauma makes joy feel dangerous. Because when you're wired for survival,softness feels like a setup. Because when your nervous system is still living in 1970,any unexpected kindness feels like a trap.But this trip? This was different. This was Southeast Asia extending its hand, anothersacred geography reaching for me across oceans and time zones, whispering: come,I have something for you.nAnd here's how I know I'd changed.Anthony asked me: "Do you want to go to Southeast Asia for your birthday?"And for the first time in my life, I said yes to a birthday plan. Didn't panic. Didn't run.Didn't shut down.I said yes.Because something in me was ready. Ready to receive. Ready to trust that maybe joywasn't a trap anymore. Maybe it was just... joy.nNew York: The Resurrection That Became A TombLet me back up.New York was supposed to be the resurrection. And for a while, it was.I had found the perfect NYC starter kit: the hot native New Yorker boyfriend, theadvertising job, the chic Chelsea studio back when it was still loud and fabulous andqueer as fuck. The Roxy. Splash. Dance floors that pulsed with joy and grief and sexand sweat all mixed together like some kind of holy communion.I thought I'd made it. Survived San Francisco. Survived rehab. Survived Eric's murder.Survived all of it.And now? New York was going to be my reward.Except.nThe Slow DeathIt started small.A woman on the F train, slumped in her seat, clearly overdosed. Eyes half-open. Droolpooling. People stepping over her legs to get to the door.No one called 911. No one checked if she was breathing.Just... kept moving.I rem

 THE ARCHAEOLOGIST OF MY SOULS: 1 in 8.3 BillionCHAPTER 17: FUCK ME, I'M FAMOUS (AT VERSAILLES)There are moments in life when you know—you just know—that something profound has shifted inside you. Not because everything outside looks perfect, not because the bills are paid or the relationship is fixed or the career finally makes sense. But because the way you carry yourself changes. Because you start walking through the world like the air belongs to you and you can taste every goddamn breath. Because you don't need the world to behave anymore in order to feel at peace.This is what I was living inside of. Eleven straight weeks of happiness.And I'm not talking about peppy-happy or productivity-happy or crossed-off-a-list-item happy. I'm not talking about that manic shit where you're convinced everything is amazing and then you crash three days later and eat an entire cheesecake in your underwear while watching true crime documentaries. I mean the kind of deep, embodied joy that feels like your soul has finally unclenched after decades of white-knuckling its way through existence. A joy that doesn't rely on circumstance or approval. A joy that isn't reclusive or fleeting. A joy that feels as electric as twenty spiritual espressos all hitting your bloodstream at once while angels do backup vocals and the universe winks at you like you're finally in on the joke it's been telling for millennia.I recognized this feeling because I had felt it power through me seven years earlier in Puerto Vallarta after the breakup with Tommy—that same cellular shift where everything inside you reorganizes itself around a new frequency. But this time, in the jungles of Laos, I wasn't just visiting that frequency like some spiritual Airbnb where you leave a nice review and never come back. I was moving the fuck in. Unpacking my bags. Hanging pictures on the walls. Telling the neighbors I was here to stay and yes I would be playing music at unreasonable hours, deal with it.So I leaned into it.And the day I walked into Versailles, the world caught up to that frequency and decided to throw me a parade. Complete with confetti. And French people. Which, if you know French people, is basically the same thing as a standing ovation from the gods themselves.I'm not saying I outshined the gold and chandeliers at Versailles. I'm just saying Louis XIV called himself the Sun King, but on this day, honey, the light was clearly coming from me. Sorry Louis. You had a good run. But the glow-up has a new address and it's giving Southeast Asian jungle realness with European flair.---THE MAGIC BEFORE THE PALACEThe magic started before the palace. Before France. Before I ever set foot on European soil and had to pretend I understood the metric system.It began quietly in Cambodia where the air was thick and the temples were ancient and the timing divine. Where magic kept showing up without me having to perform for it or hustle for it or prove I deserved it. The villa was near the jungle—because apparently when you finally surrender, the universe gives you monkeys as neighbors. Not a metaphor. Actual monkeys. Screaming at dawn like tiny furry alarm clocks with anger issues. I'd hear them every morning doing whatever monkeys do when they think no one's listening. Probably judging the new gay who moved in next door. "Look at this bitch with his mocktails and his journaling. Who does he think he is?"I'd sit on my terrace at sunset watching the jungle do its thing—birds I couldn't name, sounds I couldn't identify, probably several things that could kill me if I wandered off the path—and I'd think: That's the energy. That's the pace. That's what I've been missing. For fifty years I've been running around like a Chihuahua on espresso trying to prove I deserve to exist, and this jungle is just... existing. Taking up space. Not apologizing. Not hustling. Not posting inspirational quotes on Instagram about its journey. "Day 47 of being a j

