What I Learned Fostering A Rescued Abused Child From Yunnan: Practical Tips For Caregivers
The knock came at 2:17 on a cold December afternoon, I remember because I’d just put a tray of sweet potato cakes in the oven and was wiping flour off my hands. When I opened the door, the social worker stepped aside, and there was Xiao Mei, six years old, hair cut lopsided to get rid of lice, sneakers caked with red mountain mud from her village outside Pu’er. Her arms were clamped tight to her sides, and when I stepped forward to take the canvas bag the social worker had slung over her shoulder, she flinched so hard she knocked my half-empty thermos off the entry table. It clattered across the tile, spilling hot tea all over my doormat, and she squeezed her eyes shut like she was waiting for a blow.
I’ve been a foster caregiver in Kunming for four years, so I’m used to quiet, scared kids. But Xiao Mei was different. For the first two weeks, she never spoke above a whisper. She wouldn’t eat any food unless I left it on the counter and left the room. If I served her anything warm, she’d back away until she hit a wall. I called the social worker that first week, frustrated, because all the generic advice I’d gotten was “just give her time and love.” That’s not helpful when you’re staring at a kid who won’t eat, and you have no idea what you’re doing wrong.
The first shift in understanding came by accident. I was hanging garlic to dry on the balcony one afternoon, and I left a bowl of dried wild mango I’d bought from a street vendor on the coffee table. I was gone ten minutes, came back, and the bowl was empty. The wrapper was sitting right on top of the table, no attempt to hide it. She was sitting on the windowsill picking at the paint, like nothing had happened. That’s when it hit me: all the times I’d stood there waiting for her to take the food, waiting for her to say thank you, that was the problem. She’d learned that any interaction with an adult came with strings, that accepting something meant she owed you something, and if she didn’t do what you wanted, she’d get hurt.
I changed my approach right then. I started leaving snacks out on the counter every morning, no comment. If I made dinner, I’d set a plate down and go sit in the other room to read until she was done. I didn’t ask if she liked it, I didn’t praise her for eating, I just let it be. Within a week, she started sitting at the table with me while I ate, even if she didn’t say anything. That’s the first thing most people get wrong when caring for a child who’s experienced abuse: you don’t have to force connection. Leaving offers of food, comfort, or company out without demanding a response, no thank you required, no interaction expected, is way more effective than pushing a kid to “open up” before they’re ready.
Mid-January, my teenage nephew came to stay for the weekend. When he walked in, he hugged me hello, squeezed me tight. Before I could even say hello back, Xiao Mei grabbed the small ceramic bowl we kept for keys off the side table and threw it as hard as she could on the tile. It shattered into a dozen pieces. My nephew froze, and I felt my temper rise for half a second before I saw her face: she was shaking, her fists clenched, eyes wide like she was waiting for me to hit her. I took a breath, grabbed the broom from the hall closet, and started sweeping up the pieces. I said “it’s just a bowl, they break all the time” and that was it. I didn’t ask her why she did it, I didn’t punish her, I just cleaned up and went back to talking to my nephew.
Later that night, I thought about it. All the basic training I’d had said to address bad behavior immediately, but that doesn’t work for kids who’ve learned that big emotions and big reactions are the only way to keep themselves safe. Her throwing the bowl wasn’t bad behavior – it was a warning. She saw a big, sudden physical interaction, got scared, and lashed out to create distance. The second concrete lesson I learned: when a child who’s experienced abuse acts out, pause before you punish. Ask yourself what the behavior is telling you, not what rule it broke. If you’re not sure, say “I can see you’re upset right now. I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready to talk” and leave them be. You don’t have to fix the outburst in the moment.
Everyone kept telling me I needed to get her to talk about what happened, that talking through the abuse would help her heal. I was tempted to ask, to bring it up gently, but something stopped me. Then, in March, we were planting sunflower seeds in the small backyard of my apartment. We were on our knees digging holes, and she just said, quiet as the wind, “Uncle hit me with a stick when I stole a potato. I was hungry.” I almost dropped my trowel. I didn’t turn to look at her, I just kept digging my hole, and I said “That sounds really awful. That must have hurt so much.” Then we just kept planting. She never said another word about it that day, and she hasn’t since.
That taught me the third lesson: you don’t have to dig up trauma to help a kid heal. Let the child lead when it comes to talking about the past. If they don’t bring it up, don’t push them. If they share a little, just acknowledge how bad it was, don’t press for more details. Healing doesn’t happen on our timeline.
It’s been ten months now. She still flinches when someone reaches over her head to get a cup from the top cabinet. She still won’t sleep with the door closed all the way. Last week, we walked to the bus stop to pick up my 8 year old foster son, and she slipped her hand into mine. It was only for 30 seconds, until we passed the street vendor selling fried dough, then she pulled it away and ran ahead to look at the candied hawthorns. I still don’t know if she’ll ever talk more about what happened to her. I don’t know what her future looks like. But I know that right now, she eats warm congee for breakfast most days, and she’s learning to ride a pink second-hand bike, and she doesn’t have to squeeze her eyes shut waiting for a blow when something falls on the floor. That’s enough, for now.
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