Unwritten Until Now

Content Warning

This entry contains childhood trauma, foster care abuse, emotional neglect, sexual abuse, surveillance, and survival responses.

This post reflects real-life experiences and is written from a place of healing and reflection.

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Trying to find my footing on where to start—my mind keeps coming back here. It’s layered, and hard to put into words. Sometimes it feels like more than words can hold.

The Whites were originally foster parents licensed through Johnston County DSS. My previous foster homes weren’t bad, but each one had its own structure, and I learned to adapt. This was my first time in a home this large, in Angier, NC, in an HOA neighborhood.

At one point, after things shifted, it was just me and two younger girls—Autumn and Harper. Other children came and went over time.

It was cold that night—the kind that bites your skin. We went on a Christmas hay ride with lights and decorations. I remember sitting next to Jordan, and later cutting him out of the photo. We waited in the cold for pictures with Santa. I tucked my hands into my sleeves to stay warm.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what I was seeing—but I felt it. Some children were treated with more warmth, more care. Others weren’t. Over time, I began to recognize the pattern. Love in that home felt uneven—given freely to some, and withheld from others.

I learned the difference between being part of a family… and simply being there.

There was an unspoken hierarchy in that house. The parents’ authority came first. Then the children they favored. And then… there was me.

I didn’t fit what they wanted. I remembered too much—my past, my family, my reality. I couldn’t be shaped into something easier or quieter. And because of that, I was treated differently.

I was often corrected, isolated, or blamed. I learned quickly that being observant or protective could make me a target. Still, I tried to care for the younger ones when I could. That instinct—to protect—came from love, even when it cost me.

That instinct never left me.

Back then it was survival. Now it’s part of how I move through the world. I notice things others don’t. I step in when something feels off. Sometimes that means I carry more than I should—but it also means I never overlook someone who needs to be seen.

I didn’t become what hurt me.

I became someone who sees.

There was a time when two foster children, Sarah and Joseph, stayed with us. I remember defending Joseph when he was teased for playing with his sister’s toys. Even then, I knew people should be allowed to be themselves.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. I got up and started dancing quietly—just trying to release some energy. I didn’t think about the baby monitor.

Then Margaret’s voice came through it:

“Hannah! Go to bed!”

I froze. Dove under the covers. Embarrassed. Silent again.

Another child, Mia, stayed in the home. She required medical care and had nurses rotating throughout the day. She couldn’t speak, but she communicated in other ways—through expressions and sounds.

I sat with her often. Held her hand. Talked to her. That room became a place where I could breathe for a moment—where my care wasn’t punished.

Being near her gave me a sense of safety.

There were also parts of that home where my sense of safety was taken away.

There was someone in the home who crossed boundaries with me and made me feel unsafe. I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but I knew it wasn’t right. I learned to stay in spaces where others were around, or where I felt more protected.

That’s one reason I stayed close to Mia—because in that space, I could breathe.

Pieces of my childhood were taken from me.

But I was not.

I survived.

And even then, I still found ways to care for others.

That’s how I know who I am.

⚠️ 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 reflects on early childhood experiences, including moments of fear, confusion, and emotional distress. Reader discretion is advised.

When Words Hold What Photos Once Did

If there's something you'd like to know about this era, please don't hesitate to let me know or ask your question. As I mentioned, these are things I have been working on over time and trying to articulate into words. Example: As a child, I used to cut my hair in the bathroom with scissors, and so did my sister Rose; she was even bald at one point. This is not everything from this era, but we will move on to the next...

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First Crush

My first crush was in first grade. His name was Anthony.

I believed my mamaw when she told me that when she looked into my eyes, she could tell if I was lying. And I absolutely believed her — the kind of belief only a child can hold onto without question. The fear of God in me.

One day at school, I had a crush on a boy, and to my surprise, he liked me too. We didn’t want to get caught, so we made a plan — a secret moment behind a tree during recess. He made a little ring out of twigs and slipped it on my finger like we were grown-ups pretending to be something bigger than ourselves.

Right before our first kiss, I panicked and told him I had to cover my eye, or else my family (especially my mamaw) would know I kissed him. He didn’t laugh. He just nodded, gentle and kind, and gave me a quick peck on the lips while I covered one eye with my hand.

But one of the girls saw us. She ran to tell the teacher, and after that day, we weren’t allowed to sit next to each other anymore.

The last time I saw Anthony was on the Fourth of July, sitting on a blanket watching fireworks. My sister kept trying to stand between us, giggling and eating funnel cake while I pretended not to care. Even when she stood between us, laughing and eating funnel cake, I still found myself glancing over at him.. But I remember glancing over at him, and he smiled at me — the same smile from behind the tree.

Even as a little girl, I think part of me knew I would always remember him. Not because of the kiss, but because of the way it felt to be seen, chosen, and innocent all at once.

