For the Sake of Children

Author: sernst992

  • Protect the Child’s Right to Play

    Protect the Child’s Right to Play

    As the world feels heavy this week, I’m holding children everywhere in my heart. Today’s reflection is offered in that spirit.

    Seems Like Yesterday

    “Hand me some more nails!” I called down to my sister from my perch high in our favorite pine tree.

    Long ago, someone had planted about a dozen pines in a wide circle above our house. Inside that ring of trees lay what Peggy and I named the secret meadow. The air smelled like Christmas all year long — thick with sap and sun-warmed needles. Purple lupine and bright yellow buttercups pushed up through the grass. Low brush formed perfect hiding places for imaginary enemies and invisible kingdoms.

    This was where we ruled the world.

    Our tree had massive limbs and sticky green needles that clung to our jeans. Five pieces of scrap wood from Dad’s woodpile had been hammered into the trunk — our “magic ladder to the sky.” At the time, I was certain I was at least twenty feet in the air. Looking back, it was probably closer to five. But in childhood, five feet can feel like Everest.

    “I can’t reach!” Peggy yelled, one foot testing the first board, the other still firmly planted on the pine-needle floor below.

    I climbed down a rung, gripping the bark, sap sticking to my palms. She dug into the paper bag Dad had given us and pulled out a fistful of long, heavy nails.

    “What if the board breaks?” Her eyes were wide.

    We had used at least five nails per rung — mostly because hammering them in was the best part of the whole operation.

    “Your other foot’s still on the ground,” I said confidently. “You won’t fall far.”

    That was childhood logic.

    We planned to build a fort at the very top. We would bring our lunch up there and survey the kingdom below — our house, the driveway, the world.

    Five rungs later, sweaty and triumphant, the plan changed.

    “This branch is perfect,” I declared, straddling a thick limb like I was riding a horse. “Hand me the lunch bag first!”

    Mom had packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, fully aware she wouldn’t see us for hours.

    Peggy climbed carefully, testing each rung with a bounce before trusting it. Finally, we sat facing each other, legs wrapped around the branch, giggling at our own daring. A Blue Jay landed above us and called out, as if announcing our accomplishment to the forest.

    We were explorers. Builders. Brave.

    The sun lowered. A breeze moved through the pine needles.

    “Peggy! Susan!”

    Then the cowbell.

    Mom stood somewhere below, clanging it in wide circles to make sure we heard.

    “Race you!” I yelled, already halfway down.

    Peggy jumped from the final rung into the soft bed of pine needles. We tore across the meadow, victorious.

    Another great adventure under our belts.

    Times Have Changed

    Some children today cannot step outside to play.

    Some can’t because of violence in their neighborhoods.
    Some because every hour of their day is scheduled.
    Some because screens have quietly replaced dirt, trees, and sky.

    And some because safety itself is uncertain.

    The body needs movement — and safety — to metabolize stress.
    Many children today, across all socioeconomic levels, are not getting either.

    The ACE Study

    The original ACE Study (Adverse Childhood Experiences), conducted between 1995 and 1997, surveyed more than 17,000 adults about their childhoods and their current health.

    Researchers discovered something sobering: as the number of adverse childhood experiences increased, so did the risk for long-term physical and mental health problems.

    ACEs include emotional, physical, and sexual abuse; neglect; and household challenges such as substance abuse, mental illness, parental separation, or incarceration.

    The study revealed something profound:

    Early adversity does not just shape memory.
    It shapes biology.

    Toxic Stress

    Stress, in small doses, helps us grow.

    But when a child lives in ongoing fear or unpredictability — and no steady adult helps regulate that fear — the body never fully relaxes.

    The heart beats faster.
    Muscles stay tight.
    Stress hormones keep flowing.

    Day after day.

    That unrelieved activation is what researchers call toxic stress.
    And it leaves its imprint not just on the mind, but on the body itself.

    The Protective Power of Movement and Play

    In The Deepest Well, Dr. Nadine Burke Harris identifies key strategies for healing a dysregulated stress response: sleep, mental health support, healthy relationships, exercise, and nutrition.