I had just come back from a healing trip to Cairo—and yes, I mean that kind of trip.Goddesses. Essential oils. Incense thick enough to make a stoner jealous. They purified mewith smoke and ancient oils, rubbing this shit into my skin while chanting in languages I couldn't identify but felt in my bones. The ancient goddess of healing, Sekhmet, apparently cracked open my chest with one massive paw and said, "Let that shit go."I cried so hard my ribs hurt. It felt like someone had excavated forty years of accumulatedemotional garbage.Then they gave me one cumin seed. ONE. To bring back home to New York.The instructions were very specific: Put it in a bowl of water. Leave it outside for seven days.On the seventh day, burn an old-school match with sulphur over it.And as ridiculous as it sounds, I followed every instruction like my life depended on it.Because maybe it did.Something shifted after that. I came home lighter, like I'd finally cleaned out my soul's storageunit and made space for something else. For someone else.But let's not get too mystical here, because sexual withdrawal is real and I'm not a monk.The morning after I got back to New York, I lit my first cigarette, made coffee, and reflexivelyopened Scruff. That app had become muscle memory by then. Swipe. Compliment. Ghost.Regret. Repeat until your self-worth needs therapy.But that day, something in me just said no.Not a dramatic voice from above. Just a tired, firm internal boundary that said, "We're notdoing this anymore."I'd put in the work. Years of it. Therapy twice a week. Gym twice a week. Every self-help bookon the shelves. Even sensory deprivation tanks—basically sitting in your own warm piss incomplete darkness and silence. Very trendy in the early '80s after that movie Altered Statescame out. I wanted solutions to break the crushing pattern of always choosing chaos overlove.This was profound work. The kind that strips you down to your foundation and rebuilds youfrom scratch. I don't think I'd be the person I am today without going through all of it.The therapy, the crying-in-the-bathtub-to-Björk sessions. The facing of demons that had beenliving rent-free in my head since childhood. The long walks through Brooklyn where I forgavepeople who never apologized and probably never would.I'd seen what death looked like when it was honored in Varanasi, felt ancient protectioncarved into my back in Cambodia. I'd collected breadcrumbs from holy places withoutknowing why. Now I wanted something different. Something that didn't require a passport or atrauma bond.I wanted love. Real, grown-up, boring-in-the-best-way love.So I made a profile. A real one. With actual effort.Got proper photos taken in August. Professional photographer. White t-shirt, jeans, naturallight. The kind of photos that say "I'm not running anymore."I wrote a bio that was... honest. Revolutionary concept, I know."I water plants and return texts. If you're still figuring out how to be a functioning adult, thiswon't work."Direct. Clear. Zero tolerance for bullshit.And you know what? It worked.One month later, there he was: François.Did I mention he's 22 years younger than me? Yeah. From New Caledonia—a place I had toGoogle like the geographically challenged American I am. Blond, grounded, cultured. Canwater ski and fly a plane. If Bradley Cooper and Tom Hardy had a love child and raised it inFrench paradise, that's François.Me? I'm so universally looking I fit in anywhere on the planet. People ask me where I'm from,and when I answer, they always follow up with "Yes, but where are you from from...?" I getmistaken for everything—Middle Eastern, Latin, Mediterranea