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The Little Things That Made Me
(Early Childhood Memories)

At my grandparents’ house, we always prayed before eating. No elbows on the table, Mamaw would say — her voice firm but loving. She was big on that. I remember us all holding hands, bowing our heads, and whispering our prayers, hoping God was listening to a child like me.

At school, during the award ceremonies, I would always look out into the crowd, searching for my family. Every time I couldn’t find them, I cried. It felt important to have someone there — to be seen, to be proud of, to matter enough for them to clap when my name was called. But they were there, and my teacher helped me point them out, making me feel so happy to see them.

At home, I tried my best to help. I learned how to check the mail, remember phone numbers and addresses, and help with my siblings. I changed Ethan's and Lily's diapers — sometimes with Rose's help, and sometimes all by myself. I thought that’s what big sisters were supposed to do: help, hold, and make things easier.

There was one morning when we all overslept for school. I was the first one awake and realized what time it was. I rushed around the house, shaking everyone up, getting my siblings ready, trying to stay calm even though my little heart was racing. When I went to wake Anna, I was nervous, but I did so anyway. She was late for work and panicking. I remember her speeding down the road, breaking road laws, and shouting curse words. It was just another shithole day. I remember asking her if it's a solid yellow; you were not supposed to skip cars, but it was broken up, so you could, right? She said yes and was trying to justify herself. That’s the day I learned my first curse word — shit. I saw it again later, written on the bathroom wall at school while doing my business. I traced the letters with my eyes — s-h-i-t — realizing it was the same word my mom said when things went wrong. Then it all made sense. 

But not everything was chaos. Some nights were quiet. Some nights were strange.
At Richard House, I used to see a ghost. It would walk up and down our hallway — never saying a word, never touching anything, but always there. It always walked up and down the hallway. I’d talk to it sometimes, half afraid and half curious. Just enough to wonder if it was lonely, too, or lost. Needing help finding the light. One day, it just stopped coming. The hallway stayed empty after that.

Looking back, I think I learned more in those years than anyone realized — about faith, responsibility, and the invisible things that linger when love feels uncertain. More than they will ever know.

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When Words Hold What Photos Once Did

I can finally give words to what those photos held.

Before I had words, I was already observing everything.

I remember a picture of me, small hands, bright eyes, sitting at a red table that once felt so big. I didn’t know the world yet, not really. I only knew the sound of crayons on paper, the feel of glue between my fingers, and the comfort of being told it was time to clean up.

Looking back now, I see more than just a classroom. I see a beginning — a child learning how to exist in a world that didn’t always feel safe, yet still managing to smile for a moment. I see curiosity, resilience, and a quiet strength that didn’t even know its own name yet.

That little girl had no idea where life would take her. She didn’t know the storms ahead or the walls she’d one day have to climb. But she’s still here — in my heart, in my story, reminding me that even from the start, I was trying… learning… surviving.

And maybe that’s what this picture really captures — not innocence alone, but endurance. A piece of me that never gave up, even before I had the words to say why.

I remember standing in the sun, squinting, smiling awkwardly—caught between shyness and joy. The sun was too bright, but I didn’t want to move. I wanted to be part of the moment, even if my eyes watered and my grin came out crooked.

There’s something tender about it now. The way I stood there, small and unsure, still trying to belong, still finding light even when it hurt to look at it. I didn’t know much about life then, but somehow I already knew how to face the sun — how to stand in the warmth, even when it made me squint and stumble.

Looking back, that smile feels like a little piece of who I’ve always been: awkward, hopeful, and stronger than I realized.

That card was more than just a school project and messy grammar. It was my way of saying thank you to the man who made me feel safe. Papaw wasn’t loud about love — he showed it in quiet ways: a steady hand on mine, the hum of the lawnmower, the smell of grass and gasoline as we rode side by side.

I remember sitting on his lap, my little hands gripping the steering wheel like I was helping. The world felt big then, but sitting there, I didn’t feel small. I felt like I belonged, like I was part of something steady, something good.

He taught me more than he probably realized — that love doesn’t always need fancy words, just time and presence. Helping him fix cars, passing him tools, or simply being nearby — those were lessons in love without him even knowing it.

He wasn’t perfect. Sometimes he fell or didn’t know how to handle things, but he tried, and that mattered more than perfection ever could. His love was humble and human, stitched together with effort and heart. Looking back, I see how much of his gentleness still lives in me. The same patience he had for every blade of grass he cut, he somehow passed on to my heart.

Maybe that’s what real love looks like — imperfect hands still reaching, still trying, and somehow leaving the world softer for it.

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Spoons and Sisterhood

Rose and I were standing side by side and determined, trying our hardest to get those spoons to stick to our noses and chins. We were being silly, but we treated it like it mattered, holding our breath, trying not to blink, waiting for the photo to catch us just right.

