There's More to Life Than This

Blending together personal stories, anecdotes, and client readings, the star of TLC's "Long Island Medium" shares her world and her gift of communicating with those who have crossed over to the other side.

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Theresa Caputo was born and raised on Long Island and lives there with her husband and two children. She is the star of Long Island Medium, and Raising Spirits. After suffering anxiety for most of her life, Theresa met with a spiritual adviser who helped her realize her ability to communicate with Spirit. Theresa has been a practicing medium for more than ten years and is a certified medium with the Forever Family Foundation. Her first two books, There’s More to Life Than This and You Can’t Make This Stuff Up, became instant New York Times bestsellers. She has appeared on Good Morning America, The View, The Dr. Oz Show, and Ellen and has helped countless people heal and find the closure to embrace life without their loved ones. For more, please visit TheresaCaputo.com.

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Beloved medium Theresa Caputo invites you to experience her exceptional gift of communicating with those who've crossed over to the Other Side.

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There's More to Life Than This

1

Me and Spirit: A Match Made in Heaven

I wasn’t born in the back of some gypsy wagon, and I didn’t grow up reading fortunes on the Bayou. Listen, the only crystals on me are the Swarovski ones covering my Louboutins. I may not be your idea of a “typical” medium, but dead people don’t care. They’ve been bugging me to deliver their messages since I was a child, and that’s what I feel compelled and blessed to do.

I grew up on Long Island in a town called Hicksville, with my mom, dad, and younger brother, Michael. Mom was a bookkeeper and my dad was the public works supervisor for Nassau County. We were extremely close and still are. I was actually raised for most of my life in the house next door to the one I live in now. We have a gate in the back that connects our two yards, and Dad likes to use it so he can futz around in both our tomato gardens. When people come for readings, they sit at my dining room table, which looks out onto the back. I always say, “If you see someone out there, it’s not a dead person walking around. It’s just my dad!”

Growing up, I had the most loving, happy, and seemingly normal childhood. I was on a traveling soccer team and local bowling league. I loved playing with my dolls’ hair—I always thought I’d be a hairdresser, go figure. I had nice friends, got good grades, and spent a lot of free time with my family. I was always with my cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. On Thursdays, we’d have spaghetti and meatballs at Nanny and Pop’s house; on Saturdays, I’d paint ceramics with Auntie G; and on Sundays, our whole extended family would go to Gram and Gramp’s house after church to spend the afternoon eating, laughing, and telling stories.

It was like the Long Island Italian version of Leave It to Beaver, but with a twist that literally kept us all up at night. I used to have the most frightening dreams, which made no sense given that my days were so carefree. These were actually my first memories of seeing, feeling, and hearing Spirit, though I didn’t know that’s what was happening. My first vivid experience happened when I was just four years old. At the time, we lived in my dad’s childhood home, which is right near the Hicksville Gregory Museum, a former 1915 courthouse that also had jail cells for prisoners in it. Some people think old buildings like prisons, with their history of pain and suffering, can hold on to Spirit. What a place for me of all people to grow up around! Anyway, I’d have a recurring dream where, from a window on the second floor of our house, I’d watch a man pace on the sidewalk out front. He’d chant my name, Theresa Brigandi, Theresa Brigandi, Theresa Brigandi . . . over, and over, and over again. Can you imagine how scary that was to a freaking four-year-old? I never saw the man’s face, but he was always hunched over and carrying a stick with a bandanna sack on the end. He wore ragged clothes and looked like a hobo.

Spirit later told me that this dream was actually a visitation, and I now believe this “man” to be one of my spirit guides for that time in my life. This doesn’t mean the spirit guide is literally a bum. It’s more like those Bible stories where people invite in the poor, and then later find out the person’s an angel. I now believe a hobo is the unassuming image that my guide took so that I’d understand the Sunday school reference and feel okay when he called my name. I was raised Roman Catholic and still practice this today, so I think my guide presented himself through my frame of reference, a little like how Spirit shows me signs and symbols during a reading now. They do it in a way that makes sense to me, so that it’s easy for me to interpret the message.

When I was four, a hobo equaled a gentle, godly man—at least when I was awake. At night, seeing, hearing, and sensing one made me cry out like I was being violently attacked. Again, I don’t think I was experiencing negative Spirit, and I wasn’t dreaming that Spirit pushed me around or anything; the dreams themselves weren’t “bad.” I was terrified because I’d feel Spirit’s energy, while seeing and hearing them talk to me, in this alarmingly real and personal way.

My inconsolable screams rattled my family more than what caused them, and my social life became limited. I couldn’t go to slumber parties or sleep at my grandmother’s house without wondering what I’d feel next. I didn’t feel safe anywhere but at home, and even that wasn’t a given. Besides the hobo, I also saw my great-­grandmother on my mom’s side of the family. She’d died four years before I was born, and I didn’t realize who it was until much later when I saw a picture of her. But I’ll never forget her standing at the foot of my bed—she was short with dark hair and wearing a housedress. I’d scream like a crazy person when I saw her too. Poor lady was no three-headed monster, though I sure reacted like she was!

In the morning, I’d forget most of these night terrors or how long they went on. I’m told they’d pass when my mom or dad would turn on the light and rush into the room. So did this make Spirit leave? I don’t know. But after a while, Mom made up a prayer to help me keep Spirit at arm’s length. It went, “Dear God, please keep me safe through the night. Bless . . .”—and then I’d name all the people in our lives, and those in Heaven. And wouldn’t you know, every time I said that prayer before bed, I’d sleep soundly, and so would my parents. I continued this when we eventually moved into our new home, the one my parents live in now, though I always kept the hall light on.

Even when I traveled with my family, I never got a break from Spirit. We took a lot of vacations together, including an annual camping trip with my grandparents for the entire summer. Most people at the site were lucky to have a tent with a Bunsen burner; we had this awesome trailer with a shower, kitchen, a screened-in porch so the bugs wouldn’t get at our food, everything. My grandmother made scrambled eggs and French toast in the mornings, and in the afternoons, we’d have bicycle races and go tire swinging into the lake. At night, we’d play pinball at the rec hall, roast marshmallows, and sing campfire songs. I was a regular Girl Scout! But no matter how much fun we had during the day, or h…