Unwritten Until Now

More Memories

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I have other memories from those younger years, moments that stay with me just as clearly.

There was the pet iguana we had. My sister and I loved it.
One day, while passing it back and forth, we didn’t take turns gently. In the struggle, something went wrong.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what had happened. But as I got older and learned the truth, I realized the weight of that moment—and I’ve carried it with me ever since.

We also had a flying squirrel at one point. Our dog, Buster the boxer, caught it, but one survived, and we took it in. I remember caring for it, hoping it would become mine to love. One day, I let it out, thinking it would magically find its way back into my room to curl up with me. Instead, it went into Anna and Richard’s room, lying right on her pillow. That was the end of it. My biological mother didn’t allow it to stay. She told us to say goodbye to it, and just like that, it was gone.

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Buster was always by my side during those years, especially when I was outside. One day, I went alone to the chick coop, thinking I could handle it by myself. I opened the door, wanting nothing more than to hold the baby chicks. But when they tried to escape, chaos broke loose. Buster went after them, and I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t overpower the dog to stop it, and what happened next stayed with me—the aftermath, the chaos, the feeling that I had caused it. Ran home to my bedroom and cried on my bed. All I could do was cry and blame myself. The ripple effect I felt responsible for. I cried and begged Anna and Richard not to blame him. It was my fault. They gave me a firm talking-to, but that didn’t erase the guilt. I saw in their eyes how they felt — the situation and — Buster. Not long after, Buster was gone. One day he was there, the next he wasn’t. I asked what happened, but never got an answer. I had to learn to live with that, carrying love and loss together.

But even with the hard lessons, the seasons brought their own kind of wonder. I loved the change of seasons, each with its distinct characteristics: spring with its flowers, summer with the fun of water — the beach and swimming! — fall with the beautiful leaves, and winter with the cold and snow. In the fall, we’d rake leaves into piles and jump in, ending up with leaves and even sand in our hair. In the winter, we’d throw snowballs, go sledding, or hook a sled to the back of the golf cart and ride across the yard. At our grandparents’ house on Anna’s side, we even sled down the stairs into the yard, laughing the whole way.

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I was always trying risky things, not really knowing the danger. One winter, I wandered into the woods—ignoring the old man’s warnings—and found a frozen pond. I thought it would be amazing to slide across the ice, as I did in socks on the kitchen floor. I told myself, Nothing can go wrong. I carefully put one foot down and—whoosh!—my foot went straight through the ice. That was my “oh shit” moment. I ran home, peeled off my wet sock and shoe, warmed up my foot, and then went right back outside to throw snow at my sister or help make homemade snow cream.

These are the memories that shaped me—the joy, the mistakes, the danger, and the laughter. They sit side by side, teaching me even now that childhood was never just one thing. It was all of it, tangled together, and it was mine.

Note: Names used in this post have been changed for privacy and are not real or identifiable individuals.

This post includes references to personal trauma and sensitive experiences. 

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I don’t remember much about my biological father during my early childhood. Most of him is a blur to me. But there is one clear memory — a snapshot burned into my mind.

I remember visiting him in jail with my biological mother and my sister, Rose. I was naïve and innocent, too young to understand the walls and bars that surrounded us. Back then, I called men “Dad” because I didn’t know the difference, like what kid would. It was just what I did.

What I carry from that day is being in his lap, looking up at his face. He had no hair, a gentle smile, and a very short, scruffy beard. He was kind. I remember touching his face, feeling the texture of his beard with my little fingers, and staring into his eyes. That moment stayed with me.

Beside him sat my sister’s father, Dan. What I know about him is that he was happy to step up for me, happy the first time I called him “Dad.” In my memories, there’s also a moment of us jamming in the car, music blasting — “Crazy Bitch” playing and dancing with the beat.

Fast forward...

The Good Times — Memories

I have memories from my younger years, living with Anna and Richard.
There were two trailers and a big stretch of countryside out in North Carolina —
I think it belonged to one of Richard’s family members, maybe his grandfather.

The land felt endless.
With a long dirt road, we had two big ponds for fishing, farm animals, a cornfield, and woods that I loved to run through. Had a little garden on the side of our trailer, but I would get bitten up by ants picking potatoes. But if the old man saw me in the woods, he’d yell at me to stay out—for safety.

