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