We weren’t giggling uncontrollably or lost in some perfect moment of laughter this time. It was quieter than that — more focused, like we were both trying to make something small go right. We were just kids, trying to be funny, trying to prove we could do it, maybe even trying to distract ourselves from whatever else filled the air back then.

Looking at it now, I see two girls doing their best to create a memory — to turn an ordinary moment into something worth keeping. And maybe that’s what makes this photo special: not because it was carefree, but because we still found a way to be kids in the middle of everything.

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The Day the Sky Roared

That photo also reminds me of another time...

I was just sitting there — being me, watching TV and playing with my sister — when I looked out the window and felt it. That quiet knowing that danger was close. The sky didn’t look right, the wind was howling, and something deep inside told me something was not okay.

I ran to my mom and told her what I saw. She told me to turn the TV to the weather channel, so I did — and that’s when we heard it. There was a tornado in our area, and it was close. I remember Anna stopping what she was doing, panic rising in her voice as she tried to grab everything we might need, including a mattress.

We went under the stairwell, into the closet — me, my sister Rose, Anna, and Richard. We used the mattress to block the door. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it over the wind. Then our parents decided to check things outside, and that’s when everything got worse.

My ears started to hurt — sharp, deep pain, bleeding — and I was crying, telling my mom something was wrong. I followed them and told my mom about my ears.  Then I saw the tornado and the fear in me, and seeing the fear on my parents’ faces said everything. They grabbed me, and we ran back into the closet, holding on to each other as the storm roared past. The noise was overwhelming, the pressure was unbearable, and then — silence.

I remember relooking at our apartment's backyard and how far I saw the tornado. I couldn't believe how close it was, and it didn't hit us.

It passes us.

 When it was over, we went to the hospital. So many people were there, hurt and scared. I got a shot in the butt — and I wasn’t happy about that part — but my mom held my hand, just like she always did when I got shots.

Even in all the chaos, that small act of her hand in mine is what I remember most. The fear was real, the storm was real — but so was that touch. Somehow, in that moment, it made me believe we’d be okay.

These weren’t just moments.
They were pieces of me—forming, adapting, learning— long before I knew how to explain any of it.

       - Every journey starts somewhere… this was mine. 🖤

⚠️ 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.

⚠️ Content Warning:

This entry discusses childhood abuse, neglect, and a life-threatening accident involving a child. It also includes themes of fear, survival, and early exposure to unsafe environments. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

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The Danger at Home 

As I mentioned, I moved frequently, so when I lived in an apartment, my mother told Rose and me to clean our bedroom and leave her alone. We could tell something was off — her voice carried frustration, her mood sharp. So we did what we were told. We cleaned the bedroom, the bathroom, and even mopped the floor with washcloths and water.

We thought we were doing the right thing. We thought being quiet would keep the peace. But in her eyes, quiet meant trouble. The saying 'quiet kids' means they are up to something... which we were not; we were doing what we were told to do and trying to make her happy.

She came upstairs without warning. The floor was still wet, and before we could stop her, she slipped and fell. She was furious. Her anger didn’t land on the floor — it landed on us. (Imagine the doctor's office floor slippery, like their floors are.)

She shoved me. I hit my head on the floor, and my body fell on the bed that was lying on the floor. Feeling dizzy and dazed, I opened my eyes to see her spanking Rose, who was terrified and crying. She promised more punishment after dinner. We tried to explain, tried to tell her it wasn’t our fault, and we were doing as we were told, but she didn’t care.

That night, before the punishment, I whispered to Rose to layer her underwear. I was trying to protect us in the only way I knew how. She listened — until she told on me afterward. I glared at her, confused and betrayed. I would have never told. She thought telling would save her, but it didn’t.

Our mother ordered us both to strip down, no layers this time. Hands on the bed. The belt came down hard—not like discipline, but out of anger. I was a mover, a flincher. I couldn’t stay still, and each time I moved, it got worse. I went to bed crying, my whole body aching.”

That was what “home” meant.
Danger. Punishment. Rage.
Even when we obeyed, we couldn’t win.
 

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The Survival Games

We were just kids, but we didn’t always play like other kids.
Sometimes it was just for fun—laughing, daring each other, seeing who could win.
Other times, it was something different.

Rose—saw it as a game, I think.
She liked to turn everything into a challenge: who could hide the best, who could tie the tightest knot, who could escape first.
She was good at it, too.
And I’d play along, teasing her, picking on her the way sisters do.
But underneath the laughter, I was always thinking about what it really meant.
For me, it was never just a game.
It was practice.
Because if something bad happened, I was the oldest—and it would be on me to protect them.

It felt like a double-sided coin: one side was fun, the other fear.
On one side, we were kids testing ourselves; on the other, we were children preparing for things we shouldn’t have had to.
We were just trying to make the fear feel smaller by turning it into something we could control.