    When I first began studying ACEs, I assumed children naturally get one of those protective factors — exercise. I assumed play was automatic.

    I was wrong.

    Safe play is not guaranteed.

    Children in homes of every color and income level deserve safe spaces to move, explore, and let their bodies discharge stress.

    When children can’t climb, run, swing, dig, or build imaginary kingdoms, their stress physiology has nowhere to go.

    The Power of Safe Movement

    I grew up in an era of open meadows and unlocked doors. My parents did not live with the same fear many parents carry today.

    Now, volunteering at the Boys & Girls Club of America in Washington, D.C., I serve children whose nervous systems carry far more than mine ever did.

    Movement is not a luxury for children.

    It is biology.

    Running.
    Climbing.
    Swinging.
    Digging in dirt.

    These are not trivial games.

    They are how the body releases stress.
    They are how resilience is built from the inside out.

    When children lose safe spaces to move, they lose one of the simplest and most powerful buffers against toxic stress.

    Protecting children includes protecting their right to play.

    And sometimes, when I hear a distant clang of metal, I remember that cowbell — a reminder that freedom and safety can exist together.

    Every child deserves both.

  • The Grief of the Witness

    The Grief of the Witness

    I stood at the window this morning, wrapped in my bathrobe, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand. Heavy rain obscured the street below. Raindrops slid down the glass, one after another.

    “God is crying for our crazy world,” I thought.

    “I wonder how they are doing now. Some of them have got to be in their twenties by now.”

    My eyes filled with tears of my own.

    The subject of trafficking and abuse is once again filling the headlines. People are debating. Arguing. Accusing.

    But this morning, I’m not thinking about the headlines.

    I’m grieving for the young survivors I met so long ago. I loved them then. I love them still. And I’m grieving for survivors everywhere who are quietly fighting to heal.

    What the Public Sees vs. What Survivors Live

    The public sees investigations, scandals, and courtroom scenes.

    Survivors live with memory, triggers, and nervous system responses.

    The news cycle will move on soon. Trauma does not.

    Grief often surfaces years after rescue. When survival mode finally quiets, grief rises.

    In survival mode, the body protects. Later, when safety comes, loss begins to be felt — lost childhood, lost trust, lost innocence, lost years.

    The Grief of the Witness

    My grief comes from knowing what should never have happened.

    It comes from understanding that healing can take a lifetime. From knowing that even when someone is safe, the story does not end there.

    There is a kind of grief that belongs to those who stand beside survivors. Not because they are broken — but because we know what was taken.

    And yet, I have witnessed healing.

    I have seen the power of love and play. I have stood in rooms alive with laughter — children reclaiming joy, even if only for an hour.

    That tells me healing is possible.

    And that strengthens my resolve.

    Why Language and Warnings Matter

    Part of that resolve is my writing.

    Stories of abuse can re-traumatize. Headlines alone can awaken buried pain. So I remind myself to speak carefully. Thoughtfully. With restraint.

    There are moments when outrage rises in me — when I want to shout what I know to be true.

    But love speaks differently than outrage.

    Grief and Hope Must Coexist

    Healing unfolds in its own time. There are breakthroughs and setbacks in no particular order. Healing often requires returning to what once overwhelmed us — this time with support.

    If you have ever loved someone who is healing — as a parent, therapist, teacher, advocate, volunteer, or friend — you may recognize this grief.

    It is the grief of the witness.

    Today’s headlines will fade.

    Healing will continue.

    And so will the love.

    And yes, the grief — not in despair, but in devotion.

    With love and hope,
    Susan

  • Resilience Rests in Relationships

    Resilience Rests in Relationships

    It was a particularly steamy day at the rescue center in Cambodia, and the team was tired. Serving more than one hundred children each day drained us in ways we hadn’t anticipated. Thankfully, our talented craft designer had come up with a winner.

    The project was a pillow made from soft, colorful fleece. Simple enough: two squares placed together, thick fringes cut around the edges. The children’s job was to tie the matching fringes into knots and then stuff the pillow with polyester fiberfill.