I was a wild little thing.
I used to pick up baby water moccasins like they were nothing. I threw them in a bucket and ran when I had to.
Lizards, insects, snakes—I wasn’t scared.
I was just curious and had something to do.

Being a tomboy at heart.

A fearless little girl.

We had pigs and donkeys for a while, but they were eventually removed due to the presence of black copperheads.
The chickens and goats stayed, though.

Sometimes, Rose and I would sneak into the barn shed, where the goats were kept.
We’d sit quietly, just watching them do their thing, feeling the warmth and stillness of that space like it was a secret just for us.

When we weren’t in the shed, we found other ways to pass the time.
There was a huge gravel pile we’d climb like it was a mountain. At the top, we’d grab a tree branch and swing off it—laughing like we were flying, like we were Tarzan. 

At a different shed—I think it was an old car shed— there were doodlebug pits in the dirt, where antlion larvae lived. Rose and I would crouch beside them and sing:

“Doodlebug, Doodlebug, come out and play…”

We didn’t know if the song really worked, but we swore it did. It was the kind of magic only kids believe in. And it was enough.

One day, we tried to ride the goats. Richard was there, and so was his father—though I don’t remember why he came over. It was so fun and taking turns with my sister Rose. Richard helped me up onto one of the goats and told me to hold tight to the horns and brace myself.

So I did.
He let go—And the goat took off!

I fell off and landed in barbed wire. I cut my right leg near the inside of my knee. The fun turned to pain in an instant.

They brought me inside and cleaned the cut.
They sprayed something on it—I don’t remember what it was, but it burned like hell.

I remember Richard’s biological father holding me while I cried. I don’t remember much else about him besides watching him eat a worm in front of me in the car, and I tried it all and believed it poop in my mouth and I spit it out. He and everyone in the car were laughing.
But I remember that.
And even though everything hurt, there was something in the way he held me that made me feel safe, just for a moment. I am happy to carry the scar on my leg from that day and look back at that simple moment. 

We had one of those cheap, battery-powered kids’ 4-wheelers that my biological father had given us, but Anna tried to take credit for it. Learned that truth as I got older…
It wasn’t fast or powerful, but it worked. Rose and I had to share it. We tried to ride it together if we could find a way, but we couldn’t, sadly. We did have to take turns and share it.

We’d drive it in circles around the old man’s trailer. There was just sand and dirt. I had a path to go around in circles and try to go as fast as I could go. I was a speed racer! To us, it was fun.

The old man would get annoyed and call our parents to make us stop. Looking back, I get why. It made a loud whining noise.  But as a kid, I didn’t think about that. I was just focused on the ride. We had to charge it every night. Eventually, it stopped working altogether. But for a while, it gave us something to look forward to. Just a little fun, in our own little world.

Those were the good times.
The memories I hold onto—of gravel piles and goat rides, of doodlebug songs and stolen moments in the barn shed. They were wild, messy, and full of laughter. And they were real.

But it wasn’t always like that.
There were bad times, too.
Moments involving police. Moments where things weren’t safe. Moments that hurt my mother.

Things we didn’t talk about, even when we knew something was wrong.

We saw things we shouldn’t have.
Felt things were too heavy for our age.
Sometimes the yelling would come out of nowhere.
Sometimes the silence was worse.

The good memories don’t erase the pain—and the pain doesn’t erase the good. They just sit beside each other now, woven into the same thread of childhood. One moment, we were laughing. Next, we were bracing ourselves for what would come next.

And somehow, both are true.
Both are mine.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;

when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,

and the flame shall not consume you.”

—Isaiah 43:2

 To the Girl Who Wonders Why She’s Still Standing

I’ve been asking myself this a lot lately: Why am I the way I am? Why did I survive when so many parts of my life should’ve broken me down?

I’ve asked other people. I’ve asked my mom-in-law. I’ve asked God. It feels like a question that lives in the back of my mind — even when I’m not saying it out loud.

The truth is, I wasn’t born into safety or peace. From the day I came into this world, it’s been complicated. My life started with rejection, confusion, and almost being given away. I didn’t grow up in a warm place or with people who sometimes looked at me like I was a blessing. And for a long time, I thought that meant I just wasn’t lovable.