And when I told them to run, I meant it.
Not because I wanted to disappear,
but because I knew I could take it—even when I was afraid.
If it came down to it, I would face the worst so they could get away.
And no matter how far they ran, I’d always find them.
That was the promise I carried quietly, the one that made me feel strong even when my hands were shaking.

I knew I had to protect them all, but I also wanted to laugh, to just be a kid for once.
To run around without listening for footsteps or shouting in the background.

We learned to read moods like the weather—the quiet before the storm, the sudden drop in peace that meant something was coming.
We never said “I’m scared.”
We just said, “Let’s play.”
And sometimes it really was play.
Other times, it was survival disguised as a game.

Those moments made us clever, quick, and strong in ways no child should have to be.
But we weren’t supposed to learn how to survive.
We were supposed to be safe.

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Canopy

We were just playing.
Rose and I, bouncing on the bed, laughing, being sisters.
That bed with the metal canopy felt like our own jungle gym.
We’d hang from the bars, jump around, and try to outdo each other.
It was the kind of play that kids are supposed to have—loud, carefree, a little too wild.

Then it happened.
I bounced too hard, and she fell off the edge.
Her head hit the floor, and she started crying.
It scared me—I didn’t mean to hurt her.
But before I could help her up or say sorry, she ran to Anna.

When Anna came in, I already knew what was coming.
Rose didn’t tell her we were playing.
She told her I pushed her.
She blamed me.

And once that happened, there was no talking my way out of it.
Richard came in next.
He told me to bend over the bed.
Not a word of comfort, not a question—just punishment.
He grabbed a clothes hanger.

The sound of it moving through the air is something I’ll never forget.
Each hit landed sharply, and all I could do was brace for the next one.
I remember Rose crying, saying, “Stop! She didn’t mean to!”
But it was too late.
They’d already decided I was guilty.

Because in that house, standing up for yourself only made things worse.

It’s strange how fast love and laughter could turn into pain.
One moment, we were sisters playing.
The next, I was the bad one again.
I learned that in that house, accidents didn’t matter—only blame did.

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Left in the Care of the Wrong People

There were times when the adults weren’t really there.
They were too lost in their own chaos—drugs, anger, or whatever storm took them away from us.
So they’d leave us with whoever was around.
Sometimes that meant Mary and Leanna.
They were older than us and were the adults then, the ones in charge, or just being around family.

At the pool one day with Leanna, we were at her friend's house using her pool, and we were told that if we wanted to stay longer to swim, we had to smoke a cigarette; otherwise, we’d have to leave and couldn’t swim anymore.
So we did it.
We were just kids trying to stay part of something, to keep the fun from ending.

On some different random day, they were outside smoking and I was watching and used to my family being smokers. Well, most of them. I stood there with them on the porch. They showed me how to “do it the right way,” how to breathe it in.
They laughed when I coughed and told me I’d get used to it, and that's how you do it.
I didn't really like it, but I didn’t say much.
I just wanted to belong.

They made smoking cigarettes seem normal—like it was just part of growing up.

I remember feeling torn between wanting to fit in and knowing deep down that it didn’t feel right.
They thought it was funny, but it didn’t feel like a joke to me.

We were supposed to be taken care of.
Instead, we were surrounded by people who didn’t know how to care for themselves, much less for us.
We were shown things and told things no child should ever have to know.
And there was no one to tell, no one who would’ve listened anyway.

I didn’t have the words for it back then, but I knew it wasn’t love.
I knew it wasn’t safety.
And I knew, deep down, that the people we were left with were the very ones we needed protection from.

______________________________________________________________________________ 

The Kind I Thought Was Love

I didn’t fully understand what love was back then.
I saw it in pieces — sometimes soft, sometimes sharp, sometimes gone before I could reach it.
I thought love was trying not to make anyone mad, keeping quiet when I wanted to cry, doing things that made people smile, even when it didn’t feel right inside.

I tried to be helpful.
That was my way of showing love — cleaning, fixing, listening, taking care of whoever needed it.
If someone was upset, I wanted to make it better.
If someone was angry, I wanted to calm them down.
I thought maybe if I could be good enough, kind enough, useful enough, then the bad moments would stop.

I didn’t realize yet that love isn’t supposed to hurt.
It isn’t supposed to make you afraid or small.
But I still believed in it — even then.
In my own ways, I was loving the only way I knew how: by surviving, helping, and hoping.

______________________________________________________________________________

The Day I Saved Her - The Nail Gun

It was quiet that day.
Just another normal day at Richard’s house.
He was working on building a master bedroom, and his tools were left out — all in one spot near our bedroom and the opening to theirs.
We’d been told not to touch them, but they were right there, close enough for any child to reach.

