For the Sake of Children

Tag: resilience

  • Children See Possibilities We Have Forgotten to See

    Children See Possibilities We Have Forgotten to See

    Another Saturday morning. Mom hangs laundry on the line by the big pine tree. Dad made a clothesline that stretches from the tree all the way down our backyard hill.

    I know! I’m going to bake a cake for Mom and Dad!

    I grab my bucket and shovel—the ones Dad gave me when we went to the beach—and run to the front yard, to my special spot under the bush with the white flowers. I fill the bucket about halfway with dirt, then run into the kitchen for a glass of water. Carefully, I carry it with two hands, back outside, pour it into the bucket, and stir.

    And stir some more. It needs something. This is too plain. I grab a handful of grass from the lawn, squish it up, and throw it into the mix. Finally. Just right.

    I pick up the blob of magical ingredients and pat it into a ball, just like Mom does when she makes meatloaf. Except this isn’t meatloaf. This is a cake.

    I place it carefully on a dish, pick a white blossom from the bush, and set it on top.

    There! A cake for Mom and Dad, I think, smiling proudly at my masterpiece.

    I don’t remember what Mom and Dad said when I presented them with my creation. But I remember making mud pies. Lots and lots of mud pies.

    All these years later, I find myself thinking about that happy little kid, hair up in two ponytails on the top of her head, sitting and “creating” in the dirt.

    No one had to teach her that dirt could become cake batter, grass could become some mysterious ingredient, or a flower could be the finishing touch. No one had to explain imagination to her.

    She simply saw possibilities. Children do that.

    Researchers have a name for one part of what is happening here: divergent thinking. Put simply, it means coming up with different ideas and possibilities rather than immediately searching for the one “right” answer. Researchers have studied it for decades, and studies show that even very young children can already do this kind of thinking.

    But I keep coming back to a different question.

    In teaching children how the world works, are we sometimes inadvertently teaching them to stop imagining how else it could work?

    Of course, children need us to teach them. There really are right answers sometimes. They need to learn rules and boundaries that keep them safe. They need knowledge and guidance as they make their way into the world.

    But sometimes we adults are a little too quick to provide the answer.

    Think about a child who draws a purple tree. Our adult instinct may be to say, “Trees aren’t purple.” We know what color trees are, and perhaps we think we’re helping the child get it right. But what if we resisted the urge to correct her and simply asked, “Tell me about your purple tree.” Maybe it’s purple because she loves purple. Maybe it’s a magical tree. Maybe she saw a tree at sunset that really did look purple. Or maybe there is no reason at all. Does it matter? The tree doesn’t need to be green. Not yet. For this moment, perhaps we can simply let the child show us what she sees.

    This is one reason I keep returning to the importance of open-ended play. When children play without an adult deciding what the finished product should look like, they get to experiment. They make things up. They try something, change their minds, tear it apart, and start again. A blanket becomes a fort. A stick becomes a magic wand. A cardboard box becomes a playhouse.

    And dirt and water become a cake for Mom and Dad.

    There is something else worth remembering. The children we are raising today will inherit problems we cannot solve for them. They will face questions for which no answer conveniently waits in the back of a book. They will need knowledge, certainly. But they will also need the ability to imagine something that doesn’t exist yet.

    Perhaps that is why we should be careful with this wonderful capacity children bring with them.

    Our job isn’t only to teach children what we know. Maybe part of our job is to protect their willingness to wonder about what we don’t know.

    The next time a child comes up with an answer that seems ridiculous, invents a new use for an old object, or creates something that makes absolutely no sense to us, perhaps we can wait a moment before correcting.

    We might simply ask, “Tell me more.”

    Because children see possibilities we have forgotten to see.

    And sometimes, if we’re willing to listen, they may help us see them again.

    For Those Who Want to Dig Deeper

    Bai, H., Mulder, H., Moerbeek, M., Kroesbergen, E., & Leseman, P. (2021). “Divergent thinking in four-year-old children: An analysis of thinking processes in performing the Alternative Uses Task.” Thinking Skills and Creativity, 40, 100814. This study examined how four-year-olds come up with unusual uses for familiar objects and found that young children already use different thinking processes to generate original ideas.

    Bai, H., Mulder, H., Moerbeek, M., Leseman, P. P. M., & Kroesbergen, E. H. (2023). “The development of divergent thinking in 4- to 6-year-old children.” Creativity Research Journal, 36(4), 656-674. Researchers followed 107 children beginning at age four for a year and a half, repeatedly asking them to think of unusual uses for ordinary objects. The study offers a fascinating look at how divergent thinking develops during early childhood.

    Vaisarova, J., & Carlson, S. M. (2021). “When a spoon is not a spoon: Examining the role of executive function in young children’s divergent thinking.” Trends in Neuroscience and Education, 25, 100161. In studies of children ages four to six, researchers found that younger children sometimes generated more or more original ideas when objects were unfamiliar to them—a particularly interesting finding when we consider how knowing what something is “supposed” to be may shape what else we imagine it could be.

    Kleibeuker, S. W., De Dreu, C. K. W., & Crone, E. A. (2013). “The development of creative cognition across adolescence: distinct trajectories for insight and divergent thinking.” Developmental Science, 16(1), 2–12. This study reminds us that creativity doesn’t simply disappear as children grow older. Different forms of creative thinking follow different developmental paths.

  • 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.

  • 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.