 Kit Kats and Holy Breath: Getting Tattooed inthe Cambodian JungleIn Cambodia I found myself sitting cross-legged in front of a monk, spilling my entire life like it was a confessional booth and I was trying to break some kind of Catholic record—every heartbreak, every blackout, every bad decision wrapped in a bow of desperation and handed over to this serene man who probably heard worse things before breakfast.He listened without interrupting, nodded at the right moments like he was cataloguing my damage into some spiritual filing system, and then calmly picked the sak yants—the ancient sacred tattoos that would protect me in the future, designs that had been protecting people for centuries before I was even born, before my trauma existed, before I knew I needed protecting.I didn't argue, I didn't question, I trusted, and I want to be clear here: I wanted to respect their culture, I really did, but this could've gone sideways fast considering I was putting my entire back in the hands of someone I'd just met and relying on translation through broken English, scribbles and hand gestures, and for all I knew I could've ended up with my entire spine covered in ancient Khmer script that translated to "I love chicken fried rice" or "this tourist is a dick" or worse, "subscribe to my channel."But I trusted anyway, maybe too much but that's part of becoming spiritually elevated I was learning: pain, you're either gutted emotionally or—in my case—you let a monk jab you with a bamboo stick for eight straight hours in one sitting with no numbing cream, no breaks, no mercy, just Kit Kats and Red Bull to keep me alive and conscious while my back turned into a roadmap of pain and protection.And here's the thing—I'd brought the strongest numbing cream available, the kind that could probably numb a small elephant, slathered it on thick before we started, but it did absolutely nothing, like the universe looked at my Western attempt to bypass discomfort and said "cute, but no, you're doing this the real way."Eight hours of having ancient symbols carved into my spine with a bamboo needle attached to a long metal rod, the monk tapping it rhythmically like he was sending morse code directly into my nervous system, and me sitting there trying not to scream or pass out or embarrass myself in front of the small audience of monks who had gathered to watch this white guy get spiritually rearranged one puncture at a time.The pain wasn't like getting a regular tattoo where the machine buzzes and numbs you into a kind of meditative trance—this was sharp, deliberate, intimate, like the universe was personally introducing itself to every nerve ending in my back and saying "hello, we need to talk about some things, and you're going to feel every single word."I started to understand that the numbing cream failing wasn't an accident, it was the point—I had toendure the pain to be part of this ancient ritual, to earn the protection I was seeking, to prove tomyself and the universe and these monks that I was willing to sit through discomfort without anescape hatch, that I could finally stop running from what hurt and just be present with it.When it was over I thought: great, I survived, shower and a meal and bed, done, I've earned myspiritual merit badge and can now return to normal life.Nope.The monk walks back in holding a moped helmet and says "Let's go" in that calm way that suggeststhis is completely normal and I should have been expecting it."Go where?!" I squeaked, still bleeding and vibrating from sugar and caffeine, my back screaming,my brain trying to process what fresh hell this was about to become.Turns out the tattoos were only Step One, Step Two involved swinging by multiple 7-Elevens topick up offerings—oranges, incense, cigarettes—and I mean I couldn't stop this journey midwaythrough, I'd already committed, but with no translation skills and no clue where we were going

