Caring For A Rescued Abused Child: What I Learned As A Volunteer Teacher In Yunnan
The porridge is boiling over on the propane stove when I turn around and can’t find Xiao Mei. It’s her third week at our small volunteer care home in a village outside Lijiang, Yunnan, and I know exactly where to look: pressed against the concrete wall behind the 10-gallon water heater, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes wide. I don’t call her name. I don’t try to pull her out. I just turn off the stove, wipe the spilled porridge off the counter, and say quiet, “I’m going to set a bowl of porridge with extra sugar on the table. It’ll be there if you want it.”
A month earlier, village elders called our team. Xiao Mei was 7, her mom left when she was 2, her dad drank too much and beat her regularly, broke her wrist when he caught her stealing a piece of bread from his bowl. Neighbors waited too long to say anything, didn’t want to interfere in family business, until one day they heard her screaming for hours and called the county child protection team. We got the call that she needed a place to stay while they sorted out long-term placement, and I said I’d take primary care of her. I’d worked with kids from violent homes for three years, but I still wasn’t prepared for how fear shows up in every small, ordinary moment.
The first time I saw her flinch hard enough to fall off her chair was when I reached up to change a dead light bulb above the dinner table. I wasn’t even moving toward her, just up, and she went right over backwards. That’s when I realized all the generic advice I’d read—“give her space”, “be loving”—didn’t help with the small, daily stuff that kept her on edge. I started testing small changes, one at a time, to see what worked.
The first thing that stuck was saying every movement out loud, before I did it. It felt silly at first, like I was talking to myself, but it cut her panic attacks by more than half. “I’m walking past you to get the broom.” “I’m putting my hat up on the hook above your head.” “I’m opening the window, that’s just the wind you feel.” I stopped being quiet when I moved around her, because quiet sudden movements were what she associated with being hit. Any caregiver or teacher can do this—you don’t need any special training, just the habit of speaking up before you reach or move past a kid who’s been hurt.
The second change I made was stopping the automatic “it’s okay” I used to say when she got upset. After the third time she flinched harder when I said that, I realized the phrase meant something different to her. She told me later, in bits and pieces mumbled when we were picking herbs, that her dad would mumble “it’s okay” right before he hit her, after he’d knocked her plate off the table. Now when she messes something up, I just tell her what we’re going to do next. “You spilled the juice. Let’s get a rag and wipe it up.” No empty reassurance, just a clear, calm plan. That’s another small change anyone can make tomorrow, if you have a kid like this in your life.
Two months ago, we went to the Children’s Day fair in the nearby town. She held the hem of my jacket the whole walk in, didn’t let go. When a fruit vendor yelled out to advertise his mangoes, she pulled me into the public bathroom stall and shut the door behind us. I didn’t tell her it was fine, I didn’t say we should go back out. I just leaned against the wall, pulled the tangerine I’d packed for a snack out of my pocket, peeled it, and handed her half. We stood there in the dim stall for 18 minutes, I counted, until she pushed the door open a crack and said she wanted to go look at the toy balloons. I didn’t make her play with the other kids there, I didn’t push her to go on the little merry-go-round everyone else was riding. We just looked at the balloons from across the square, then walked home.
A lot of people see headlines about rescued abused kids in rural China and think the hardest part is over once they’re out of the bad home. But as a teacher and caregiver, I can tell you the hardest part is all the small, boring everyday moments after that. Most people don’t talk about that. They want stories of kids who heal fast and go on to thrive, but that’s not how it works for most. The work isn’t about big gestures. It’s about all these tiny, repeated choices that show a kid the rules are different here. You don’t have to be scared of a raised hand reaching for a light bulb. You don’t get hit for spilling juice. You don’t have to hug anyone or play with anyone if you don’t want to.
Last week, we walked up the hill behind the village to pick wild raspberries. Halfway up, she reached out and laced her fingers through mine. It was just for a minute, maybe 30 seconds, then she pulled her hand away and ran ahead to grab a big ripe one that was growing off the side of the path. She ate it herself, didn’t offer me a bite, and that’s okay. Some days she still hides behind the water heater when there are too many people around. Some days she won’t speak at all. We still don’t know where she’ll end up next year, whether she’ll get placed with a permanent foster family or go to live with a distant aunt who’s on the list to take her. But for now, the porridge is waiting on the table when she’s hungry, and I tell her when I’m reaching for the salt, and that’s enough for today.
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