I was doing my own thing, and Rose was doing hers.
She must’ve picked up the nail gun, not knowing what it could do.

Being a child. Being unaware of dangers.
“Even though it was unplugged, it still fired into her chest.

She came to me, holding her chest, saying it hurt, and she didn't feel well.

We had buck beds. I was on the bottom, but sometimes we take turns.
I didn’t understand what she meant.  Lay her in bed. Asked her where it hurts, and she pointed to it.
When I looked, I saw only a small mark — nothing that looked serious, just a tiny spot that didn’t seem like much. I wipe it for her and try to care for her.
But I could see something in her face that told me it was worse than it looked.
So I listened to my gut and went to get Mom — Anna.

She was on the phone, like always, talking to her friend.
I tried to wait, but she waved me off.
I turned back and said, “Rose needs help. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

Telling her on the phone, not right now.
She brushed me off again, annoyed that I was interrupting, but I didn't stop getting her attention.
When she finally told her friend she had to go, and she would call later, and hung up, it was already almost too late.

By the time Richard came home, he saw the situation and heard that Rose didn't feel okay.

I told her what she told me, and that her chest is hurting.
We went to find Rose, and she wasn’t in the bed where I’d left her.
She had moved to our little desk area — lying on top of it, her skin pale, her lips turning blue.
That image will never leave me.

Richard realized then what had happened — that she’d shot herself in the chest.
He wanted to know how, but the answer was right in front of him: his tools were left out, right where he left them. Nearby are the bedroom and the entrance to their bedroom.
No locks. No safety. No supervision.

I thought I was going to lose my sister right in front of me, and I couldn’t do anything.
We rushed her to the hospital. I remember that car ride, Anna crying, and Richard speeding.
And I was just there looking at my sister in Anna's arms.

She had shot herself in the chest—so close to her heart that it could have taken her from us.
And somehow, she lived.

People still talk about who noticed first, who saved her, who got there in time.

And yes, it does bother me to this day.
But the truth is, it never should’ve happened.
The adults were supposed to keep us safe — and they didn’t.
Their negligence almost cost my sister her life.

All I did was what any child shouldn’t have had to do: see the danger, sound the alarm, and pray it wasn’t too late.

_____________

Reflection

That day was only the beginning.
It planted something in me that kept growing — the need to watch, to stay alert, to see danger before it happened.

I may take two steps back, but I'll keep moving forward and trying to be one step ahead.
Back then, it came from fear.
But over time, it became instinct.

I learned to notice everything:
the tone in someone’s voice, the way silence could feel heavy, the small signs that said something wasn’t right.
At first, it was just about survival — but later, it became an integral part of who I am.
It shaped how I protect others, how I care for animals, and how I stay aware when everyone else relaxes.

It was the start of something deeper — the part of me that still scans every room, listens between the words, and carries the quiet knowing that safety isn’t promised, it’s guarded.

⚠️ Content Warning:

This entry discusses childhood struggles, feelings of isolation, early exposure to inappropriate influences, and moments of confusion and self-discovery at a young age. Reader discretion is advised.

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The Odd Kid Out

________

School was my only safe place compared to home.

But even there, safety didn’t always mean belonging.

I struggled with my homework. I struggled to understand what came so easily to everyone else. At least, I could help my sister Rose. Even if there was no one to help me at home, I could help her or someone if their homework was easier than mine. She was in a different grade, and helping her with her work became my way of teaching her and myself. I had to learn twice as hard. Helping her gave me purpose, but it also kept me from drowning completely in my own failure. Even if it wasn't my fault, I didn't know. 

At home, Anna sometimes tried to help, but never with my actual grades. My teachers complained about my handwriting on every report card and my struggles. So she sat me at the kitchen table, forcing me to switch my pencil from my left hand to my right. Over and over, I had to write my name — Hannah — until it was “neat and eligible.” I either wrote it so messily it couldn’t be read, or I forgot altogether. I was used to teachers writing my name for me when I forgot to. To Anna, this wasn’t about me learning. It was about silencing the comments from school.

At school, I was the odd kid out. Pulled from class for EC instruction. Always behind. Always different. I never picked fights, but I never backed down either.

Soccer became one way of my proof. I was the only girl who played with the boys, standing as a defender, never a goalie. Nosebleeds and bruises didn’t scare me. They expected me to fall — but I didn’t. Sometimes they respected me for it, sometimes they just tried harder to knock me down.

I got into trouble plenty of times, but the vice principal saw more than just the behavior. She’d sit me in her office and let me do schoolwork, almost like she knew I needed a break from the chaos — both in class and at home. Maybe she couldn’t fix it, but I think she could tell there were things going on in my life that didn’t show on the surface. And in her office, I felt seen in a way I didn’t anywhere else.

