Unwritten Until Now

 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.