But now I’m starting to understand something else.

I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t a mistake. I had something in me that kept reaching for something better, even when I didn’t know what I was reaching for. While others shut down or gave up, even when I did the same, yet — I kept feeling. I kept searching. I stayed sensitive, even when it made me hurt more. And I think that’s part of why I’m still standing.

God didn’t let go of me. Even when I couldn’t see Him clearly, something about me kept moving toward Him — like my soul knew who it belonged to.

I was made this way on purpose. I believe God gave me a spirit that could survive, not by getting hard but by staying open. And that might be why I’ve come out stronger in some ways than my siblings—not better—just built for something different.

So to anyone else who’s asking this same question… Maybe you’re standing because your story’s not done yet. Perhaps you were meant to carry something only you could carry — and live to tell the truth about it.

That’s what I’m doing here.

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Dear Little Me,

You didn’t deserve the way life started.

You didn’t deserve to be held with hesitation.
To be almost erased because someone else couldn’t handle the truth of who you were.
You didn’t deserve the lies written next to your name, or the silence that followed you into every room.

But I see you now. And I need you to know — I believe you.

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A Letter to the Girl I Used to Be,

I believe the way you felt, even when no one else did. I believe you carried the ache when you tried to be “good enough” for people who couldn’t love you correctly. I believe the way your little heart scanned every room, trying to figure out if you were wanted, or just tolerated. I know you tried so hard to stay small, not to cause trouble, to be helpful, quiet, useful — anything but a burden. But you were never a burden. Not once. You were just a child who needed to be held, and I’m so sorry that no one showed up the way they should’ve. But you made it. You kept going. You stayed kind. You kept your softness even when life gave you every reason to go numb.

You never stopped looking for something more. And now I know why — you were made to find God. Not in a building. Not through fear. But in the quiet, in the questions, in the survival. And you did. I’m here now because of you. I carry your pain, but I also carry your strength. I carry your hope. I carry the version of you who still wanted love, who still believed in softness, who still listened for God even in the dark. You didn’t fail. You endured. And now… you’re free to become more than anyone expected. I’m not ashamed of you. I love you. You were never too much. You were always worth loving.

Your girl, Me

It’s not just “backstory” for me—it’s the foundation of who I am now and my growth.
My past shaped me in ways I can’t separate… and maybe I’m not supposed to.

It lives in how I think, how I react, how I love… and even in how I struggle.
The good, the bad, and the ugly didn’t just pass through me—they built me, especially the hard seasons.

And because of that, I didn’t always understand what it meant to feel grounded… or safe… guided by someone else, or how to let go.

I learned how to carry things on my own.
I learned how to stay guarded, even when I didn’t want to be.

So now, in this part of my life, I’m learning something completely different.

I’m learning what it feels like to soften.
To trust.
To be led without feeling like I have to fight it.

And it’s not always easy.
Sometimes I push. Sometimes I question. Sometimes I don’t even understand my own reactions.

But I’m starting to see that those parts of me didn’t come from nowhere—
they came from everything I’ve lived through.

And instead of trying to separate myself from that…
I’m learning how to grow from it.

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Era 1

Before the Fall

“I was born into love that couldn’t protect me. I knew the storm before I knew peace.”

Note: Names used in this post have been changed for privacy and are not real or identifiable individuals.

This post contains references to personal trauma and sensitive experiences. All individuals mentioned are adults.

I was born in a women’s hospital in North Carolina.

I was born into a complicated story — not gently, not simply, but wrapped in the weight of decisions already made.
My real father wasn’t there that day.
He was in jail — not a bad man, but a man who made bad decisions.
My mother was just 19 years old. A teenager with a child she wasn’t sure she wanted, willing to give me away to DSS because another man couldn’t love a child that was not his.

His name was Mark — the man my mother was engaged to at the time.
And because he refused to love a child who wasn’t his, my mother was prepared to give me away. DSS was already in the hospital room, waiting, watching.
To make things “easier,” she had Mark— not my father — sign my birth certificate.
That way, both “parents” were accounted for, and the process could move forward more easily.
That day, I was nearly handed over to the system.