I remember the weirdest things from those years, too. Like hanging off the gymnastics bars, moving my legs, and discovering a feeling in my body that I didn’t understand yet. It was unfamiliar—but it felt good in a way I couldn’t explain. I didn’t have words for it, but I noticed it. Looking back, as I got older, I know I was exposed to things too early, even if I didn’t fully understand them at the time.

_________

I made mistakes, too.

In first grade, Mrs. Harris had a candy basket. You only got candy when you were good. That day, after being pulled out of class like always, tired of being the different one, I stole it. Not just a piece — a lot. I thought I wouldn’t get caught. But when I tried to sneak back for more, I did. My dumdass self thought I could have been slick by picking something up in front of the teacher, but I thought she had her attention on the other students. The punishment: all my sticks were pulled, I had no recess, and I received a phone call home. I remember being more upset about losing recess and pulling all my sticks than about my parents knowing about it. They didn’t really care. They never did when it felt like where school did. 

School was messy. School can be cruel because of other kids and because some teachers treat me differently at times because of my home life and actions.

But compared to home, it was still the closest thing I had to safe.

Even if I didn’t belong, I survived. I stood my ground.

Reflection

Looking back, I can see how much I was carrying—even then.

I wasn’t just “the odd kid out.”
I was a kid trying to make sense of a world that didn’t feel steady,
while still trying to show up, learn, and be good.

I tried to find my place wherever I could—through helping others, pushing myself, or proving I could stand my ground.

And even in the moments I didn’t understand—my body, my reactions, the way I felt different—I was still learning.

I didn’t have the words for it back then.
But I do now.

I wasn’t broken.
I was adapting.

And something I’m still learning now
is that I don’t have to carry everything on my own. It's not easy to do.

I’ve found my place—
and I’m giving myself permission to just exist,
not just perform.

⚠️ Content Warning:

This piece reflects real experiences of domestic violence, childhood trauma, and emotional distress. 

It is not related to consensual BDSM, age-play, or any form of roleplay. 

The events described were not chosen and did not involve consent. 

Reader discretion is strongly advised. 

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

__________________________________________________________________________

First to Wake: Surviving the Broken Nights

One of the memories that still sits heavily in my chest is the fights between Anna and Richard. It wasn’t just one argument—it was constant, especially at night. We’d be asleep, or at least trying to be, and their yelling would echo through the walls. It didn’t matter where we lived—every place they moved us into, the fighting followed.

I remember Richard hurting my mom. Not just with words, but physically. I saw the aftermath of the fights. I saw bruises. I saw how hurt she was. Sometimes it was so bad she had to go to the hospital. Those images never really left me. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, but I knew it was wrong. I knew it was scary. I knew it made everything feel unsafe.

One time, when we were living at Richard’s house, Anna told me to call the cops because Richard was hurting her. I did. I was just a kid, and I don’t even remember what started the fight—I just remember seeing them in it. When I called, the operator asked me where I lived, and I froze. I didn’t know what to say. I was scared and lost and didn’t know what to do next. Then the phone was taken from me before I could finish the call.

Anna rushed Rose and me into the car. She had all of us kids get in. As we were leaving, the situation escalated and felt unsafe, and Anna sped off, taking us to our grandparents’ house for safety. But even after all of that, she chose to go back. Not right away—but a day or two later, once things had calmed down. And she took us back with her.

It never stopped. No matter how bad it got—no matter how many times we ran, how many times the cops were called, or how many times we thought maybe this time would be different—it just kept happening. The yelling. The bruises. The fear. The cycle never really broke back then. We just kept being pulled back into it—my siblings and I.

Even when the yelling stopped, the fear didn’t. The silence after the fights was heavy. Like everyone was holding their breath. Like the walls were tired of listening, too.

At night, I was always the first to wake up when they fought. Then my sister Rose would wake up too—we shared a room together. There were times I cried, and times I couldn’t, but fear was always there. I would have to hold Rose tight and try to calm her when she was crying and scared from what was happening, scared by the yelling and the harsh words.

I remember feeling terrified that my other siblings might be crying in another room, too, but I was too scared to move. I didn’t know what to do. The only thing I could do was hold Rose through it all. Trying to be the big strong sister I could be.

One time, I tried to be brave. I didn’t know what I was doing—my feet moved before my mind could even catch up. I just knew I was scared, and I didn’t want to hear them fighting anymore. I was the only child awake at the time. I walked out of my room, hoping that maybe seeing me there would make them stop. I remember speaking—though I can’t recall what I said. What I do remember is Anna seeing me and snapping at Richard. She said, “Great, the kids are awake and told me to go back to bed!” And then they started fighting again—loud, intense, and overwhelming.

That house wasn’t a home—it was a warning. A place where I learned to stay quiet, to stay small, to stay out of the way. And we were just kids, trying to survive in a storm we never caused.

