Lessons From Caring For A Rescved Abused Child In Yunnan: Tips For Caregivers
It was 7 a.m. at the small children’s shelter I volunteer at outside Kunming, and I was just turning the heat down under a pot of corn when I heard the soft thud of glass hitting packed dirt. I rounded the corner of the canteen to find 7-year-old Xiao Mi hunched under the storage stairs, a broken jar of pickled mustard greens at her feet, brine seeping into the cracks between the stones. She didn’t run. She just squeezed her eyes shut and flinched, both hands over her head, like she was waiting for a blow.
Xiao Mi arrived at our shelter three weeks before that morning. Local child protection rescue teams pulled her from her home in a remote mountain village two hours away. Her mother had left when she was 2, her stepfather had been abusing her for years, and a passing migrant worker reported the abuse to authorities after stopping for water. I was new to the shelter back then, having signed up for a six-month volunteer stint after quitting my teaching job in the city. I’d read a handful of articles about supporting traumatized kids, so when I saw Xiao Mi curled up under the stairs, I did what I thought I was supposed to do: I walked toward her with my arms open, said “it’s okay, you’re safe now, no one’s going to hurt you.”
She scrambled up the stairs so fast she scraped her shin raw, and didn’t come out from under the steps for the rest of the day. That’s when Auntie Li, who’s run the shelter for 12 years, leaned against the canteen wall next to me and said, “You don’t get to decide when she feels safe. She does.” That line stuck with me, and it’s the first thing I tell any new volunteer or potential foster parent who comes through now.
I stopped trying to force connection after that. I made Xiao Mi a plate of every meal, left it on the low wall 10 feet from the stairs, then walked away to do other work. If she wanted to bring it back to her hiding spot, that was fine. If she wanted to walk to the canteen to eat, that was fine too. When I passed her on the path, I’d just nod and mention a small, ordinary thing: “The persimmons are ripening on the tree by the gate” or “It’s going to rain later, bring a sweater if you go out.” I didn’t push for conversation, I didn’t ask her to smile or open up.
A couple of weeks in, one of the older kids found half a dozen steamed buns hidden under Xiao Mi’s mattress when changing the sheets. They teased her, called her a thief, and I was halfway to Xiao Mi’s hiding spot to talk about it, to explain she could always ask for more, when Auntie Li stopped me. She went to the kitchen that night, and from then on, added an extra bun to Xiao Mi’s plate every meal. A couple of days later, when Xiao Mi was within earshot, she said quiet but clear to me, “We make enough buns every day. If anyone leaves here hungry, that’s my fault, not theirs.” No one mentioned the hidden buns again. Within a month, there were no more hidden buns.
That lesson – meet the need behind the behavior, don’t punish the behavior – is the second thing I tell caregivers. A month after Xiao Mi arrived, the kids were putting together puzzles on the lawn, and a 10-year-old boy raised his voice when Xiao Mi knocked over his half-finished dragon puzzle. She picked up a small rock, threw it at him, nicked his arm, then curled up behind a tree shaking. I wanted to rush over, tell her she wouldn’t get hit, she wouldn’t get in trouble, but Auntie Li stopped me. We walked the boy to the other side of the shelter, cleaned his arm, gave him a lollipop, and told him to go play elsewhere. Then I dragged a bucket of chalk over to the wall 15 feet from where Xiao Mi was hiding, and just sat there sorting broken bits of chalk, talking quiet to myself about needing to order new supplies, how I liked yellow chalk best for drawing sunflowers. I didn’t look at her. After 20 minutes, she got up and walked over, stood half behind me, watching. I didn’t mention the rock. I just pushed the chalk box a little closer to her. She picked up a blue piece and drew a tiny cat on the bottom of the wall.
Most well-meaning caregivers get this wrong, I’ve learned. We say we want them to heal, but we expect them to do it on our timeline, with our rules. We say “be supportive” but that usually translates to pushing for hugs, pushing for stories, punishing small behaviors that feel rude or wrong instead of asking why they’re happening. The concrete steps are so much simpler than anything I read in those city parenting articles.
If a kid flinches when you reach for their hand, don’t keep reaching. Put what they need down within their reach, and step back. Let them set how close you get. If they hide food, don’t shame them. Just make sure they see there’s always enough, and give them extra openly, no questions asked. Don’t pressure them to talk about what happened to them. I’ve never asked Xiao Mi a single question about her old home, or what she went through. She hasn’t said a word about it to anyone here, and that’s fine. She can talk when she’s ready. Until then, talking about persimmons and chalk and steamed buns is more than enough.
It’s been six months since Xiao Mi was rescued. Last week, she let me braid her hair for five minutes before she pulled away and ran off to chase the shelter’s stray cat around the yard. She joins the other kids for drawing class now, most days. She still hides under the stairs when it rains, or when there are too many new visitors. She still flinches if someone comes up behind her too fast. We don’t know what will happen next. Her case is still going through court, a foster family in Kunming has been visiting, but no one knows if it will work out, or if she’ll stay here until she’s older. There’s no neat happy ending, not yet. But last week, I watched her eat two full bowls of rice and an extra bun at the canteen table, right next to the other kids. No hiding. That’s enough for right now.
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