My name is Hannah, I’m 33 years old, and I live in Fort Collins, Colorado. I hadn’t thought about that memory in years. Not consciously, at least. It was one of those things I assumed had faded on its own, buried under adulthood and distance and the comfort of believing the past stays where you leave it. I was wrong. The memory came back during a work presentation. I was standing in a conference room, mid-sentence, explaining a project I’d led for months. My manager and half the executive team were there. Everything was going fine until someone interrupted me abruptly and said, “Just get to the point.”
The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t even loud. But something in my chest tightened instantly, like a reflex. Suddenly, I was eight years old again, standing in my childhood kitchen, trying to explain something excitedly while my father cut me off with the exact same phrase. Get to the point. Followed by a sigh. Followed by silence. I froze. Back in the conference room, my mouth went dry. My thoughts scattered. I stumbled through the rest of the slide, heart pounding, face hot. The meeting ended politely, but I knew I’d lost control of something I didn’t understand yet.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The memory kept replaying—not just the words, but the feeling of shrinking, of learning early that taking up space was inconvenient. I realized how often that lesson had followed me into adulthood. How often I rushed myself. Apologized unnecessarily. Avoided speaking unless I was sure it wouldn’t annoy anyone. I’d always thought those were personality traits. They weren’t. The worst part was the timing. I was up for a promotion. Visibility mattered. Confidence mattered. And now I felt like a scared kid every time I opened my mouth.
I finally talked to a therapist about it. Saying it out loud felt embarrassing, like I was making a big deal out of something small. She didn’t treat it that way. She said memories don’t resurface randomly—they resurface when you’re finally in a position where they matter. That reframed everything. At the next meeting, I was interrupted again. Same tone. Same impatience. This time, my heart still raced—but I didn’t disappear. I paused, took a breath, and said, “I am getting there. The context matters.” No one objected. Afterward, my manager told me she appreciated how I handled myself. I nodded calmly, but inside, something shifted. The memory didn’t lose its power because I remembered it. It lost its power because I responded differently. I didn’t heal my childhood in a moment. But I stopped letting it decide how small I needed to be. Sometimes the past shows up at the worst possible time not to sabotage you—but to ask whether you’re ready to move forward without it running the show.
