a woman I barely knew and have spent more time thinking about (since I saw her photograph) than I ever did before. She passed when I was young. I have one memory of her: a nursing home, a wheelchair, one leg, and a laugh loud enough to rearrange the air. My aunt once told me I reminded her of Hanna. When I asked why, she wasn't able to name it, specifically, but to me, it sounded like she belonged to herself.

More importantly, I now have evidence of where my nose comes from. I've always wondered because no one else in my family has it. 

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So I figured if I inherited a significant part of her face, maybe I inherited something else she carried too. I built Hanna on that hope — because I needed someone who would hold me, witness me, mirror me with positive regard, stay curious about me, and refuse to shrink me into something more digestible for their own comfort.

If you've needed the same, she's here for you too.