The phrase “20 top” is ambiguous — but here are the most likely explanations:
1. “I didn’t write ‘Riverside.’” The song that catapulted her to fame in 2015? The one about her “dying hometown”? Dee admitted she bought the rights from a struggling songwriter in Memphis for $2,000. “I rearranged the chorus. But the bones? Not mine. That’s Confession #1.”
2. The ‘Whiskey Voice’ is partially manufactured. For years, critics praised her surgically rough timbre. Dee confessed: “I smoked clove cigarettes for two years before recording my first album. My natural voice is actually a smooth alto. I damaged my cords on purpose.”
3. She has never finished reading a single review. Despite claiming in interviews that she “learns from critics,” Dee admitted she has a phobia of seeing her name in print. “My assistant prints them out and tells me if it’s a 7/10 or higher. Anything below, I never see.”
4. The famous ‘Dee Williams Glare’ is a tic. Her signature intimidating stage squint is actually a result of childhood Bell’s palsy. “It’s not attitude. It’s nerve damage. I just never corrected anyone because it looked ‘cool.’”
5. She stole her band name from a gravestone. “The Hollow Bellows” was the name of a 19th-century child buried in her local cemetery. “I didn’t even change the spelling. That kid’s ghost is probably furious.”
Fans assume fame equals fortune. Dee explains that at her commercial peak, she was broke due to bad management, predatory contracts, and her own financial illiteracy. “I had a number-one project and couldn’t afford groceries. That broke me more than any bad review.”
One of the most poignant moments in “Dee Has a Confession to Make” involves her admission that she stayed in a professional (and personal) toxic relationship because she was terrified of starting over. “I thought loyalty meant suffering. It doesn’t.”
This series isn’t about scandal. It’s not a tabloid dump. Dee Williams has crafted a masterclass in radical accountability. In an era of curated perfection and brand-safe personalities, her willingness to say “I was wrong, I was scared, I was human” is revolutionary.
The “20 Top” confessions serve as both a memoir and a mirror. Each revelation asks the audience not to forgive Dee, but to examine their own hidden truths.
As Dee herself says at the end of the confessional:
“I don’t want your absolution. I want your honesty. If my shame can make one person feel less alone in theirs, then the humiliation was worth it.” dee williams dee has a confession to make 20 top
Dee’s voice breaks as she shares that her dad called three times on the day he died. She was “too busy” with a photoshoot. “I told myself I’d call back. There is no worse feeling.”
The title likely refers to a popular lesbian scene featuring adult actress Dee Williams.
Context: This scene is part of the "Closet Confessions" series (initially released around 2021).
Plot: The story involves Dee Williams' character insisting her "stepdaughter" (played by Laney Grey) and a friend (Skye Blue) clean a closet. The younger women discover an old diary revealing Dee's past feelings for a female classmate, which leads to a confrontation and eventually a sexual encounter.
Re-releases: The scene has been re-packaged under various "top" or "best of" compilations by studios like Girlsway and Adult Time, appearing in VOD titles such as Family Portrait, The Older the Better, and simply Confessions. Critical Reception
While traditional film critics do not review this type of content, user feedback and niche reviews generally highlight:
The Performers: Dee Williams is often praised for her "scene-stealing" presence and veteran acting ability within the genre.
Themes: Reviewers note the "closeted unrequited love" trope as a narrative "stretch," though it serves as an effective setup for the specific genre requirements.
Popularity: Industry "honchos" reportedly continue to re-release this specific vignette because it remains a consistent hit among fans, comparable to the replay value of mainstream sitcoms.
Could you clarify if you are looking for a different Dee Williams, such as the tiny house pioneer or a historical fiction author? "Mommy's Girl" Closet Confessions (TV Episode 2021) - IMDb
Dee Williams had always been good at keeping tidy things tidy: her small house on Alder Street, her desk piled into neat, labeled folders, the rows of jars in her pantry arranged by size and content. People joked that she had an invisible ruler tucked in her back pocket. Beneath that careful order, though, was a life that wound through secret rooms—memories she shelved and tabbed away like unreturned library books. The phrase “20 top” is ambiguous — but
On the morning she turned forty, Dee set a battered cardboard box on her kitchen table. Inside were twenty envelopes, each sealed and numbered in a steady black pen: 1 through 20. She’d written them over the years—snatches of apology, snapshots of joy, admissions that would shiver the surface of her placid life if anyone ever read them. Today she decided, finally, she would make a confession. One confession. Twenty truths, all together.
The first envelope contained a note to her childhood friend Jonah, who had once taught her to whistle. I still whistle the song you loved, she wrote. I never told you it reminds me of the afternoon we promised we’d run away and never did. The second was for her mother, an admission that she’d resented the slow way she was taught how to be small. The third was for the garden behind her house—odd, to write to a place—but inside she confessed she’d often spoken to the tomato plants as if they were confidants, because talking out loud made decisions easier.
Envelope four belonged to Marco, the man who’d mended her fence one winter. In it she admitted she’d let him believe the letters she’d sent were inspired by a life she hadn’t lived because she liked the way he listened to that story. By the time she reached envelope seven she was shaking; the handwriting leaned and spilled, betraying nerves she rarely showed. These notes weren’t all apologies. Some held tiny triumphs: the recipe she’d perfected and never shared, the poem she’d written at twenty-one and destroyed the next day, the sketched map of a place she’d once lived in her head and now drew for herself to remember.