    This was, by far, one of the most popular crafts we ever offered. Having seen where many of the children lived—and how they lived—it was easy to understand why. A pillow was not a given. It was a luxury. The older children quickly began teaching the younger ones, and for a moment, the room felt light.

    No, wait.

    The younger children couldn’t tie knots.

    We adjusted quickly. We formed circles—one team member, a couple of teenagers, and a handful of little ones in each group. The older kids helped the little ones tie the fringes and stuff the pillows. Laughter returned. Soon the pillows were finished, and that’s when the magic began.

    Some of the older children clutched their pillows to their chests and slipped away from the noise, stretching out quietly on the floor and resting their heads on their new cushions. Others began batting each other with their pillows, collapsing into giggles. As long as the laughter stayed joyful, we let it continue. And some of the youngest simply held their pillows close, pressing them against their hearts as if holding something fragile and sacred.

    Then came one of the most tender moments I witnessed in Cambodia.

    Our craft leader sat on the floor, knees drawn up, head resting on her folded arms. With a gentle pat on her own shoulder, she motioned to a little girl nearby, inviting her to rest. Smiling in quiet understanding, the child placed her pillow across my teammate’s back and lay her head down. She closed her eyes. For several long minutes, she remained there—safe, still, trusting.

    At the time, we called what we were seeing resilience—breathtaking resilience. These children seemed affectionate, adaptable, and open. They leaned into us easily. They trusted quickly.

    But many of these children had endured things no child should face—abuse, abandonment, hunger, fear. And yet here they were, resting their heads on the back of someone they had known for only a few days.

    Was this resilience?

    Or was it a nervous system exquisitely trained to detect safety—and move toward it immediately?

    When I later discussed this with a psychotherapist, I learned that such responses are often complex. Some of what we saw may indeed have been genuine relief—the natural playfulness and attachment capacity that children carry within them. But some behaviors may also reflect trauma adaptations, especially what is commonly called the “fawn response”—a survival strategy developed early to appease an abuser and stay safe.

    One of the realities of trauma is this: when a child transitions into safety, their survival responses do not simply switch off. The body remembers.

    That day, I realized that what I had called resilience might be something far more complex — and far more fragile.

    I keep returning to the image of that little girl resting across my teammate’s back. Her face had softened. Her breathing slowed. For a few minutes, she was simply a child at rest.

    Was that resilience?

    Or was it something even more remarkable — a body that had learned, through experience, how to detect safety quickly and lean into it while it lasted?

    In only a matter of days, she trusted enough to close her eyes. To release her weight. To be still.

    Children who grow up in chaos often become exquisitely attuned to shifts in tone, posture, and invitation. They read rooms faster than adults. They soften when it is wise to soften. They attach when attachment feels safe enough.

    That is not weakness. It is brilliance.

    But brilliance born of survival is not the same as resilience born of security.

    What I once called resilience may have been something even more extraordinary — a nervous system that had learned how to survive.

    And I am no longer so quick to label.

    I am not an expert in child development. I am learning. And the more I learn, the more careful I become with my words.

    Developmental psychologist Ann Masten, often called the “queen of resilience research,” describes resilience as “ordinary magic.” She explains that resilience grows not from heroic inner strength alone, but from ordinary, dependable systems — safe relationships, steady caregivers, predictable environments. In other words, resilience flourishes in the presence of safety.

    That day in Cambodia, I began to understand the difference. What I witnessed may not have been fully formed resilience. It may have been the beginning of it — a child responding to safety in the moment.

    Perhaps that is where resilience truly begins.

    Since those days spent at the rescue facility, I have tried to move more slowly when working with children who have survived trauma, and with survivors I have met more recently. I no longer assume I understand what I am seeing. What looks like resilience may be adaptation. What looks like trust may be vigilance softening for a moment.

    I gently encourage volunteers and caregivers to remember that we are often witnessing only a sliver of a child’s story. Our role is not to diagnose or label, but to provide consistent safety and steady presence. And when deeper wounds surface — as they sometimes do — that is the time to step aside and invite trained professionals to guide the healing.

