Little Steps

It was a balmy 112-degree August day in the desert when an eight-year-old reluctantly strolled in for the first day of the children’s program. With concerned grandparents hovering around her, this little one quickly made a name tag and quietly took a seat.

Grandma and Grandpa said their goodbyes, and each hugged her. For the next seven hours, Serena never took off the jacket that was zipped all the way up. Despite the heat and resulting sweat, she kept that jacket on. Her hands remained safely tucked in the pockets (unless it was time to eat or draw). It was challenging to make eye contact and nearly impossible to coax even a faint smile. Grandma had warned me that Serena wouldn’t talk the insidious addiction that had gripped her mother. Mom had been in prison over the past year due to drug related offenses. Serena had been to two different therapists over that time yet remained guarded and silent about her thoughts and feelings. Both grandparents were very worried about her.

Not much changed on the second day – jacket on, hands tucked away, very little eye contact, no smiles. While she remained on the periphery of the group, Serena was nevertheless engaged in all the activities. Oscar, age ten, shared his drawing about his parents being in prison. When he started crying and shared, “I miss my parents,” Serena was tearing up as well.

The belated tears were a signal, a powerful reminder that kids grow at their own pace and time. I needed to give her space and treat her with kindness, respect, and love. When we played hide-n-seek tag that afternoon, I noticed that she had unzipped her coat, and I “caught” her smiling.

Little steps.

We were on the floor making collages on the third afternoon. As we were all cutting, pasting, and putting pictures and words on poster boards, I noticed Serena slowly crawling towards me. Once she reached me, she stopped. I smiled and asked if she wanted to talk.

Her beautiful green eyes started to fill with tears, and she quickly crawled to the safe recesses of an unoccupied corner of the room. I emulated her movement, slowly crawling over to be with her. Without hesitation Serena said, “I miss my mommy. My heart hurts.” She crawled into my lap, put her little arms around me, and sobbed. Within a few minutes, the other children and staff joined us in this safe space. At that moment, many realized that they were not alone.

Little steps.

Serena shared with her grandparents on the next day. Instead of sitting in the middle of the circle as her peers had done, Serena walked right toward that unoccupied corner of the room. She motioned to her grandparents and me to join her. As we sat on the floor on pillows, this is what Serena read out loud.

“I love you, Poppy and Ganma. Thanks for taking care of me. I thought it was all my fault. Now I know it is not. I miss mommy so much. I get sad at night. Then I cry in bed. I will always love her. I hope mommy loves me”.

Emotion filled the room. When everyone spontaneously started clapping, a small smile filled Serena’s face. Little steps.

Serena’s grandmother called me six months later. There were many positive developments. Serena was now participating in a weekly support group for kids hurt by addiction in their families. It takes place at their church. Before bedtime, Serena and her grandparents say the Serenity Prayer, as it reminds them what they can and can’t change. Mom is due to be released from prison in six months. Serena wants to invite her to do a children’s program together.

Multiple little steps often turn into one huge stride. One step at a time. One day at a time. Celebrate the journey!