For the Sake of Children

Tag: healing-through-play

  • The Importance of Never Outgrowing Wonder

    The Importance of Never Outgrowing Wonder

    When I was a kid, I walked a dirt road to the school bus stop each morning with my mom and my sister.

    One morning, I kicked a rusty can along the roadside while my mom and sister walked hand-in-hand behind me. Suddenly, Mom called out, “Susan, watch out!”

    I jumped back.

    She pointed to the ground.

    “Don’t step on those, honey! Those are fairy caps.”

    I looked down. Acorns covered the roadside. Some still wore their little caps. Others had lost them.

    Mom was right. They were exactly the right size for fairies.

    “Where are the fairies?” I asked.

    “They live over there, and sometimes they fly so fast that their hats fall off,” she said, pointing at the woods that fringed this dusty road, and continued walking.

    I slipped a fairy cap into my pocket and hurried to catch up.

    For years afterward, those tiny acorn caps became treasures. They inspired adventures in the woods, stories, and hours of imaginative play.

    Looking back, I realize my mom was giving me a gift that had very little to do with fairies. She was teaching me to see the world with wonder, perhaps without even knowing it.

    As my daughters were growing up, I shared the story of the fairy caps with them. Happily, they seemed to embrace the magic with me! We collected them on walks and tucked them into our pockets.

    Today, my girls are grown women. But every now and then, one of them will hand me a tiny acorn cap she found along a trail, a smile and sparkle in her eyes.

    No explanation needed. We both know exactly what it means.

    A small piece of childhood wonder has survived another generation.

    Recently, I ordered two books I have wanted to read. One is by Donald Winnicott, who wrote extensively about children, play, and emotional development. The other is Walden by Henry David Thoreau, a classic I somehow never got around to reading.

    When I clicked “Place Order,” I felt excited.

    The same thing happens when I wander through the library in Georgetown, DC, a favorite pastime. I never know what treasure might be waiting on a shelf. I love history, and this library is filled to the brim with it. 

    I felt it when I began writing my own stories and certainly when I published my first solo book.

    I feel it each time a new book launches into the world.

    There is something hopeful about opening a book for the first time. A sense that somewhere inside those pages may be a new idea, a new understanding, or a new hero.

    At nearly eighty years old, I still feel that excitement. And I’ve decided that’s a very good thing.

    As we grow older, it’s easy to believe that wonder belongs to children. We become busy. Practical. Responsible. We focus on obligations, schedules, and the endless stream of troubling news from the world around us.

    Yet I wonder if curiosity and imagination remain just as important in later life as they were in childhood. They sure are for me.

    Wonder invites us to keep learning. Curiosity encourages us to ask questions. Imagination helps us see possibilities where others see only limitations.

    Wonder reminds us that there is always more to discover.

    I think that’s one reason I enjoy spending time with children. They haven’t forgotten how to be amazed. A cardboard box becomes a playhouse. A pine tree becomes a secret fort. An acorn cap becomes evidence that fairies have passed by.

    The beautiful thing is that we don’t have to leave that way of seeing things entirely behind.

    We can still pause to notice a bird at the feeder or a squirrel up to mischief.

    We can still delight in learning something new.

    We can still carry a few fairy caps home in our pockets.

    The world can be hard at times. We all know that.

    But wonder keeps a small window open to beauty, possibility, and joy.

    I believe growing older does not require us to outgrow wonder. Maybe it’s asking us to protect it.

    And if I happen to spot a fairy cap along the path, you can count on it that I will probably pick it up.

  • 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.

  • 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.