But there’s something else I’ve come to understand:

I was never supposed to exist. Not by human odds.
My mother had an IUD — the kind of birth control that works over 99% of the time.
I was the 1% — the impossible chance that made it anyway.
And even before I took my first breath, my very existence carried a question:
Would I be Black or White?
Because at the same time she was with my biological father, she was also seeing another man who was Black.
So even my skin tone was uncertain—something she couldn’t predict or control.
A decision she made — the choices
I was a maybe.

A risk.

A complication.

But then something shifted.
She backed out — not because she wasn’t scared, which I knew she was — but because my grandparents intervened.
They told her, “You can do this. We’ll help.”

And in that moment — I believe — something flickered in her.
Maybe it was love.

Maybe it was instinct.

Maybe it was God.

Whatever it was… I stayed.

I thought it was my Aunt Rebecca who picked my name.
However, I later learned the truth — my name came from my mother, Anna, and my grandmother.
She told me:
“You were named after Hannah Storm, a reporter on CBS News.
My mom helped me choose it. We thought she was beautiful and smart — just like you.
I always loved her name.”
Rebecca helped name my sister Rose.

So I became Hannah Marie Smith.

A name picked during confusion, but rooted in something deeper.
It sounds sweet.
But that name came in the middle of a storm.

Only days after I was born, while my mother was still healing, harm was done that never should have happened.
It came from anger. From control. From choices that left lasting damage.

And that moment became tied to the name I was given… the name written beside someone who caused pain instead of protection.

That’s the name I carried.
The same last name that was written beside mine—tied to someone who caused pain instead of protection.
I didn’t choose it.
My beginning was shaped by things I had no say in.
But I carried it anyway.

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Reflection from Me Now:

For a long time, I hated her for many reasons.
Not just for almost giving me away — but because she was willing to do it for a man.

A man who never protected her.

A man who hurt her.

A man who couldn’t accept a child that hadn’t even cried yet.

That choice left a scar on me, even if I didn’t have the words for it at the time.
But now… the woman I’ve become forgives her.
Not because what she did was okay, but because I no longer want to carry the fire of hate. I carry enough already.

Jesus said to love your enemies…

To bless those who curse you…

To forgive — and you will be forgiven.

I’m not pretending it didn’t happen.

I’m not opening the door wide.

But I am choosing peace.

I forgive her. But I also guard my heart.
Because forgiveness doesn’t mean trust — it means freedom.
My name was born in trauma, but I have rewritten what it means.
I am Hannah.
I am God’s child.
I am not erased.
I am flawed — and I am glorious.

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good
to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”
— Genesis 50:20

“I’ve been away for a bit because I wasn’t sure how to write again.

Just taking one step at a time with my Hubby.

There are parts of my past I won’t go into detail about here out of respect for TheCage, but they shaped —how I love, how I trust, and how I submit.

Going through it layer by layer: past to present...

I didn’t grow up in a space that felt safe. I learned survival before I learned softness.

And yet… I’m still here.

They tried to break me.
But I never broke.

Now I’m learning what it means to be held, to grow, and to choose something different.

~ for the uncensored book, must directly DM

Thank you!

Who I am – no filter

The truth of me — all of it.

Don’t judge a book by its cover… 

I am not just a woman. I am a battlefield.

A soul with ash on her skin and glory in her veins.

I’ve been touched without permission, loved without safety, shaped by hands that should’ve protected me but didn’t. I’ve been told to be grateful, to be quiet, to be obedient — while bleeding in silence.

I survived rooms I should’ve died in.

I walked out of places where my name wasn’t said with love but with control.

And I’m still here.

I carry trauma in my bones — not just memories, but body truths.

Flashbacks that live in my skin.

Fear that curls into my stomach when things get too loud, too fast, too familiar.

And yet I crave touch. I crave love. I crave to be wanted in ways that are honest, deep, and claimed.

That’s the contradiction people don’t understand.

I was broken through my body — and yet my body is where I’m reclaiming my power.

Yes, I am sexual.

Yes, I am submissive.

Yes, I want to kneel — not because I’m weak, but because I feel safe enough to choose it.

My softness and submissiveness are rooted in strength, not weakness.

My husband does not own me. He is my anchor.

