What I Learned Caring For A Rescued Abused Child From Yunnan: Practical Tips For Caregivers
The oatmeal was bubbling over the stovetop when I noticed 7-year-old Xiao Mei wasn’t at the table. I found her curled in the gap between our old fridge and the wall, one small hand clamped around the chipped blue Dali mug I’d brought home from a trip years ago, her shoulders hunched like she was waiting for a blow.
Xiao Mei was one of the children rescued from an abusive household in a remote mountain village in Yunnan two years ago. I’ve been a foster caregiver for almost four years, and I’d sat through all the trainings, so I thought I knew what to expect. I was wrong.
The first week, she wouldn’t eat any cooked food. She’d only nibble raw carrots pulled from my backyard garden, or dried fruit I left out on the counter, like she was scared any food prepared by me might be taken away before she could finish it. Every time I lifted a hand to adjust my hair or swat a mosquito, she’d flinch back so hard she’d trip over her own feet. The first time I raised my voice a little – just enough to be heard over the sink when I dropped a metal spoon – she climbed out the second-story window onto the tiled roof and sat there for two hours in a light drizzle. I panicked, fumbling for my phone to call the local social worker who’d connected us, sure I’d already broken her beyond repair.
What she told me that day changed everything I thought I knew about caring for kids who’ve been abused. First, she said, stop pushing her to talk about what happened. All those training exercises that told me to encourage her to share her feelings? They were wrong for this stage. Abused kids don’t trust words, especially big words about feelings, because the people who hurt them most used words to promise safety first. Instead of asking “are you okay?” ten times a day, just give her small, predictable things she can count on.
I started small. I set her place at the table every morning with that same chipped blue mug, the one she’d picked up the first day and never let go of. I made the same amount of oatmeal, at the same time, every single day, no exceptions. I never pushed her to sit with me when I had friends over; I just left a stack of her favorite picture books and a pack of dried mango in the gap behind the fridge, and let her come out when she was ready. I also started asking “can I touch your arm?” or “would you like a hug?” before I got close, and if she said no, I just walked away without making a big deal of it. That small habit took less than ten seconds a day, and it built trust faster than any “I love you” ever could.
Another tip she gave me: don’t treat survival habits like misbehavior. A month after Xiao Mei moved in, I found half a dozen crackers and three granola bars tucked between the sheets of her mattress, some of them already starting to mold. My first instinct was to throw them out and tell her it wasn’t okay to hide food. But the social worker reminded me: hoarding isn’t bad behavior. It’s what she learned to do to stay alive, when no one could tell her when the next meal would come. Instead of taking them away, I started just picking out the crumbly, moldy bits when I changed the sheets every week, and left the unopened snacks right where they were. I also started leaving a full jar of crackers and a bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter all the time, so she could take whatever she wanted whenever she wanted, no questions asked. It took almost five months before she stopped hiding food. The first time she left a half-eaten apple on the coffee table overnight and didn’t scramble to hide it the next morning, I almost cried, but I didn’t say anything. I just left it there.
The biggest thing I’ve learned is that when they do finally choose to share a piece of their story, you don’t have to fix it. Last month, we walked past a stall at the local weekend market selling wild Yunnan honey, and Xiao Mei stopped dead. She stared at the jars for a full minute before she said, quiet as a breath, “I used to climb trees to get honey for my dad. He kicked me when I fell and didn’t bring any back.” That was the first time she’d ever said anything about her old life. I didn’t jump in to say “that was terrible, you’re safe now” or pull her into a hug. I just said, “Climbing trees for honey sounds really scary. Did your knee hurt a lot when you fell?” She nodded, and said it hurt so bad she couldn’t walk for two days. I nodded back, bought her a small jar of the honey, and we went home. We didn’t talk about it again after that, and that was okay.
Right now, Xiao Mei has been with me for 10 months. She started second grade last month, and came home yesterday with a crayon drawing of our house, two stick figures holding hands standing in the front yard. She still hides behind the fridge when there’s a big thunderstorm, she still flinches when someone drops a plate and it clatters loud. I found three granola bars tucked in her pillowcase three days ago, and I just tucked them back in when she wasn’t looking. The adoption paperwork is still moving through the system, and no one can say for sure what will happen a year from now. But this morning, she poured her own oatmeal into that chipped blue mug, and she asked for an extra spoonful of wild honey. That’s enough for right now.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » What I Learned Caring For A Rescued Abused Child From Yunnan: Practical Tips For Caregivers