Unwritten Until Now

⚠️ Content Warning:

This entry reflects on early childhood memories, emotional experiences, and themes of love, loss, and connection. Reader discretion is advised.

If this made you cry, just know… I felt it too.

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The First Time I Saw Titanic

There are some memories that don’t feel big at the time—
but they stay.

This was one of them.

We were living in a small apartment.
The kind where everything felt close together—walls thin, rooms small, the TV lighting up most of the space when it was on.

I remember the glow of the screen more than anything.

My mother sat next to me as we watched a bittersweet movie.
The sound felt louder than the space could hold.

I don’t remember exactly where I was—
maybe curled into the couch, maybe leaning into the cushions—
but I remember feeling physically still, like I didn’t want to move or miss anything.

And I remember her being there.

That mattered.

We were watching Titanic.

I loved it—even as a child.

Not because I understood it fully—
but because I felt it.

I remember getting lost in it…
almost like being pulled into each moment as it unfolded.

The way they looked at each other.
The tension.
The quiet, playful moments that slowly turned into something deeper.

I was drawn to that.

The chemistry between them—
the way he saw her differently than everyone else did,
the way he could be soft but also bold, like there was more to him beneath the surface.

I noticed that.

Even then.

There were moments of closeness I didn’t fully understand at the time,
but I recognized the feeling behind them—
connection, curiosity, something that felt important.

And yes… I remember noticing him too.

Something about him stood out to me, even if I didn’t have the words for why.
And honestly, that never really changed—
even now, when I think about that movie, it’s that version of him that stayed with me.

I was paying attention to all of it.

The tension.
The way they chose each other.
The way they held onto each other.
The way something real was forming in the middle of everything else.

It felt like love.

At least, what I understood love to be at that age.

And then everything shifted.

The ship.
The panic.
The cold.

The sounds changed.
The feeling in the room changed.

I remember my chest tightening.
My body going quiet.

Watching people hold onto each other as everything fell apart.

I cried—just a little.
Soft, quiet… almost hidden.
Just enough to feel it without letting it fully out.

I remember the scene where the mother held her children, accepting what was coming, trying to comfort them anyway.

That stayed with me.

The chaos on the ship—
people fighting, people accepting,
the limited lifeboats,
the weight of who would live and who wouldn’t.

Even the captain…
not just as a captain, but as a man choosing to stay as everything went down.

That meant something to me.

Jack dying stayed with me.

The idea that something could be that strong—
and still not last.

And Rose living.

That part felt important too.

And at the end—
when she let the necklace fall into the ocean—

something about that moment stayed with me.

It felt like letting go.
Like holding onto something forever in your heart,
even when it’s no longer in your life.

Even the captain—
staying with the ship as it went down—

that stayed with me too.

Loyalty.
Commitment.
Not leaving, even when everything is falling apart.

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Reflection

Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t just watching a movie.

I was learning something.

I didn’t have the words for it then—but I felt it.

I was drawn to the connection between them—
the way they looked at each other,
the tension, the closeness,
the way he saw her differently than everyone else did.

There was something about that I noticed.

Not just love—
but a certain kind of love.

And looking back now, I can see what I was really learning.

Not in words—but in feeling.

That love was something intense.
Something with an edge to it.
Not just soft—but something that pulled you in and held you there.

That attraction wasn’t just about liking someone—
but about feeling drawn to them in a way that felt emotional… almost a little dangerous.

And that connection—
was being seen differently.
Chosen differently.
Not just another person in the room—
but someone who mattered in a deeper way.

I didn’t understand that at the time.

But I carried it.

I think, without realizing it, I started to understand love as something like that—
not just soft, but deep.
Something you feel in your chest.
Something that stays with you.

I didn’t know that’s what I was taking in at the time.

But looking back now—
I can see that I wasn’t just watching a story.

I was forming an idea of what love looked like…
before I even understood what love really was.

And maybe, back then,
in that small apartment,
sitting in that quiet space beside her—

I wasn’t just watching a movie.

I was learning what I believed love was supposed to be.

And maybe that’s why, even now, I don’t just want love—I want to feel chosen, seen, and held in something that’s real and undeniable.

“Place me like a seal over your heart,
like a seal on your arm;
for love is as strong as death…
Many waters cannot quench love;
rivers cannot sweep it away.”

- Song of Solomon 8:6-7

⚠️ Content Warning:

This entry discusses childhood bullying, shame, and feelings of isolation. Reader discretion is advised.

