A Broken Spirit Finds a Chance at Love.705
Lenore pressed her face against the wall, refusing to move, refusing even to meet anyone’s eyes. She had spent over a decade in the same small, crowded pen, largely ignored, forgotten among other neglected dogs. There was no blanket to shield her from the cold nights, no gentle voice to soothe her fear. Only scraps of food, water too often empty, and the relentless ache of loneliness.
Over the years, her body grew weak. Her ribs pressed against her thin skin, now thickened and raw from neglect. Her ears were filled with painful infections, yet no one had cared enough to notice. Her spirit, once perhaps playful and full of hope, slowly slipped away, day by day, under the shadow of abandonment.
When rescuers finally arrived, she did not greet them with wagging tails or tentative curiosity. Instead, she trembled violently, pressing herself into the corner, as if she could disappear entirely. Every noise made her flinch. Every gentle hand reached toward her seemed like a threat. It was clear she had learned to expect only pain, fear, and neglect.
They carried her from the pen, carefully wrapping her fragile body to prevent further pain. Yet, even in the vehicle, she cowered, her trembling growing more intense with each mile. She seemed too broken to believe that anyone could offer kindness. She had lived long enough to expect the worst from the world, and trust felt impossible.
At the shelter, she was given food, water, and medical care, but she did not eat immediately. She sat in her crate, head low, eyes wary, trembling with a mixture of fear and disbelief. Volunteers spoke softly, offering comfort without forcing interaction. Step by step, they began to earn her tentative trust, but progress was slow. Lenore was not just scared—she was traumatized. The years of neglect had left deep scars, not only on her body but on her very soul.
Night after night, they found her curled up on her blanket, still shaking, yet somehow still alive. She began to look at them occasionally, hesitant glances that spoke of a flicker of curiosity, of a hope that maybe, just maybe, she could experience safety and love. Every small movement toward trust was a victory. Every blink that did not hide her from the world was a tiny step toward healing.
Lenore’s story is one of resilience born of suffering. She may have been broken, but she still clung to life, quietly, silently, waiting for someone to prove that the world could be kind. And as long as there is someone willing to offer patience, gentle hands, and unwavering care, there is hope that her spirit, once crushed, can learn to dance again.
Lenore’s eyes still dart nervously, still hide behind the shadows of her past—but for the first time in over a decade, she has a chance. A chance to feel safe, a chance to be loved, a chance to trust again. And slowly, she begins to understand that not everyone will abandon her.
When a Child’s Trauma Shows Up at the Dinner Table.833
Tonight, something small and simple reminded me just how much my son has endured in his short life.
It has been two and a half years since he came to live with us. He is nine now, though sometimes his laughter is so full and childlike that it’s easy to forget the heavy shadows he once carried. As he walked over to the table with some food in his hands, I casually asked what he was up to.
“I was hungry, so I made food for myself,” he replied.
At first, I thought nothing of it. But when I looked closer, my heart ached. The food was raw.
“I can cook that for you—it’s really easy,” I offered gently.
He shook his head. “I just wanted to eat something I used to have with my old family.”
Those words stopped me cold.
So I sat down with him, choosing not to correct or lecture, but to listen. And in that moment, he began to share a piece of his story that still lingers deep inside him.
At just six years old, before he came into our care, he was already acting like a parent. His younger siblings were only two years old and four months old at the time, and he was the one trying to feed them. His parents rarely fed him, and even when they did, it was never enough. Most of their money went to cigarettes and other things, while their children searched for scraps.
He told me how he would scavenge the back of their van for coins. Alone, with his tiny hands clutching what little change he could find, he would walk to the store. His purchase was always the same: packets of ramen. He didn’t know how to cook them. So he’d crunch the noodles into small pieces, pour in the dry seasoning, and eat them just like that.
But here’s what broke me—he didn’t keep it for himself. He shared. He divided those dry noodles into pieces, making sure his baby siblings had enough. He even tried to prepare bottles for the infant, though he was just a child himself.
At six years old, he wasn’t just surviving—he was protecting. He was carrying a weight no child should ever have to bear.
As he told me this, I asked if he would show me how he used to make it. His eyes lit up a little. Together, we sat at the table breaking noodles, sprinkling the seasoning, eating it just the way he used to. He laughed when I struggled, teasing me that I wasn’t doing it right. And then he remembered something—how, the very first time I ever made ramen for him after he came into our home, he refused to eat it.
“I couldn’t trust you back then,” he admitted softly.
Such heavy words for a nine-year-old, but they carried truth. Trust doesn’t come automatically for kids from hard places. Love doesn’t erase trauma overnight.
But now? Now, he knows love. He knows safety. He knows what it feels like to be home.
I share this because too often we think adoption or fostering “fixes” everything. But trauma doesn’t vanish. It lingers—in memories, in habits, in the ways our kids see the world. Kids from difficult backgrounds aren’t “difficult children.” They are survivors. They’ve learned to adapt, to endure, to protect themselves and those they love in impossible situations.
And when those same kids are finally given love, patience, and understanding, they don’t just heal. They transform.
Tonight, I walked away from that table with so many emotions—sadness for what he lived through, admiration for his strength, and most of all, pride. Immense pride that my son, after everything, still carries so much love in his heart.
To anyone working with or raising children from hard places, my advice is this: be willing to sit on the floor. Be willing to eat uncooked noodles. Be willing to step into their world without judgment. Because our kids have already done those things. They’ve lived it. They need us not to fix their past, but to honor it, and to walk with them into a safer future.