    Children deserve more than our admiration for their “strength.” They deserve environments where resilience can grow slowly, securely, and without the need for survival brilliance.

    Perhaps the most responsible posture we can take is this: stay curious, stay humble, and when in doubt, call in the experts.

  • The Mother I Remember: When Pain Distorts Personality

    The Mother I Remember: When Pain Distorts Personality

    I lost my mom way too soon. She succumbed first to breast cancer and then to esophageal cancer, and her last months were very rough.

    In her final year, we shared a moment I will never forget. It embodied the mom I loved so much — full of life, funny, and always up for a little adventure.

    Easter was approaching, and Mom was still strong enough for an outing. I took her to lunch — I don’t even remember where. The real story happened afterward.

    We were strolling down the main street of her small town, admiring the shop windows dressed for the holiday. We came upon a lovely little tea shop — the kind I’d probably never buy anything from (too fancy for my taste), but so much fun to peer into.

    The shopkeeper had created an elaborate Easter display: delicate teacups and saucers, pastel eggs, elegant candies, and throughout the scene, chocolate bunnies adorned with bright silk ribbons.

    But here’s the catch.

    The California sun had been baking that window all morning. By the time we arrived, the poor bunnies were melting.

    Their ears drooped sadly to the sides of their heads. Their candy eyes had slid down their faces. They appeared to be sitting in pools of chocolatey collapse.

    My mother — sick as she was — started laughing. Hard.

    And I started laughing.

    And we could not stop.

    We crossed our legs, held our stomachs, bent over in convulsions. Tears streamed down our faces. We hugged each other and pointed wildly at the window so passersby would understand we hadn’t lost our minds.

    That only made it worse.

    The shopkeeper eventually came out and asked us to move along.

    We looked at each other — and burst into laughter again.

    Arm in arm, we walked down the street.

    Mom passed away seven months later.

    The illness escalated quickly, turning those last months into a bitter pill for all of us. Her pain intensified. Alcohol — mixed with milk to soften its burn — appeared more frequently, no longer waiting for a civilized cocktail hour.

    Mom became bitter. Angry. Hurtful words surfaced. She grew impatient with family, and visits with my children sometimes ended in tension. That, in turn, fueled my father’s own drinking, and life as we knew it shifted in ways we could not control.

    Illness changes people.
    Pain distorts personality.
    Addiction hijacks behavior.

    But one thing I am clear on now:

    The culprit was alcoholism. Not my mother.

    Before you blame someone in your distant past for your present wounds, remember — there is usually a back story.

    I’m not saying parents get a free pass.

    I’m saying context matters.

    Sometimes what harmed us wasn’t the person.
    It was what happened to them.

    Thankfully, I carry that Easter afternoon — and so many others — as proof of who my mother really was. She loved deeply. She laughed easily. Illness may have distorted her personality, but it never defined her.

  • The Black Butterfly: How Healing in Relationship Flows Both Ways

    The Black Butterfly: How Healing in Relationship Flows Both Ways

    Rochelle Sharpe’s article, Childhood Trauma Doesn’t Have to Be a Lifelong Curse, was a true eye-opener for me. I remember being flattened when I first read about the 1998 Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) study. When I learned that childhood trauma can increase risks of heart disease, cancer, addiction, and suicide, my heart sank. I winced, knowing that I had experienced ACEs as a child — and admittedly, so had my children.

    In Sharpe’s article, I learned that research now points to ways of mitigating these long-term effects. A new framework, Healthy Outcomes from Positive Experiences (HOPE), is “shifting the paradigm from what is the problem to what can I do about it.”

    The article goes on to say that “evidence has emerged showing the brain rewires itself after good as well as bad events.”

    Yes, ACEs increase risk — but perhaps they do not always determine destiny.

    That is my hope.

    Let me share with you a moment I witnessed — healing in action.

    A pile of flip-flops at the entrance to the rescue facility marks the beginning of another magical day. The sound of many tiny feet racing up the stairs signals the team: Go time.

    A small boy recognizes me from our first day and runs toward me, hand raised for a high five. I’m guessing he’s about six or seven years old. It’s hard to tell. The children are small for their age, often due to poor nutrition.

