What I Learned Caring For A Rescued Abused Child From Yunnan: Practical Tips For Caregivers
I’m wiping flour off the kitchen counter on a Tuesday morning, steam from the rice congee fogging the glass above the sink, when I glance over and see 7-year-old Xiao Mei tucking a half-eaten steamed bun into the cuff of her gray winter coat. The coat’s two sizes too big, donated by a family in Kunming after she was rescued from her aunt’s home in a remote village outside Lijiang, Yunnan, back in October. I freeze for a second, because I’ve seen this behavior before, but old habits still make you want to blurt out a question. Instead, I wipe my hands on my apron and grab a small zip bag from the drawer under the counter. “That bun will get your sleeve all greasy,” I say, keeping my voice even, not too loud. “Want me to put it in here for you? You can keep it in your backpack for later.” She stares at me for ten seconds, then slowly pulls the bun out and hands it over.
Three months in, this is the longest she’s stayed anywhere. The social worker told me she was two when her parents left for factory work in Guangdong, stopped sending money or calling after two years. Her aunt took her in because village pressure said she had to, but beat her when she asked for food, locked her outside the house when she worked the fields. A volunteer teacher doing a rural literacy drive found her hiding in a corn crib with a broken arm, no cast, just a wrap made of old rags. My husband and I have been foster caregivers for five years, and we took her in when no local home was available. I thought I was prepared for anything, but Xiao Mei taught me things none of the training classes ever spelled out plain.
That first encounter with the hidden bun drove the first lesson home. When I started fostering, I’d catch kids hoarding crackers or candy and ask, “Why do you do that? You know you can have more anytime.” All that does is make them ashamed. They can’t explain the fear that’s settled in their bones – that any extra bite today could be the last one you get for three days. Instead of demanding an explanation, you just meet the need out loud, no questions attached. Now I keep a box of granola bars on the bottom shelf of her closet, labeled with her name in the pink crayon she used to color the edge. She can take any whenever she wants, no check-ins needed. It doesn’t fix the old fear overnight, but it takes away the shame of having it.
Two weeks after she arrived, my 12-year-old son dropped a ceramic dinner plate while clearing the table. It shattered all over the tile, and before I could even say “it’s okay,” Xiao Mei had crawled under the dining table and pressed herself into the corner, hands over her head. I knelt down, talked soft, but it took 45 minutes for her to come out. After that, I figured out the second thing: kids who’ve spent their whole lives being controlled by abusive caregivers never get to make any choices, so big open questions overwhelm them. I used to ask “what do you want to do today?” and she’d just stare at the floor and shut down. Now I give two small, low-stakes options every time. “Do you want to wear the pink socks or the purple socks today?” “Do you want to walk to the shop or ride the bike?” “Do you want to take a bath before dinner or after?” It sounds trivial, but it’s not. It builds trust slowly, showing her that her opinion matters, and nothing bad will happen if she picks one over the other. Three months in, last week she volunteered, unprompted, that she wanted to go to the park instead of the library on Saturday. That was the first big choice she made on her own, ever.
The third lesson I learned the hard way, after a social work student came to do a case study a month into Xiao Mei’s stay. The student asked her straight out, “Can you tell me what your aunt did that hurt you?” Xiao Mei didn’t say a single word for three days after that. She just ate her meals quietly, didn’t draw, didn’t play with the tattered rabbit stuffed bear my son gave her. I called the student and said she couldn’t come back for any more interviews. Training talks a lot about processing trauma, but what I’ve seen is that processing only happens when the kid feels safe enough to bring it up, not when an adult demands it. What do you do while you wait? You don’t have to do big things. You just keep things consistent. Same wake up time, same apple and milk snack after school, leave the bathroom door unlocked when you’re not in there, leave your bedroom door cracked at night so they know they can come in if they have a bad dream. Last week she showed up at my bed at 2 a.m. shaking from a nightmare, I just pulled the extra blanket down, let her sleep at the foot of the bed, didn’t ask what it was about. By morning she was fine, drawing suns on the back of my grocery list.
Some days I look at her sitting on the steps outside coloring, and I can see how far she’s come. She doesn’t flinch every time I reach to open a jar above the counter anymore. She says good morning to me now, most days. But some things don’t change fast. She still hides a snack in her coat sometimes when we go out. She still runs to the corner if someone yells in the next room. We don’t know what’s going to happen next. The court is still sorting out parental rights, there’s a distant cousin that said he might be able to take her, but he hasn’t come to meet her yet. My husband and I would keep her if we can, but we know nothing is certain right now. Most days aren’t big breakthroughs or heartwarming moments. They’re just small things, handing her an extra bun, giving her a choice between socks, leaving the door cracked. Those are the things that build safety, one day at a time. We’re just taking it one day at a time, right now.
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