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When I Was the Girl No One Wanted to Sit With

In 2nd grade, I had a habit I didn’t think much of—until it made me the outcast. A kid being a child. I used to pick my nose and sometimes eat it. It wasn’t something I did for attention or to be disgusting. I was just a kid—nervous, awkward, unaware. But the moment other kids noticed, it became who I was.
I wasn’t just Hannah anymore.
I was that girl.
The one people stared at, laughed at, whispered about.
The one teacher didn’t guide—but instead humiliated.

One day, my teacher yelled at me in front of the whole class to go wash my hands.
I did. Not because I cared about washing my hands, but because I was already ashamed of being seen.

I was bullied every day.
And I was alone in it.

Everyone in my class passed that year—except me.
I was the only one held back.
The only one left behind.

But there was one girl I still remember.
She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t tease me or mock me.
And here and there, throughout that year, she showed small signs of kindness.
A smile. A look. A soft moment when no one was watching.
She never sat with me. She never included me. But she didn’t turn cold.

And near the very end of the school year, she talked to me.
Just once.

I don’t remember her exact words. But I remember her face.
And more than anything, I remember the feeling.
Her voice didn’t carry hope. It carried pity.
Not friendship. Not welcome.
Just… the ache of someone who felt sorry for me but couldn’t afford to be near me.

And I could see it—so clearly:
Being around me hurt her more than helping me.

I wanted a friend.
So badly.
But not at the cost of someone else becoming the next target.
I knew I could take the bullying.
But I didn’t know if she could.

So I let her go.

That was the last time I saw her.
She passed. I stayed.
She moved on to 3rd grade.
I repeated the 2nd.
And I carried the quiet knowing that I had been someone’s almost.
Almost worthy of kindness. Almost enough. Almost accepted.

That feeling didn’t fade quickly.

But the next year gave me something else.

A new teacher—kinder.
A classroom with guinea pigs.
And a girl named Sarah.

She was in my class, and I saw her at lunch and on the playground.
She had the same habit I once had.
She sat alone.
The kids kept their distance from her, just as I remembered them doing to me.

I watched her.
And I saw myself.

At first, I stayed with the others.
I had worked hard to blend in by then.
To avoid being noticed.

But the memory of that girl who pitied me haunted me.
Not because I hated her—but because I knew she had seen me… and still walked away.

I didn’t want to become that kind of person.

So one day, I walked past the crowd and sat beside Sarah.

It was quiet.
Awkward.
But real.

We found ladybugs together at recess.
Because of that, sometimes other classmates joined us.
Most days, it was just us.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel like a follower.
I felt like someone who chose.

Because I knew what it was like to be someone’s quiet guilt.
This time, I was someone’s safe place.

And maybe that’s when I started becoming me.

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Why this story matters

This story is not about boogers.
It’s not about being weird.

It’s about the first time I was shamed for being a human child.

It’s about how small things—things I didn’t even fully understand—became reasons for rejection.
And how rejection shapes the way I move through the world, even after I grow.

I’m not glorifying it.
I’m trying to tell the truth about a memory that held shame, loneliness, and quiet heartbreak.
I’m naming it—not to stay stuck in it, but to redeem it.

Because the most powerful part of this story isn’t what I did in 2nd grade.

It’s what I chose later.

I didn’t forget how it felt to be almost accepted.
I didn’t turn bitter.

I sat beside the next girl who needed a friend.
Not to fix her.
But to say, “You are not alone. Not this time.”

That’s healing.
That’s redemptive.
That’s the kind of story that turns pain into purpose.

>>> Note: I was held back in the 2nd grade, and this was the year I repeated/redeemed…  

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Letter to Anyone Who’s Felt Like That Kid

To the one who sat alone,
The one who was whispered about, laughed at, or ignored—
This is for you.

You weren’t disgusting.
You weren’t “too much.”
You were a child with needs that no one handled gently.

If someone showed you a small kindness, only to walk away before it became real—
You’re not crazy for remembering that.
Those “almost” moments cut deep.
Being seen but not chosen… it carves something in your chest.

If you’ve ever been that child—almost accepted, nearly welcomed—
I want you to know something:

It wasn’t your fault.
It wasn’t because you were unworthy.
It was because others didn’t know how to carry what you carried.

And if, later in life, you became the one who sat beside someone else who reminded you of your old pain—
You did something powerful.

You broke the cycle.

You didn’t just survive rejection.
You turned it into compassion.
You remembered—and you reached.

You were never nobody.
You were never gross.
You were important.
Even when no one said it then—
I’m saying it now.