How To Care For Traumatized Children: Lessons From A Rescued Child In Yunnan
The rice was still steaming when I reached for the extra ceramic bowl on the shelf, and Xiao Mei flinched so hard her shoulder hit the doorframe. It was my second week volunteering at the small children’s home outside Lijiang, Yunnan, and I still hadn’t gotten used to how fast 7-year-olds move when they’re waiting for a hit that they’re sure is coming. The local child protection team had pulled her from her uncle’s home three weeks before that; her parents had moved to Guangzhou for factory work five years earlier, and stopped sending money after they had a second child. Her uncle had been leaving her without food for days when he drank, and hitting her with firewood sticks when she asked for anything.
That first week, we all thought she was just a greedy kid. She’d finish her own food in two minutes, then hover by the steamer, and sneak an extra bun when no one was looking, then hide it under her straw mattress. One of the other volunteers was going to confront her about it, until I got up to get a glass of water around midnight, and heard her sniffling in the dorm. I knocked softly, pushed the door open, and she sat straight up in bed, holding the crumbly bun out to me, her shoulders hunched. “I didn’t take too many,” she whispered. “I just wanted one for tomorrow if there isn’t any.” That hit me, right there. I’d read about trauma responses before, but I’d never felt it like that. It wasn’t bad behavior. It was survival.
A lot of people, when they meet a kid who’s been through abuse, want to fix the behavior first. If they steal, punish them. If they’re quiet, force them to play with other kids. If they don’t smile, tell them they’re safe now and they should be happy. But that’s the opposite of what works, I learned. We didn’t yell at her for hiding the bun. I just brushed the crumbs off my hand, sat down on the edge of her bed, and said “You can have two buns every day, okay? If you want one for later, you can leave it on the shelf next to your cup. No one will take it from you.” The next day, I put two buns on her plate before anyone else sat down. We did that every day for two weeks. After that, she stopped hiding them under the mattress. Sometimes she still saves one for later, but she leaves it on her shelf, out in the open.
When we did craft afternoons, she only ever picked the black crayon, and drew the same big circle over and over on her paper. A college volunteer who came for the weekend tried to swap it for a pink crayon, said “Black is so sad, let’s draw a rainbow!” and Xiao Mei crumpled up her paper and ran under the table and wouldn’t come out for an hour. After that, we just left the black crayon in her tray. We didn’t comment on the circles. I’d sit next to her and mend the kids’ ripped jeans, or draw my own boring circles, and just let her be. After a month, she pushed her paper across the table to me. There was the big black circle, and a tiny yellow dot right in the middle. She didn’t say anything, but I knew that was progress.
What I tell other caregivers and teachers now, when they ask about working with kids like Xiao Mei, is that you don’t have to do big, fancy interventions to help. Small, consistent changes work far better. First, don’t force physical contact. I never tried to hug her or hold her hand until three months in, when she was standing next to me by the wood stove waiting for water to heat, and she leaned her shoulder on my arm. I just kept stirring the water, didn’t make a big deal out of it. If you force a kid who’s been hurt to touch you when they don’t want to, you’re teaching them that their boundaries don’t matter, which is exactly what they learned from their abuser.
Second, give them control over small, everyday things. Let them pick which bowl they want to eat from, what time they want to go outside, which crayon they want to use. When you’ve had no control over anything in your life for years, even a tiny choice makes you feel safe. For Xiao Mei, that was letting her pour her own warm water for washing her face every night. She’d been burned with hot water before by her uncle, so at first she was scared to go near the pot. We let her pour it when she was ready, no rushing. Now she pours for the two younger kids at the home too.
Third, keep routines as steady as possible. We ate at the same time every day, napped at the same time, went to the market for snacks on the same day every week. If we had to change the schedule for a holiday or a visitor, we told Xiao Mei two days in advance, and reminded her every morning. No surprises. That’s way more calming than any new toy or special trip.
I left the children’s home at the end of last year, to go back to my job teaching second grade in my hometown in Sichuan. Last week, the coordinator of the home sent me a photo. It’s a drawing Xiao Mei did, the black circle, the yellow dot, and a tiny pink flower sticking out of the side of the circle. She’s starting first grade at the local public school next month. Some days she still flinches if you raise your hand too fast above your head. Sometimes she still tucks an extra cookie into her pocket after snack time. No one knows what her life will look like in ten years, or if she’ll ever feel completely safe all the time. But that’s okay. Progress doesn’t have to be a straight line, and it doesn’t have to be perfect. All we can do is give them consistent food, consistent routine, and the space to go at their own speed. That’s enough, for now.
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