What Caregivers Need To Know About Caring For Rescued Abused Children: My Experience With A Child From Yunnan
The sticky spot on my living room floor from my son’s spilled pineapple juice was still fresh when the social worker walked through the door with Xiao Mi. At seven years old, she came up to my waist, and she never let go of the crinkled clear plastic bag she held clutched to her chest. Inside, I later learned, was a broken plastic butterfly hair clip and a dried persimmon she’d picked up on the drive from her village in rural Yunnan. When I stepped forward to greet her, she flinched back and hid half her body behind the social worker’s legs.
The social worker left an hour later, after going over the basic paperwork: removed from her home after years of neglect and abuse by her parents, both opiate users who often left her alone for three or four days at a time, beat her when they came home and she’d eaten their stored food. I’d been a foster caregiver for three years, but I’d never had a child this traumatized come through my home.
The first two weeks, she didn’t speak a single word. She’d curl up in the corner of the couch when we were in the room, crawl under the table if anyone moved too fast. My 8-year-old son tried to share his Lego set with her on the third day, and she backed away so fast she tripped over the rug. I made her favorite, steamed pork buns, the first night, and she didn’t touch it until I left the room and closed the door. I used to think I understood what trauma looked like, but I missed all the small, everyday cues at first. I tried to hug her when she cried silent tears into her pillow one night, and she fought me so hard she scratched my arm. I kept saying “you’re safe here” over and over, and it meant nothing. She had no frame of reference for what “safe” even felt like.
The first small shift came on a slow Saturday afternoon, when I was folding laundry and she was standing in the doorway watching me from the hall. I didn’t stop folding, didn’t look up at her too fast. I just said, “There’s a basket of mismatched socks over there. If you want, you can help me match them. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want, and you can stop any time.” She stood there for five minutes, then walked over slow, kept a full three feet between us, and started matching socks. That was the first time she chose to be near me, instead of hiding.
That’s when I started figuring out the small, concrete things that work, that no one really tells you when you start caring for kids like Xiao Mi. First, always ask before you touch, even if it’s just a pat on the shoulder. If you startle them, don’t brush it off or say “it’s just me” — just say “I moved too fast, that scared you. I’m sorry, I’ll ask next time.” This takes extra effort at first, but it builds trust way faster than pushing physical closeness. Second, give them as many tiny, low-stakes choices as you can. These kids have never gotten to choose anything, from when they eat to what they wear. Let them pick between the blue cup and the red cup, let them choose if we walk to the store or take the bike, let them decide if the window stays open or closed. The first thing Xiao Mi ever chose for herself was extra pickles on her rice at dinner, and I still remember how she stared at me like she was waiting to be hit for asking. After that, she started choosing more things.
Another rule I made for myself: don’t shame them for the habits they picked up to survive. For the first two months, Xiao Mi hid crackers and candy in her sock and under her mattress. My first instinct was to tell her we had plenty of food, she didn’t need to hide it. But I didn’t. Instead, I cleared a small shelf in the kitchen cabinet at her height, put a glass jar with a handwritten label that said “Xiao Mi’s Snacks” on it, and I refilled it every Sunday. After six weeks, she stopped hiding food in her sock. She still keeps extra candy in her jar, but that’s okay — it’s hers, and it makes her feel secure.
Don’t force them to talk about what happened, don’t force eye contact, don’t force affection. A lot of new caregivers think they need to “build attachment” by forcing hugs or getting the child to open up about their trauma. But for a kid who’s only ever been hurt by adults, closeness is scary. I spent three months just being in the same room with Xiao Mi: I’d read my book on the couch while she sorted her collection of bottle caps, I’d cook dinner while she sat at the table and drew. We didn’t have to talk, we didn’t have to touch. That quiet space was what she needed.
Last month, we were at the neighborhood park, and a motorcyclist yelled really loud when a kid ran out in front of him. Xiao Mi grabbed my wrist so tight her nails left marks. When I first started fostering, I would have pulled her into a hug and said “you’re safe now, nothing’s going to hurt you.” This time, I just squeezed her wrist back and said “that yell was really scary, wasn’t it? We can stand right here as long as you want before we go play.” She nodded, and after four minutes, she pulled me toward the slide.
It’s been ten months now. Xiao Mi’s in second grade, she has one little friend she eats snack with every day at recess. She still flinches if someone comes up behind her too fast, she still sleeps with her bedroom door cracked open an inch, we still haven’t talked much about her old life. The adoption process is slow, there’s still court dates and paperwork we’re waiting on, and no one knows for sure what the future holds. Some weeks are harder than others — last week she hid under the bed for an hour after I raised my voice at my son for tracking mud in the house. But some days, she laughs when my son chases her around the backyard, she let me braid her hair for school last week, and she showed me a rock she painted pink that she keeps on her nightstand. That’s enough, for right now.
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