I’m still unpacking what that did to me. But I know now: I didn’t deserve to grow up in chaos. And I’ll never confuse that kind of “love” with safety again.

“He upholds the cause of the oppressed

and gives food to the hungry.

The Lord sets prisoners free,

the Lord gives sight to the blind,

the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down,

the Lord loves the righteous.

The Lord watches over the foreigner

and sustains the fatherless and the widow…”

—Psalm 146:7–9a

_______________________________________________________________________________________

The Belt and the Tears — A Memory I Can’t Forget

To be honest, I don’t know when this happened.
I don’t remember the exact day or what led up to it.
But I know what I saw.
And I know what I felt.

We were at my grandparents’ house.
Mamaw was alive then.
So was the old rhythm of family life—loud, tense, familiar.

That day, Mamaw and Aunt Mary got into a fight over something.
I was in the living room—just a few steps away.
I remember turning my head and looking over.
From where I sat, I could see Mary’s room.
And I saw Mamaw walking toward it.

Whatever the argument was, I didn’t know all the details.
But I knew it was serious.

An argument escalated into a physical situation involving discipline.
But Mary didn’t take it.
She stood up and grabbed the belt back.
She didn’t let go.

Mamaw told her to let go as they pulled back and forth on the belt.
And when she finally did, the belt snapped back—and hit Mamaw unexpectedly.

I saw her walk away in pain, holding her face.
She was crying.
It wasn’t just the belt that hurt her—it was everything that came with it.
Mary hadn’t meant to hurt her.
She was just trying to stand her ground.
She let go, but didn’t realize what would happen next.

I sat there frozen.

My heart didn’t know where to land.
Part of me thought, Maybe it would’ve been easier just to take the spanking and get it over with.
But another part of me thought, If it were me, and I hadn’t done anything wrong… I might have fought back, too. I might have tried to talk it out.

I understood both sides.
But I didn’t know which one was right.
I was a child watching grown-ups cry, and it left me confused.

I saw Mamaw in tears.
I saw Mary upset.
And I didn’t know how to hold all those feelings at once.

All I knew was… something broke that day.
And I felt it from the other room.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

All I knew was… something broke that day.
And I felt it from the other room.

I didn’t know how to make sense of it.
I was just a child—watching people I loved hurt and cry.
And what I felt most wasn’t anger or judgment…
It was confusion.
And sadness.
Because no one looked okay.
Because pain doesn’t pick sides.

And maybe that’s where God’s heart meets mine.

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
—Romans 12:18

I couldn’t fix it.
I couldn’t stop it.
But I saw it.

If this piece brings up difficult emotions or memories,

please consider reaching out to someone you trust or a 

professional support resource. You are not alone.

⚠️ Content Warning

This entry discusses childhood exposure to inappropriate behavior, blurred boundaries, and early trauma. Reader discretion is advised.

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

______________________________________________________________________________________

Playing House in a Broken Home

When I think back to the time I lived with my biological mother, the memories come in pieces—some filled with innocent laughter, others heavy with things no child should have carried. One of those memories is of my sister, Rosa, and me.

We used to play house or Barbies together. It started like the pretend games kids often play, but something about ours was different. Rosa was always the woman, and I was always made to be the man. And part of that meant acting out forms of affection we didn’t fully understand—and even then, it made me feel strange inside.

Back then, I didn’t fully understand why it felt weird. I just knew I hated always being the guy. I didn’t like it. But I went along with it, because that’s what the game became. And in the environment we were in, with everything we were exposed to, we didn’t have healthy examples of what was okay and what wasn’t. We were exposed to things we never should have been exposed to. We were shaped by things no child should be shaped by.

Looking back, I know now that wasn’t okay. It wasn’t just innocent play—it was a sign that something deeper was influencing us. Not because we were bad, but because of what we were mimicking and what we were trying to understand through those actions. We had been exposed to things that blurred the lines too early.

We understood more than we should have. And less than we needed to. We were just trying to make sense of the world we were living in. We weren’t acting out of confusion—we were mirroring what the environment around us had already shown us.

It wasn’t our fault. We were children. And we deserved better.

I carry no shame toward my younger self or Rosa. But I do carry sadness. Sadness that two little girls were put in that position. Sadness that love and play were tangled up with discomfort and survival. We weren’t trying to be wrong—we were trying to feel safe.

Now, I see that clearly.

We weren’t trying to do something wrong. We were imitating closeness, the only way our environment showed it—without healthy boundaries or models of safe affection. The fact that it made me feel weird, that I hated always being “the guy,” and that it stayed with me this long shows me my body and heart knew something wasn’t right, even when my mind didn’t yet understand.

What we were doing wasn’t about curiosity or rebellion—it was about coping in an unsafe world. We were exposed to behaviors and dynamics that shaped what we thought a connection looked like. We played roles that mirrored the dysfunction around us. That’s not shameful—that’s survival. It makes sense that our play was confusing. It wasn’t born from innocence alone, but from an environment that blurred innocence with exposure.