    He slaps my palm and looks into my eyes. The twinkle there tells me he’s curious about this white lady with blue eyes.

    His eyes are big and brown. What have those beautiful eyes seen? They divulge nothing. I smile so wide my cheeks ache.

    His mouth is slightly disfigured — perhaps a cleft palate and a rough repair. Tiny teeth appear in the most endearing smile I’ve ever seen, and my heart breaks.

    His T-shirt and shorts are filthy and smell of sweat, dirt, and pee. I want to hug him. Instead, I offer another high five.

    He doesn’t speak English, and I don’t speak his language, except for a few greetings. He seems perfectly content with this.

    “My name is Susan,” I say slowly, patting my chest. “What is your name?” I extend my hand toward him.

    He pokes my chin with a tiny finger and bursts into laughter.

    Unsure what to do next, I crouch down and begin counting his fingers. “One, two, three…” touching each fingertip as I go. He watches intently. “Ten!” I throw my hands in the air and shout, “Yahoo!”

    He jumps up and claps over his head.

    On our very first day, we found a way to bond. No language barrier here.

    Each day after that, I sought him out in the crowd. A dozen times or more, our eyes would meet across the room, and we would both smile and wave. When the older kids led songs and dances, he would watch me make a fool of myself and collapse into belly laughter.

    On the third day, I searched the room but couldn’t find him.

    My heart raced.

    Oh, God, please…

    Each afternoon, our team left the facility during our lunch time, climbed into a van, and drove into the surrounding area with staff members. We delivered 20-pound sacks of rice to impoverished families. One sack of rice might be enough to prevent a child from being sold into trafficking.

    The families lived in patchwork huts made from scraps of cardboard and sheet metal. One room at best. No toilets.

    And then I saw him.

    He was sitting with his family on a plastic tarp beneath an awning, receiving our greeting, prayers, and the rice.

    He smiled and waved. I waved back, hopping from one foot to the other to shake biting ants off my feet. It took everything in me not to scoop him up and run.

    Afterward, I watched him disappear into a doorless opening of a crumbling lean-to. I climbed into the back of the van and let the tears fall.

    On our last day, we stood in a single-file line, high-fiving each child as we said goodbye. The little ones ran. The older ones walked more slowly. We all had tears in our eyes.

    They knew.

    We knew.

    We might never see each other again.

    I felt as though a vice were tightening around my heart.

    My little guy came up and wrapped his arms around my legs. I bent down and returned his hug.

    With sparkling eyes, he gestured that he had a surprise for me. We had made butterflies that day, and he proudly pressed his into my hands.

    He had painted it completely black.

    It looked more like a bat than a butterfly.

    I will treasure it always.

    I pressed it to my heart. “Thank you. God bless you,” I whispered, wiping sweat and tears from my face with my sleeve.

    I don’t know what became of that little boy.

    But I know this:

    For ten days, he experienced consistency. Laughter. Safety. Touch that was not harmful. Adults who stayed.

    That is HOPE.

    I know he had known trauma. He had learned what harm in a relationship feels like.

    But for ten days, relationship meant something different.

    Steady adults matter. Safe love matters.

    Positive experiences matter.

    That is HOPE.

    We cannot erase a child’s ACE score.

    But we can add love.

    We can add safety.

    We can add a steady presence.

    And then another question began to rise in me.

    The HOPE framework speaks of positive experiences buffering toxic stress in children.

    What if those experiences buffer in both directions?

    What if healing in relationship is reciprocal?

    For ten days, I was needed. I was present. I wasn’t trying to prove anything or accomplish anything beyond love. We had been told our only job was to give these children a reason to hope.

    When that little boy pressed his black butterfly into my hands, something in me shifted.

    He was not the only one being rewired.

    Trauma occurs in relationship.

    Healing also occurs in relationship.

    And sometimes, the healing flows both ways.

    I don’t know where that boy is today. I don’t know what trauma he still carries.

    I only know that for ten days, we met each other in joy.

