⚠️ 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
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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.
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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.