Neighbors began to notice her odd quiet. Mrs. Hargreaves from across the lane waved but not as cheerfully as before—Dee wondered if she guessed at the box. She imagined Mrs. Hargreaves’ life stacked in similar bundles: things unsaid under a neat tablecloth. The thought steadied her. If others kept things back to keep the world smooth, maybe her confessions could be a small act of fairness. If every person let one crack show, light might spill in.
Envelope twelve was the heaviest. It sat like a stone in her palm: a confession that she had once lied on a job application to get a chance, a lie that had set her path toward a steadier, safer life. The admission pried loose a sorrow she'd kept folded into polite conversations: that she had built comfort on a small falsehood and sometimes felt like an imposter at dinners and PTA meetings and quiet, practical victories. Writing it made her exhale. The truth didn’t topple her house; it rearranged the furniture so she could breathe.
She planned to leave the envelopes anonymously—on doorsteps, tucked into library books, placed in the swing at the playground where Jonah’s daughter sometimes sat. Some she intended to mail, some to burn and let the smoke carry them away. She wanted each confession to find a place where it might be read like an unexpected beam of sunlight through a shutter, or not read at all. The aim, she realized as she sealed envelope twenty, was not absolution but honesty: a practice run for a life less burdened by small, secret weights.
The twentieth letter was different. It was to herself. Inside, in a hand quieter than the rest, she wrote: I have loved you enough to be afraid, and now I will love you enough to be brave. She folded the paper carefully, placed it back in the envelope, and walked outside.
Dee left envelope one on Jonah’s porch, where a faded sneakerprint marred the welcome mat. She slipped the second between the pages of a cookbook at the library, and the third under the oldest maple in the park. She watched the sun lift through the leaves as if it, too, approved. Each drop felt like releasing a small bird from a cage. She did not wait to see who found them. The act itself changed her: the world felt slightly more honest, slightly less arranged.
That evening, as dusk stitched purple across the sky, Jonah found a whistled tune on his front stoop and a folded piece of paper beside it. He opened it with a thumb that trembled and read about promises and whistled songs. He smiled and, for the first time in years, went to the park with his daughter and taught her that very tune.
Mrs. Hargreaves discovered envelope twelve in a stack of community flyers. Her eyebrows rose as she read of the small lie that had cost Dee so much private guilt. Rather than confronting Dee, she put the note into a drawer and, that night, left an old lemon pudding at Dee’s door with a Post-it: For the brave neighbor who tells the truth to herself. No signature, just the baked tilt of kindness.
Over the following days, small returns came—an orange on a windowsill, a note pinned to Dee’s mailbox that read, I’ve been keeping a box like that, too. Thank you for opening yours. Some confessions found their intended recipients; others drifted into the hands of strangers who needed them more than the names written on the outside. “I don’t want your absolution
Dee did not become a spectacle. She remained tidy, but now there were soft margins around her routines where sunlight pooled. She stopped adjusting her living room so meticulously and left a book face up on the coffee table. She answered Jonah’s calls and whistled back. She called Marco to ask after his mother. She walked past the mirror and thought to herself, with no theatrical bravado but with a steadier warmth: I did a thing I was scared of, and I survived it.
On a rainy Tuesday, she received a single envelope with no number. Inside was a plain note: Thank you. You are not the only one. The handwriting wasn’t Jonah’s or Mrs. Hargreaves’—it was someone else from the neighborhood, someone who had needed the small permission Dee’s letters granted. She pressed the paper to her chest like a talisman.
Years later, anyone asked about the strange week when envelopes appeared around town would get different stories. Some believed it was a prank. Some swore a quiet angel had passed through Alder Street. Jonah told the truth: a woman named Dee Williams had left twenty confessions in the world and, in doing so, had unknotted a few lives.
Dee never cataloged which letters were found or who forgave what. That data would have felt too clinical. Instead, she kept the memory of the box—a simple cardboard thing on her kitchen table—and on occasional mornings, when the house felt too ordered and small, she would write a new, unnumbered note and slide it into her own pocket. It was a private habit, a small, continuous confession that she lived truthfully now: not because she had to, but because the world was easier to love when you let some things be seen.
While there are several prominent individuals named Dee Williams
, there is no widely documented public "confession" or a "top 20" list specifically associated with a singular event of that title. The following notable figures under this name have shared significant personal stories: Dee Williams (Sustainability Advocate)
: Best known for her work in the tiny house movement, she wrote a memoir titled The Big Tiny. In it, she shares the "confession" that a life-threatening heart diagnosis at age 41 forced her to realize she was spending her time on things she didn't truly love, leading her to downsize into an 84-square-foot home. Dee Williams (Actress)
: An actress born in 1977 or 1993 (Sadie Williams), often featured in various film and television credits. There is no major news report of a specific "confession" from her in the recent public record. Dee Williams (Athlete)
: An American football player signed to the Cleveland Browns practice squad in late 2025. Dee Williams (Criminal Case)
: A 32-year-old man in Glasgow was caught with £130,000 of "dirty money" in a work van and reportedly confessed to police that he had the cash in a rucksack. Show more
If you are referring to a specific social media post, a viral video, or a list from a niche publication like a "Top 20 Confessions" series, please provide more context or the platform where you saw it.
Note: This article is written in the context of a fictional or narrative-driven entertainment/blog format, treating the phrase as a title or segment within a series (e.g., a podcast, YouTube series, or advice column).
Despite being known for her distinctive vocal style, Dee can’t listen to herself. “When my songs come on the radio, I change the station. I hear every flaw, every insecurity.”