Emily Pratt Slatin is not someone who speaks in half-measures. A former firefighter and paramedic lieutenant, passionate photographer, and candid writer, Slatin has built a life defined by authenticity and resilience. Through her personal blog RescueGirl557, she shares her experiences with unflinching honesty—from the challenges of an unconventional upbringing to finding peace on her Vermont farm. We recently had the opportunity to speak with Slatin about her journey, her values, and what drives her unwavering commitment to living truthfully.
The Conversation
You’ve written extensively about your early life and identity struggles. How would you describe those formative years?
I was born intersex with XX chromosomes and unmistakably female anatomy aside from one trait. From the beginning, my identity was a battleground. My family refused to accept me as their daughter, even trying to legally change the name “Emily” that nurses had written on my birth chart. But I knew who I was—I was Emily when I looked in the mirror, when I introduced myself to strangers. At 16, doctors clinically confirmed what I’d always known: I was genetically female. That sparked what my family called an “intervention,” which was really more of a tribunal where they condemned who I was. That was the moment I walked away and lost my biological family. But they were never really mine to begin with, and their absence hurt less than their expectations.
After that separation from your family, how did you build your life?
By 16, I was working at a summer camp where I’d grown up, and by 18, I had earned my EMT certification and joined a local fire department. I made a name for myself—Emily, Rescue Girl, the one who didn’t flinch, the one who stayed standing. For over two decades, I worked in emergency services, eventually becoming a Firefighter and Paramedic Lieutenant-Specialist. I led crews, taught trainees, and saved lives, all without the support or approval of the family who had cast me out. But witnessing tragedies that no human being should ever have to see takes its toll. Eventually, I chose to walk away from that career—not because I couldn’t handle it anymore, but because some chapters don’t need closure. They just need to end.
Your blog reflects an extraordinary commitment to honesty. Why is authenticity so important to you?
I’ve been told I’m too much, too intense, too much of an over-sharer, and too honest—I take every one of those labels as a compliment. I don’t do small talk or sugarcoat hard truths. On my blog, I share the most painful chapters of my life not for shock value or pity, but because truth doesn’t care if it makes people uncomfortable. I refuse to shrink myself to make others feel comfortable. My loyalty lies with the truth, no matter how harsh. I believe you either speak the truth or you’re lying—there’s no in-between. This moral stance is a throughline in my worldview. After spending so much of my early life having others try to control my narrative, living authentically is non-negotiable.
After leaving emergency services, you turned to homesteading. What does that lifestyle represent for you?
I bought a modest ranch house on 10 acres of Vermont farmland, seeking grit, utility, and freedom over comfort. I wake up every morning in a house I wired, on land I protect, with things I built from scratch. Every square inch of this life is mine. There are no name corrections needed on this property. After a lifetime of others trying to control my narrative, I’ve literally constructed a space where I answer to no one’s expectations but my own. I refuse to pay people to do what I can do myself with my own two hands. The coffee tastes stronger when you’ve earned your peace with blistered hands. The sun feels warmer when you no longer hide your skin.
Your writing often references “ghosts” and “storms.” What do these metaphors represent in your life?
The ghosts are the impressions of memory, loss, and former selves—the child I never got to be, the friends and family who faded from my life, even the person I was before trauma reshaped me. They follow us quietly, in the spaces between chaos and calm. The storm represents my emotional intensity—my rage, passion, pain, and power all at once. I used to see this intensity as a problem, but I’ve come to claim it: I am the storm, the woman who cannot be contained. And I would not change a damn thing. These aren’t just metaphors—they’re how I make sense of the chaos I’ve survived, how I process my emotional life and find meaning in everything I’ve endured.
You’ve written movingly about finding love with your wife, Amelia. What does that relationship mean to you?
With Amelia, love was not struggle or sacrifice; it was as easy, and as necessary, as breathing. She saw me as a person in a way that hit harder than I was willing to admit, because I had grown used to being overlooked or misunderstood. When she came out as transgender, I knew I loved her with a certainty that does not shake loose in the dark. Both of us faced family rejection for our love—the day I married Amelia was the day I lost what little connection I had left with my own family. Instead of letting this dual abandonment embitter us, we stood closer. We stitched a new family out of the thin air around us, made stronger precisely because it was chosen, not assigned. In the silence they left behind, we found something better than acceptance—we found belonging.
Beyond your personal journey, you’re also a creative person—a writer, photographer. How do these creative outlets shape your life?
Writing has been my lifeline—prose is what kept me alive on dark nights. I had the opportunity to be mentored by Beat poet Allen Ginsberg in my youth, which shaped my literary perspective. Photography allows me to tell visual stories, capturing moments and places with the same honesty I bring to my writing. I’m not built for mediocrity; I don’t fear obsession, I embrace it. Anything worth doing deserves my full force, my entire intellect, and my unwavering focus. That’s how I approach everything, from fixing a tractor to composing the perfect shot. Mastery, to me, is a form of both personal discipline and self-expression.
After everything you’ve been through, what values guide your life now?
Authenticity is my North Star—I’ve never relinquished my right to define myself. Courage and resilience are second nature to me; sometimes bravery is quiet and stubborn, reaching for something better even if your hands are shaking when you do it. Compassion runs deep—ironically, the very girl whom my parents called selfish and wrong grew up to devote decades to rescuing strangers and caring for a child who wasn’t legally mine. And integrity infuses everything—I simply will not live a lie. I will speak up, even if my voice shakes. I will cut ties, even if my heart aches. I will stand in my own skin, unashamed and unafraid.
Finding Truth in Resilience
Emily Pratt Slatin’s story is ultimately one of hope—hope in finding love that accepts you fully, hope in creating family and community from scratch, hope in the simple healing found in nature and honest work. After facing rejection, trauma, and loss, she has transformed pain into strength and isolation into self-sufficiency.
“I didn’t need happy,” she reflects. “I needed honest. And that is exactly what I finally have.”
That hard-won honesty is the compass by which Slatin steers her life. It makes her voice powerful and her presence authentic—a testament to a woman who chose to live truthfully, love deeply, and never let others define her fate.
