About "So You Don't Hear Me"

So You Don’t Hear Me is Hannah’s debut hybrid collection of parenting stories that explore identity, mental illness, and the isolation that so often accompanies caregiving.

This collection speaks to the danger of defining ourselves via motherhood, the inevitable result of a society that views and values mothers only through the lens of the sacrifices they make.

So You Don’t Hear Me moves fast, punches hard, and weaves through the tension, mystery, and tenacity of a parenting journey—both chronicled and imagined.

Preorder on www.summercamppublishing.com


Excerpts from the Book

We’re not supposed to write about our children. We’re not supposed to tell their stories, just ours. But what is my story if not yours, if not us, if not my every minute of existence balancing what is you and I. This is not “special needs” or “a burden” or “crisis” or anything about words or labels. This is your breath and mine, CPR, panicked, tightened airways. This is driving by the hospital and jerking, my arms almost pulling us into another car beside us. This is “no, no, keep him home, keep him close” as others take care of your sisters. This is people I know and don’t know telling me to hush now, to keep this shit to myself, to think of you in twenty years. What will you think of these words?

~ From the piece “So you don’t hear me”


For teaching your son how to take a pill: a tic-tac on the back of his tongue, a chocolate kiss in the palm of his hand.

For the mornings he refuses to go to school: a butter croissant at the local bakery. Take all three kids, hiding your panic in this early morning adventure for treats. Your daughters laughing in pajamas. Your son silent, staring out the window. The bag oily and warm in your lap as you drive them home. Put on a movie in the living room as the sun rises, then sneak into your empty bedroom. Slide into the big bed, pull the quilt up and around you, and call your husband. He is in Boston for work again this week. He’s still in bed, just now waking up, but he’ll call later to check on you, he says. Can you make it, he asks?

For chasing your son up the street: promises of ice cream. When he stops at the corner and veers down the block instead of into oncoming traffic, remember to breathe. Yell his favorite flavors: Chocolate, Cookies-n-Cream, Lemon Ice from Rita’s. Come back, baby.

For a new med trial, another med trial, the eighteenth med trial: an empty stomach.

~ From the piece “The Last Six Cookies in the Package”


This is spring. With voices and visions and memories of being pregnant with you. My enormous belly moving like the ocean, tiny feet kicking the dog’s nose as he sniffs, tail wagging. Ultrasounds of you sucking your thumb. Unwrapping presents: a stroller, a car seat, soft seafoam baby blankets to swaddle you to sleep. Painting the nursery walls. Eating an entire bag of gingersnaps to start labor. Attempting to tie my shoes and giving up, walking barefoot to get the mail in the cold April morning. Poking you through my bulging belly button and something hard poking back. You: my every dream answered.

~ From the piece “This is Spring”