    And when he placed that black butterfly in my hands, I understood something I had not understood before:

    Love is never one-sided.

    We were both being changed.

    That is HOPE.

    You do not need to travel across the world to offer HOPE to a child. HOPE is created in ordinary moments — when we listen, when we stay, when we offer kindness without expectation. A steady teacher. A caring neighbor. A patient grandparent. A volunteer. A safe adult who shows up again and again. These positive experiences matter more than we may ever know. They shape the architecture of the developing brain. They soften fear. They restore trust. And sometimes, they heal something within us, too. Each of us has the power to become part of a child’s story of healing. We do not need special training to begin. We only need to be present, gentle, and caring.

  • For the Sake of the Children

    For the Sake of the Children

    “Consistent, nonjudgmental love transcends cultures.
    And when it does,
    something extraordinary can happen.
    We begin to see the child
    not only as a survivor,
    but as someone rising,
    someone remembering who she is,
    not who she was told to be.”

    Susan Ernst — Called to Serve, Standing with Survivors and Protecting Children Still at Risk.

    What I Have Witnessed

    Working with the children, one of the most surprising—and beautiful—things I witnessed was the profound healing that emerged through pure, simple joy. It wasn’t formal therapy or anything official. It was children laughing, running, being silly, and making up games. It was the small, ordinary moments when play took over, and worry loosened its grip, even if only for a little while.

    When we played together, you could see the change happening in real time. Faces lit up. Bodies softened. The heaviness lifted. It was as if their hearts remembered something essential—that they were still children, capable of happiness, still whole within themselves.

    I came to understand that play wasn’t merely a distraction.
    It was a form of medicine.
    Real medicine.

    When the children drew goofy pictures, raced one another, wrestled with adult volunteers, or sang at the top of their lungs, something deeper was happening beneath the laughter. They were letting go—bit by bit—of fear and tension they carried in their bodies. They were remembering what it felt like to trust, even tentatively. They were reconnecting with their natural creativity and silliness—the parts of themselves untouched by trauma.

    In those moments, they were also building new memories: memories of being safe, free, and loved.

    Often, the most healing moments were the messiest, noisiest, most ridiculous ones. Joy created space—wide, breathing space—for healing to take root in ways I never could have planned or predicted.

    I honestly believe that play is one of the purest forms of hope we have.

    And more recently, as I’ve had the privilege of getting to know and serve alongside survivors who have dedicated their lives to the fight against child abuse and trafficking, I’ve witnessed another kind of healing strength. A depth of resilience and grit that is hard to fathom, given what they have endured. These are not stories defined solely by harm, but by courage, resolve, and the fierce decision to protect others.

    These are the stories I want to share with you.

    What You’ll Find Here

    I’ll share personal stories and reflections drawn from my experiences working with children, survivors, and advocates committed to protection, healing, and hope. Some stories may be tender. Others may be difficult. When needed, I will include a disclaimer to let readers know that what follows may be uncomfortable to read. All stories are shared with the intention of fostering awareness rather than fear.

    You’ll also find reflections meant for parents, grandparents, educators, counselors, and anyone who cares about the well-being of children. I intend to offer perspective, insight, and encouragement—an invitation to notice, to listen, and to stay present to what children may be telling us, often without words.

    This space is grounded in truth-telling, compassion, and thoughtful dialogue. I believe that when we are willing to see clearly and respond with love, meaningful change becomes possible.

    Above all, this blog is an invitation to learn, to reflect, and to stand with children and survivors in ways that feel honest, human, and doable.

    An Invitation

    Perhaps something in these words stirred recognition, concern, or quiet resolve. Maybe you are carrying questions of your own—about children you love, stories you’ve heard, or moments you couldn’t quite make sense of at the time. You are welcome here.

    I offer reflection, witness, and a willingness to stay with what matters. This space is meant to be one you can return to—whenever you feel called.

    If you’d like to continue the conversation, you’re invited to subscribe and receive future reflections as they’re shared. There is no expectation and no obligation—only an open door.

    Thank you for being here. For caring. For choosing not to look away.

    For the sake of the children.