We were children. And what we needed—boundaries, affection, guidance, comfort—wasn’t there.

I’m honoring that now by facing it with clarity. And I honor us both for surviving it.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” 

– John 1:5

⚠️ Content Warning
 
This entry contains child sexual abuse, survivor guilt, and traumatic memories. Please read gently and with care.

Names used in this post have been changed for privacy and are not real or identifiable individuals.
This post contains references to trauma and sensitive experiences.

* I refined how it’s delivered from the original one I wrote and am trying to be mindful not to be too explicit in this sensitive area!*

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I never imagined I’d have to write something like this—not for my sister, not for someone I love with every part of me.

But silence doesn't protect us. It never did.

And what happened to Rose needs to be spoken, honored, and never brushed aside again because she is also a survivor.

He was not our biological father, but we looked up to him as if he were our Dad.
We trusted him.

She was just a girl.
A child.

And he crossed a line that should never be crossed with a child.

Not just once.
Not by accident.
He knew what he was doing.

I wasn’t home that day.

That fact alone still sits heavy in me, even after learning how to give myself grace for it.

I was with Anna, helping at my grandmother’s house—laying down carpet and spending the night. It felt like a normal weekend.

But for Rose, it became the day everything changed.

Back at the house, we shared a room with bunk beds in a small trailer.

She had been sleeping, trying to rest, just being a kid in her own space.

But in the morning, he came in.

She ended up alone with him in his room.

She was half-asleep. Confused. Scared.

She didn’t fully understand what was happening—but deep inside of her, she knew something wasn’t right.

She tried to resist in the small ways a child can.
She froze.
She stayed still.
She tried to protect herself the only way she knew how in that moment.

What he did to her was not okay.
It was not confusion.
It was not harmless.

It was abuse.

He gave her something sweet and went about the day like nothing had happened.
Moved through the day like everything was fine.

But it wasn’t.

Her memory after that comes in pieces.

Getting our brother ready.
Going to the gas station.
Being told to stay quiet.

Wanting to tell someone—but not knowing how.

Until later, when Anna came home.

Rose tried to speak.

Quietly. Carefully.

And she wasn’t believed.

He even questioned her.

And still—my little sister, with more courage than most adults, found a way to stand her ground in the only way she could.

Even in fear, she tried to hold onto her truth.

I wasn’t there.

I wasn’t home to protect her.

And that guilt stayed with me for a long time.

But what stayed with me didn’t start there.
And it didn’t end there either.

Before I ever knew what happened to Rose…

He tried with me.

I didn’t understand it at the time.

Anna and Rose weren’t home.
It was just me, him, and my baby brother in the house.

Something felt off.

Something felt wrong.

I felt it in my body before I had words for it.

He told me to come into his space.

And I remember feeling small.
Confused.
Uncomfortable.

Like I needed to get out—but didn’t know how.

But something in me reacted.

Instinct.

Survival.

So I said something—something that would shift his attention.

Part truth.
Part lie.

Enough to create distance.

Enough to interrupt what was happening.

And it worked.

He got distracted.
Angry.
Focused somewhere else.

And I got away.

At the time, I thought that meant it was over.

That I had escaped something I didn’t fully understand.

But later… when I found out what happened to Rose—

That’s when everything connected.

Because he didn’t stop.

He just waited for another moment.

Another opportunity.

Another child.

And that realization sat heavily in me.

Not because I caused it.

But because I wished I had understood enough back then to stop it.

In simple truth:

He was a grown man who chose to harm children in his care.

I was nearly hurt.

Rose was hurt.

And we were not protected the way we should have been.

When the truth finally came out, it wasn’t because justice stepped in the way it should have.

It was because he admitted it himself.

And even then… the consequences didn’t match what he did.

And after everything—

He was still allowed back into our space.

Back into a place where children were supposed to feel safe.

As if what happened could be brushed aside.

As if her pain wasn’t real.

But I won’t brush it aside.

I won’t forget.

And I won’t stay silent.

I believe her.

Then, now, and always.

I’ve had to learn something over time:

I was a child too.

I didn’t have the knowledge.
I didn’t have the power.
I didn’t have the understanding.

All I had was instinct.

And instinct is what got me out.

What happened to her was not my fault.

What happened to me was not my fault.

The responsibility belongs to the one who chose to do harm.

So now, I do what I couldn’t do then.

I speak.

I remember.

I protect her truth by refusing to let it be ignored.

Rose, I’m sorry I wasn’t there.

But I’m here now.

And I’m not going anywhere.

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves,
for the rights of all who are destitute.
Speak up and judge fairly;
defend the rights of the poor and needy.”

— Proverbs 31:8–9