The TV hummed before it glowed. That’s how I remember it, not just turning on, but warming up, like it was waking up. The screen flickered blue, then gray static, then alive. I would sit cross-legged on the floor, close enough that the static buzz filled my ears and the light painted my face. Behind me, the real world was full of terror. The kind of tension nightmares are made of, but in front of me, the living room on the screen felt safe.

The Brady house always felt warm and inviting. Sunlight through wide windows and the mom always smiling at her kids. Orange and gold patterns filled a family room where dad showed up, and siblings loved each other after fighting. I had a deep but empty longing for people who loved each other while doing life together. Someone was always setting the table. Someone laughing. Someone calling the kids in from outside. The sisters shared secrets the same way they shared a room. I could smell the stinky feet every time they showed the boys laying on their beds.

I stared long enough that the edges of the television disappeared and then, the strangest thing would happen. The glass didn’t feel like glass anymore. It felt more like water. I leaned forward like stepping into a pool that was the exact temperature of your skin. The static turned into air, the hum into voices and the flicker into reality.

I climbed through. One second I was in my living room, and the next I was standing at the bottom of the Brady staircase, sunlight pouring over the banister. My heart would slow the moment I got there, and I felt lighter, alive, like my body recognized the safety I desperately needed.

Marcia would notice me first. She always did. She’d smile like I belonged there, like I’d just come home from school. “Hey, come on,” she’d say, grabbing my hand. “We’re about to eat.” No one ever asked who I was or questioned why I was there. There was always a chair waiting for me. The table was loud in the best way, plates clinking, laughter bouncing off the walls, someone talking over someone else, parents listening instead of dismissing. The homecooked food smelled warm and simple and real.

I would sit there quietly at first, watching the way they passed things to each other without being told. The way they looked up when someone spoke. The way their shoulders stayed relaxed, like they had never learned to brace. I learned how to breathe there. After dinner, the girls would pull me toward the bedroom. I loved being in there with the bright bedspreads, posters, giggles that felt like sunlight. We’d sit on the floor brushing each other’s hair, talking about nothing and everything. No one was afraid. No one was careful with their words.

Time moved differently inside the television. If I stayed long enough, the edges of another house would appear. I’d take a short walk down the sidewalk to the Leave It to Beaver family. Another kitchen. Another table. Another mother who turned when someone spoke, holding the kindest eye contact. Another father who listened like his presence alone could hold the room together.

I’d move between them, drifting from one living room to the next, soaking it in. Watching how problems got solved and how love looked when it wasn’t conditional. It felt like learning a language I had never been taught. Sometimes, while I sat there, I’d forget about the other world completely. My shoulders would drop and my jaw unclenched. My thoughts would quiet and yet I felt heard instead of invisible there. I wasn’t on edge or constantly scanning for evidence of impending doom.

I was just… a kid with a family who loved her. Sitting at a table, playing with friends and existing without fear.

And then, slowly, I’d feel it. A fading like gravity changing direction. The light would dim, the laughter would echo, and the living room would begin to flatten back into a screen. Marcia’s voice would fade and the tormenting butterflies would start their somersaults in my stomach. The warmth would slip through my fingers as I got yanked backward through the glass.

I’d be back on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, the television still glowing. From the outside, it looked like I’d just been watching a show. But inside, I had eaten dinner with a family who noticed me. I had laughed with girls who wanted me there. I had sat in a house where love didn’t feel dangerous. I didn’t know that I was dissociating or had soul parts astral projecting into the television screen. I just knew a place where family stayed, and nobody got hurt. For a little while, it was real enough that my body believed it.

For many survivors, dissociation was literally the only way to survive. It was the mind searching for hope when the body had nowhere safe to go. As a child, escape meant stepping into imagined spaces where love felt steady and families stayed at the table. As an adult, that need for refuge does not disappear, but it can be redeemed. The place of escape becomes a place of encounter. Instead of disappearing into another world, there is an invitation to step into the presence of Yahweh, to sit at His table, to rest in His Word, and to receive nourishment for your mind, body, soul, and spirit.

Scripture tells us that this kind of refuge is real and available without leaving our body today:

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. Psalm 91:1

There is a table prepared now that cannot be taken away, a place where belonging is not conditional and love does not disappear.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runs over. Psalm 23:5

What once had to be imagined is now tangible spiritually. Sitting with my Heavenly Father, learning His voice, and being surrounded by a spiritual family who loves with the love of Christ becomes a new kind of home.

So, then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God. Ephesians 2:19

For those who once escaped just to survive, there is now a safe place to be restored, seen, and loved.

HEALING PRAYER FOR YOUR BROKEN HEART AND SOUL

PRAYER FOR SURVIVORS OF TRAUMA AND FRAGMENTATION