He doesn’t control me. He leads with tenderness, not force — with consistency, not fear.

He holds it like something sacred.

He doesn’t push past my limits or silence my voice. He listens. He waits. He honors. 

I trust him with all my heart forever and always.

My husband is not a man to be feared — he is the safest place I’ve ever known.

He doesn’t demand devotion. I offer it.

He doesn’t take my surrender. I give it.

Because I trust him.

Because he’s earned it.

Because he holds me in ways the world never did.

I love him with devotion.

People often talk about God as if He were far away.

But I met God in the aftermath.

In the shaking. In the dirt.

I met Him in hospital rooms, in foster homes, on nights when I begged Him to just let me go. 

Let me come home to Him.

He didn’t lecture me. He didn’t ask me to clean myself up first.

He didn’t shame my body or my desire.

He stayed.

He sat in my silence.

He saw the blood, the longing, the confusion — and still called me worthy.

I know God.

Not the Sunday morning version, but the one who stays through the night.

I’m not easy.

I overthink. I shut down. I lash out when I’m scared.

I protect hard and carry more than I should.

I make jokes to hide the ache.

I crave to be needed, but fear being too much.

I mother when I want to be held.

I want to be chosen — not tolerated.

Claimed.

Looked at like I’m someone’s whole world, even when I feel like a storm.

I want a hand on my head that says,

“You’re mine. You’re safe. You’re good.”

Not because I’ve earned it,

but because I’m still here.

I’m not ashamed of who I am anymore.

Not the broken parts.

Not the nights I begged to be touched.

Not the days I cried over rules I broke.

Not the sacred way, I let my husband guide me — sexually, emotionally, spiritually.

This is all me.

I am not a fantasy.

I am not a stereotype.

I am not some twisted image of what a “submissive woman” is supposed to be.

I am not a pornographic idea or a body to be consumed.

I am a woman reclaiming herself —

Her body.

Her voice.

Her power.

Her softness.

Her God.

Her choice.

I am the protector and the one who longs to be protected.

I am the survivor and the surrendered.

I am the sister, the shield, the woman with tear-streaked prayers and fire in her fingertips.

I am not a sanitized testimony.

I am not a cautionary tale.

I am not a perfect Christian.

I am not a checklist of symptoms.

I am not what others expected me to become.

I am me —

       Flawed. Sacred. Sexual. Forgiven. Scarred. Desired. Chosen. Claimed.

I didn’t write this for pity.

I wrote this to set myself free.

I want to be set free from the chains and weights people have put on me and finally live for myself with the man I love so deeply. 

I am soft, yet I am strong.

              – “God gives His toughest battles to

His strongest warriors.” 

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am

your God.

I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

Isaiah 41:10

Introduction:

Before you read this, I asked that you pause, not to prepare your mind, but to prepare your heart. What you hold in your hand is not just a collection of memories or reflections. It is the unfiltered truth of my life. The pieces I once had to hide just to survive. These words are my legacy, written with trembling hands and a soul that has fought for every ounce of peace. It now carries. You will read things here that are painful, human, raw, and holy. This includes not only the trauma I endured and the strength I had to build, but also the parts of me that have often been misunderstood or silenced — my softness, my sexuality, my scared connection to my husband, and the way I came to know God in the most intimate bodily ways. The parts of me that make up who I am.  I do not separate the spiritual from physical in these pages, because God never asked me to, and I was never truly alone. I believe He met me in both. 

This story is not just about who God is, but also about who I am. It’s about the human I was: not perfect, not always brave, and not always right. But reaching. Feeling. Wanting. Loving. Failing. Be coming. It’s about the beauty of being flawed —and the quiet glory of being worthy. It is about a woman who was shaped by pain, but not defined by it. Who found freedom in devotion, softness in surrender, and redemption in places religion often skipped over. This is not a sanitized testimony. This is the truth– the kind that holds scars and devotion, ache, and beauty, weakness and power, a type of brokenness and glory. I wrote this not for pity, not for praise, but for freedom– mine and maybe yours too. Suppose you are willing to read with reverence and not curiosity, with compassion and not judgment. Then I welcome you to the deepest parts of me. Let this speak for me when I can no longer. 

~ Flawed by life. Glorious by grace.