Something was calling me to India. I had to see the lowest, those who had nothing but the clothing on their backs and flip-flops held together with prayers. But here's the thing that fucked with my head—I've been embraced by people who literally owned nothing besides what they were wearing, and I've never felt more seen in my life.Toto, we ain't in NYC anymore. Where I come from, people with designer everything can look right through you like you're invisible. Here, some guy with three teeth and a smile that could power Mumbai would grab my hands and look into my eyes like he was seeing my actual soul. Hello, Dorothy—turns out the yellow brick road leads through slums where kindness costs nothing and feels like everything.India had to show me abject poverty of the lowest cast members and the ritual of death.It was 103 degrees in Varanasi, the air so thick you could chew it and still be hungry.I'd been there three weeks, wandering through alleys that smelled like incense and piss, trying to understand why I kept gravitating toward places where death was on full display. This was one of many holy places I'd visit in my life—later, Istanbul would become crucial to my story—but Varanasi was where the universe first showed me death as theater, as art, as something sacred instead of shameful.This was 2023. I was still years away from understanding what those impossible voices on a cassette tape would teach me about love reaching across time. But something was already stirring in Varanasi, some awareness I couldn't name yet.My tuk-tuk driver was this character called Papa Jii who was assigned to me for the week I was there. I'm pretty sure he was drunk most of the time, but somehow could weave through billions of people like he had GPS installed in his liver. This wasn't your typical tourist guideexperience—Papa Jii had appointed himself my spiritual advisor, which mainly involved himchain-smoking and dispensing wisdom between near-death traffic encounters.One morning he gets this serious look and hands me a bag of bananas. Not like "hey, try somefruit." This was a full intervention. "FOR YOUR KARMA," he said, stressing each word likehe was delivering a court verdict. "You carry. You give to anyone, any animal in need. FORYOUR KARMA."The way he said it—not casual, not some throwaway namaste-and-go-have-kombuchabullshit. This felt like spiritual homework with consequences. Like if I didn't carry thosebananas, my soul might get a failing grade.The scale of death here was Game of Thrones level, but ritualized, sanctified. People lined theGanges in hospice houses that looked like ancient apartments, waiting to die so they could bepurified by the holy river. Not hiding from death, not fighting it—just waiting for it like you'dwait for a bus you knew was coming.I walked the ghats near the crematoriums, literally kicking wooden coffins on the stone stepsbecause there were so many you couldn't avoid them. The smell hit you first—raw, metallic,undeniably human. Bodies wrapped in white silk and marigolds, lined up like a sacredconveyor belt feeding the giant funeral pyres that burned 24/7. The smoke mixed with incensein the wind. Flesh and prayers rising together.This was industrial-scale death, but treated as holy communion. Families camping out fordays, tending fires, singing prayers, celebrating the release of souls. Old people, frail as ricepaper, sat in those riverside houses with the kind of patience that comes from accepting what'sinevitable. Death here wasn't tragedy—it was graduation.Every night, the Aarti ceremonies drew thousands to the riverbank—150,000 people on busynights, 60,000 on a slow Tuesday, but who's counting when you're witnessing something thismassive? Hindu priests in orange robes performing ancient rituals with fire and bells andchanting that seemed to rise from the earth itself. I got blessed by one of them—holy waterflicked on my fore

Puerto Vallarta. A gay pool party. Eleven speedos tried on in the span of an afternoon.And somewhere between speedo #7 and #11, something shifted.For the first time in my life, I said the words out loud: "I am happy."It felt like a confession. Like admitting to a crime I didn't know I was allowed to commit.This episode is about the moment survival stopped being enough. The moment I decided I deserved more than just "not dead yet."The moment I chose joy.Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. But it also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

This is Tommy's story.I catfished him on Scruff while he was ass up at a gang bang. He came home. I confronted him.And I still said "I love you."Because I did. And because love, sometimes, looks nothing like the movies tell you it should.This episode is about the relationship that should have destroyed me. About loving someone so broken that their chaos becomes your religion. About the moment you realize dysfunction isn't romance—it's just dysfunction wearing a really good disguise.But knowing that and leaving are two very different things.Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. But it also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

Sometimes the path to healing looks nothing like you expect.Mine looked like a series of spectacularly dysfunctional relationships that got so bad, I finally had to ask the question every addict eventually asks:Why do I keep choosing this?This episode is about how rock bottom can be a gift. How fucking up repeatedly is sometimes the only way to finally wake up.How sometimes you have to break every bone in your soul before you're willing to learn how to walk differently.I didn't fuck my way into therapy because I was smart.I did it because I finally ran out of other options.Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. But it also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

Yes, this actually happened.Yes, it's as chaotic as it sounds.No, I will not apologize. (I already did. To Sister Boom Boom. Who laughed.)San Francisco, 1990s. Drag royalty. A misunderstanding involving territorial instincts, too much meth, and my complete inability to read a room.This episode is about the absurdity that happens when trauma meets drag culture meets a 20-something who thought he understood the rules.Spoiler: I did not understand the rules.But the story is fucking hilarious.Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. But it also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

Another near-death moment.By this point in my life, survival was less a triumph and more a pattern I couldn't explain.Why did I keep making it through when the math said I shouldn't?This episode is about the moments death showed up, looked me in the eye, and walked away.I didn't understand it then.But now I do.Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. But it also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

Strangled to unconsciousness. Twice. By the same person.The statistics say 68% survive the first time. If it happens again, your odds drop to 46%.I beat both.This episode is about the violence that should have ended me—hands around my throat, the world going black, waking up on the floor wondering if this time was the practice run or the real thing.And somehow, somehow, I still have jokes about it.Because when death keeps showing up and you keep not dying, you start to wonder: what the fuck am I still here for?Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. But it also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

