What I Learned Caring For A Rescued Abused Child From Yunnan: 3 Practical Things Caregivers Need To Know
The first time 7-year-old Xiao Mi came into our after-school classroom at the rural community shelter outside Kunming, Yunnan, she hid under the art table for 47 minutes. I counted, because I was kneeling by the door trying not to stare, and the old clock above the tattered bookshelf ticked slow that cold November afternoon. She had on a too-big hand-me-down jacket, a frayed pink hair tie holding back her matted hair, and she wouldn’t let go of the broken plastic rabbit keychain she’d been found holding when rescuers pulled her from her father’s village home.
A new volunteer tried to coax her out with a butter cookie, holding out her hand to pull her up. When Xiao Mi bit the back of her hand hard enough to bruise, the volunteer stepped back, flustered. I’ve worked with rescued kids here for two years now, so I just asked the volunteer to go help the other kids with their homework, moved my folding chair a few feet away from the table, and went back to grading third grade math worksheets. I said one quiet sentence, loud enough for her to hear: “If you want warm water, I have a full bottle right here. No one’s going to pull you out before you’re ready.”
She didn’t come out until all the other kids left for dinner. When she crawled out, she drank half the bottle, then ran out the door before I could say anything else. That’s the first thing most new caregivers get wrong, I’ve found. We think we have to fix it, we have to earn trust right away with hugs or treats or big speeches about being safe now. But for kids who’ve been hurt by the adults who were supposed to take care of them, any sudden push for connection feels like a threat. The concrete trick I tell new volunteers now is this: pick one small, consistent thing to do every day, and don’t ask anything in return. For Xiao Mi, that was leaving an extra apple on the edge of the art table every afternoon, and not commenting when she took it after everyone else left. No “isn’t this apple good?”, no “are you having a good day?” Just the apple, every day.
After two weeks, she started staying for the full class. She sat in the back, never talked, and broke at least three crayons a day. The other caregivers got frustrated. “She’s just being bad,” one said. “She needs to learn not to destroy things.” I get that impulse, but what I’ve learned is that most destructive behavior from hurt kids isn’t about being bad—it’s a test. They know how to be bad. They know adults yell, or hit, or leave when they mess up. So they break something to see if you’ll do what all the other adults did. Instead of punishing her for breaking crayons, I just started leaving an extra box of crayons next to her spot. When she broke one, I didn’t say anything. I just nodded at the extra box. If she ripped a drawing, I handed her a new sheet of paper. It sounds too simple, but after a month, she stopped breaking all the crayons. She only broke one when she was upset, instead of all of them.
The big test came two months in, when she pushed a 6-year-old boy off the playground swing because he’d borrowed her blue crayon without asking. The boy scraped his knee, crying loud, and his foster mom wanted Xiao Mi put in time out right away. I walked over, and Xiao Mi was standing there shaking, her rabbit keychain clutched so tight her knuckles were white, waiting for me to yell. I didn’t yell, and I didn’t make her apologize right then. I just held out my hand, and when she stepped back, I dropped it to my side, and said “Let’s go get lemon popsicles from the fridge. We can talk about this after you stop shaking.” We sat on the concrete steps out front, and she ate her popsicle in 10 minutes, not saying a word. Halfway through, she mumbled that she thought the boy was going to take her rabbit, the same way her father’s partner took all her old toys and threw them in the river. That’s the second big lesson: never force a kid to talk about what happened to them before they’re ready. A lot of well-meaning people come through here and ask “what did they do to you?” within the first week. That just shuts them down. Instead, you name the small feelings you see. If they’re shaking, you say “you look really scared right now” instead of pushing for details. That gives them permission to talk when they want, not when you want them to.
It’s been six months now, and Xiao Mi isn’t the “healed, happy kid” that people sometimes picture when they hear about a successful rescue. She still hides under the art table when there’s a group of new volunteers visiting. She still breaks all her crayons when it rains, because her abuser used to lock her outside in the rain when she misbehaved. She won’t let any adult hug her, and that’s okay. We don’t make her. What has changed is small: last week, she drew a picture of a pink rabbit and gave it to me. She didn’t say anything, just set it on my desk and ran off to play. She sits next to me during story time now, as long as I don’t move my chair too close. If I ask “can I brush your hair?” she’ll nod sometimes, and let me brush out the tangles after recess.
Most of what we do here isn’t the big dramatic rescues you see on the news. The rescue doesn’t end when the kid gets pulled out of the bad home. The real work is the small, boring daily stuff: leaving apples on tables, keeping extra crayons handy, going to get popsicles instead of punishing. The third thing I tell new caregivers is that safety doesn’t feel like a big speech about being loved. It feels like the same thing happening every single day, no matter what the kid does. If you break a crayon, we still have extra. If you push someone, we still get a popsicle and talk later. If you don’t want to talk, we don’t have to.
I don’t know what’s going to happen to Xiao Mi long term. She’s waiting for a foster family that understands she needs space, and that could take a while. Some days she’s better, some days she’s back to hiding. That’s okay. We’re not in a rush. The apple will be on the table tomorrow, same as it was today.
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