How To Care For A Rescued Abused Child: Lessons From A Foster Placement In Yunnan, China
The first time 7-year-old Xiao Li knocked over a full bowl of rice porridge at my house, it soaked through the faded cotton quilt I’d pulled out for her on the couch, and left sticky grains all over my scuffed tile floor. She’d arrived three days earlier, rescued from her paternal grandparents’ home in a remote mountain village outside Lijiang, Yunnan, where social workers confirmed she’d been beaten and locked in a storage shed for days at a time after her father died and her mother left to find work in the city. She’d hidden behind the social worker’s leg the whole drive over, only peeking out when we stopped for gas, and hadn’t said a single word since she stepped through my door.
I thought I knew what to do. Every guide I’d read said to give abused kids space, let them set the pace for connection. So I left her alone on the couch, only checked in once an hour, kept the house quiet, didn’t push her to talk. But after the porridge incident, I found her curled up behind the front door that night, not on the couch, like she was waiting to be kicked out at any minute. I started to realize what I was doing was wrong, but I didn’t know what to do instead until a week later, when the egg incident happened.
I was hanging dried wild mushrooms on the line in the yard, and she wandered out, picked up a rough granite rock, and smashed a chicken egg our neighbor’s hen had laid by the fence. The neighbor came over annoyed, and I stepped toward Xiao Li to see what had happened. That one step was all it took: she dropped the rock, curled into a ball on the dirt, and covered her head with both arms. I froze. I’d never seen anyone move like that, like they were already braced for a blow they knew was coming.
The social worker came the next day, and we sat on my porch drinking tea while Xiao Li sat inside watching the fish in my tank through the glass. She explained that for kids who’ve grown up with regular, unpredictable abuse, “giving space” doesn’t feel kind. It feels exactly like what they’re used to: being ignored, abandoned, left alone to wait for the next bad thing. My quiet, hands-off approach just reminded her of being locked in that shed.
That’s when I changed everything. Instead of doing my chores in other rooms, I started moving my daily routine right next to her. I folded laundry on the other end of the couch, peeled vegetables at the coffee table instead of the kitchen, gardened with the gate open so she could see me if she wanted. I didn’t ask her questions about how she felt, or make her talk about what had happened to her. I just mumbled about ordinary things: how the snails were eating my lettuce, how the stray cat liked to steal my socks off the line. I started leaving a small piece of rock sugar on the arm of the couch every couple of hours, no strings attached. I didn’t wait for her to say thank you, just put it down and went back to what I was doing.
This is the first big lesson I’ve carried out of this experience, for any parent, teacher or caregiver who ends up caring for a child who’s been hurt: you don’t need big, heartfelt speeches or grand gestures of love. You just need small, repeated, predictable proof that nothing bad is going to happen suddenly. For example, if a child flinches when you raise your hand to grab a mug off the shelf above them, don’t stop and make a big deal out of it, don’t immediately declare “I’d never hurt you.” Just slow your movement, keep your voice even, and finish what you were doing. Drawing attention to their reaction just makes them more anxious. When they act out, don’t give them the silent treatment — that’s what their abusers did to punish them. Clean up the mess, pay for the broken thing, and keep moving through your routine like normal.
After three weeks, Xiao Li spoke her first word: “water.” I just nodded and poured her a cup, didn’t cry or make a big deal out of it, even though I wanted to. She still does things that catch me off guard. Last month, she had a fever, and when I tried to take her temperature with an ear thermometer, she pushed me away and bit my arm hard enough to leave a bruise. I didn’t push her. I just put the thermometer down, got her a cool cloth, and held it up for her to take if she wanted. She took it after a minute.
Another practical lesson I learned: let them keep their small safety habits, even if they seem odd. Xiao Li still hides half her snacks under her mattress, because she never knew when her next meal would be when she was with her grandparents. At first I thought I should make her stop, that it was messy and unhealthy. Now I just check the mattress when I change the sheets every week, throw out any crackers or candy that’s gone stale, and don’t say a word. If that’s what she needs to feel safe, that’s fine. For teachers, this looks like letting a kid sit in the back of the class by the door if they want, instead of forcing them to sit up front. It looks like letting them keep a small stuffed toy in their desk even if the school rules say no. Small control over small things adds up to a feeling of safety, which is what they need most before they can heal or learn.
It’s been four months now. Last week, she drew me a picture with crayons. It’s lopsided, has a blue house, two stick figures, and a yellow cat in the corner. She handed it to me, then ran off to chase the stray cat around the yard, didn’t wait for me to say anything. I taped it to the fridge. We still have hard days. Some nights she wakes up crying, and won’t let me touch her. I just sit on the floor outside her door and read until she goes back to sleep. I don’t know what the future looks like for her, if she’ll ever stop flinching when someone comes up behind her, or stop hiding snacks. All I know is that right now, the small, slow, quiet steps are working. That’s enough for today.
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