The DJ dropped "Finally" and every gay man in that San Francisco warehouse lost their fucking minds.CeCe Peniston singing about the moment we'd all been waiting for. The moment when someone looks at you like you're the answer to a question they've been asking their whole lives.Gary turned around. Red curly hair. Dark eyes. That look.I flew back to Boston, quit my life, and moved cross-country for a man whose last name I didn't even know."Call me Gary," he'd said. Which should have been my first red flag.But I was 27 and stupid and thought mystery was sexy instead of what it actually was: a warning label written in neon.Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. But it also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

A gloved finger pointed at me across the street like a summoning.Like an idiot, I went.Bruce was 30. Former Calvin Klein model. Cocaine dealer. And somehow carrying the entire history of European luxury in his head — Louis XIII cognac at $4,000 a bottle, which Dom Pérignon vintage paired with which caviar, cloistered nuns spinning silk from New Guinea silkworms.This was 1982. No internet. No Wikipedia. How did he KNOW this?What followed was a 5-year education in excess, danger, beauty, and something I'm only now beginning to understand.He died of AIDS. I didn't.It took me 40 years to figure out why I was spared.This episode is that answer.

I've faced rapists, addiction, strangulation, betrayal. None of them broke me.A Swedish woman humming while doing dishes? Absolutely destroyed me.Her name was Vera. She gave me a felt troll. I kept it for 40 years — not because it was special, but because it was proof. Proof that love without violence exists.This is how one quiet woman in a kitchen showed a damaged child the capacity for true, unconditional love.⚠️ Real story. Real survival. I'm still here. This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. It also full of profound love, transformation and hope. Listener discretion advised.

I was 5 years old, holding a kitchen knife, doing math.If I kill him first, does the pain stop?My mother was in the hospital—skull cracked open, recovering. Bill Miller was wanted for arson, attempted murder and sexual assault. He was living with us. So I calculated. Cold. Precise. The way a kindergartener shouldn't be capable of calculating.I didn't do it.But the fact that I could tells you everything about what was coming.72% of boys who experience this don't make it to 25.I'm 61.Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. But it also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

My father called my mother "good white pussy." He tried to burn our house down with my pregnant mother inside.This was Tuesday afternoon in my family.When violence is your inheritance and chaos is your curriculum, you learn that normal is a lie people tell themselves. You learn to read a room in seconds. You learn which kind of silence means someone's about to die.This episode is about the family traditions no one puts in scrapbooks.The ones that teach you survival before you learn to tie your shoes.Link in bio 🎙Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. It is also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

1962. Before my mother could enter America, she had to prove she wasn't a lesbian. This is how the American Dream started. Episode 1 live now.My mother survived being born a scandal, immigration to America, and married a black man in 1962. She didn't stay dead.This is Sylvia. The Blonde Warrior. The woman who taught me that survival isn't about being unbreakable—it's about breaking and still getting up.Everything that comes after—the chaos, the violence, my 1 in 8.3 billion odds—starts with understanding her.Because you can't understand how I survived the impossible without first meeting the woman who showed me it could be done.Link in bio 🎙#TheArchaeologistOfMySouls #ArchaeologicalDNA #1in8point3billion #ImmigrantStory #SwedishAmerican #1960sContent warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. It is also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

I asked an AI to calculate my statistical probability of surviving my life. It said: 1 in 8.3 billion.Essentially impossible.Childhood sexual abuse. At 5, I attempted to murder my mother's rapist. AIDS epidemic San Francisco. Severe alcoholism. Alcohol. Meth. Coke. Sex. Brother murdered. Strangled twice. 28 deaths witnessed by age 30. I shouldn't be here.But I am. And I've seen some shit.This 19-episode memoir podcast is about more than survival. It's about what happened when I pressed play on a 35-year-old cassette tape and heard voices I'd never heard before—my own voices, broadcasting love at frequencies I couldn't access until now.This is about Archaeological DNA. About how your past holds layers of meaning you haven't tuned into yet. About how love can travel backward through time.This is the excavation of an impossible life.Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. It also full of profound love, transformation and hope. Listener discretion advised.