How To Support A Traumatized Rescued Child: Lessons From Yunnan For Caregivers
7 a.m. at the small children’s home I volunteer at outside of Lijiang, Yunnan. The dining hall smells of rice congee and pickled mustard greens, and a group of 8-year-olds are chasing each other around the tables, half-eaten steamed buns in their fists. I’m wiping down a counter when I notice 7-year-old Xiao Mi is not at her seat. I glance down, and she’s crouched under the far table, knees pulled to her chest, both hands clamped over her ears.
Three months ago, local child protection services brought her to us. Her mother left the village when she was 3, her father struggled with opiate addiction and regularly beat her, locking her in the family’s toolshed for days at a time when he went on binges. A neighbor finally called the authorities after hearing her screaming through the door for 12 hours.
When she first arrived, I’d read a handful of generic articles about supporting abused kids, and I thought the answer was lots of love and pushing her to fit in. I’d try to hug her when she cried, ask her questions to get her to talk, invite her to play games with the other kids every time she hid. Two weeks in, I reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear while she was drawing, and she fell backwards off her small chair, hit her temple on the leg of the table, and just curled up, eyes squeezed shut, like she was waiting to be hit again. She didn’t even make a sound. That’s when I realized all the “just be loving” advice I’d gotten was useless. It didn’t account for what it actually feels like to be a kid who’s learned that any touch, any kindness from an adult, can turn into pain in two seconds.
We started small, with simple changes that ended up making all the difference. First, we made a non-negotiable rule: no surprises. I never approach her from behind. Even if I see her sitting alone and I just want to drop off a snack, I call her name from 10 feet away, and I say exactly what I’m going to do before I do it. “Xiao Mi, I’m coming over to put an orange next to your book. Then I’ll go back to my desk, okay?” It sounds overdone at first, but after a week, she stopped flinching every time someone moved near her.
She liked hiding under tables, so instead of telling her to come out and be with everyone, we dragged a folding fabric screen into the corner of our playroom, put an old donated wool blanket and a lopsided stuffed rabbit in it, and told her that spot was only hers. No one, not the other kids, not any of us volunteers, goes behind that screen unless she asks us to. If she wants to hide there for four hours after breakfast, that’s what she does. We stopped pushing her to join group activities. If she wants to stand at the edge of the yard and watch the other kids play tag, that’s fine. We don’t hover, we don’t comment on it.
We keep a pair of extra sweatpants and a dry shirt folded in my desk drawer for her. More than once, a sudden yell or a hand raised to swat a mosquito has made her have an accident. The first time it happened, I almost said “it’s okay, don’t be scared” but I caught myself. Instead, I just grabbed the extra clothes, said “Let’s go change in the bathroom, I’ll stand outside while you do it, and no one will bother us on the way.” I didn’t make a big deal out of it, I didn’t smother her with comfort, I just gave her space and fixed the problem. That’s what she needed, not a speech about how she’s safe now. She’s had too many people promise her safety that didn’t keep it. Words don’t mean much, small consistent actions do.
Another thing I learned really fast is to respect every tiny boundary she gives us. If she pulls her hand away when I offer it, I just drop it and say “okay” and don’t try again that day. If she doesn’t want to greet a visitor, I don’t make her. All her things are hers, no questions asked. She collects small smooth stones from the hillside behind the home, and keeps them in an old tea tin under her bed. When a 5-year-old got into the tin last month and took one, I walked the kid right back, made him return it, and told all the kids that any time someone says don’t touch their things, you don’t touch them. For a kid who’s never gotten to say what she wants, who’s never had anything that was just hers, those small boundaries are the first step to trusting you.
After I saw Xiao Mi under the table this morning, I followed our routine. I called her name from a few feet away, told her I had her favorite honey steamed bun, and I’d set it on the floor next to the table leg, then I’d sit a little ways away so I wasn’t crowding her. I sat down and turned to watch the kids playing, didn’t stare at her, didn’t say anything else. After about five minutes, I saw her small hand creep out from under the table, wrap around the bun, and pull it back. A minute later, the hand came out again, and dropped a tiny, smooth blue stone right at my feet. I picked it up, and said quietly “Thank you, this is really pretty. I’m going to keep it on my desk.” She didn’t answer, didn’t come out. But she didn’t move back further, either.
Three months in, she still only says three words to any of us: congee, water, okay. Some days she still hides in the toilet for an hour if we have too many new people around. We don’t know what her life will look like in a year, if she’ll ever be ready to talk about what happened to her, if she’ll ever be comfortable running and laughing with the other kids. All we can do right now is keep showing up, keep following the small rules, keep letting her go at her own pace. That’s enough, for now.
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