The sight of a backpack, typically associated with adventure or preparedness, can evoke a range of emotions. For most, it signifies excitement about a trip or readiness for a productive day. However, for a child who has experienced the instability of foster care, a backpack can trigger intense fear and anxiety.
When we first packed a backpack for Lily, she had been with us for eight weeks. My parental leave had come to an end, and I needed to prepare her for daycare. Her vibrant, cheerful backpack, which had arrived with her when we moved to Maine, was filled with essentials like clothes, pull-ups, and a Winnie the Pooh blanket for nap time. The moment she saw it, her reaction was immediate and devastating.
Lily’s fear manifested as she frantically unzipped the backpack, scattering clothes everywhere, and threw herself backward, hitting her head on the floor. It was a powerful display of her trauma—an instinctual response shaped by years of instability. At just 32 months old, she lacked the language to express her feelings, making it impossible to reassure her that daycare was just a temporary setting, not a new permanent home.
Months later, we decided on a brief getaway to a hotel in New Hampshire, a break from the long Maine winter. We prepared her in every possible way, emphasizing the temporary nature of our stay, the fun activities, and the fact that we would all be together. However, as we arrived, her anxiety took over. “You’re leaving me here? This is my home?!” she screamed, her fear evident.
Her experiences in foster care had left deep scars; the uncertainty of new people, unfamiliar beds, and strange foods had created a relentless cycle of anxiety. Though she is older now and can comprehend concepts like “two nights” or even “seven,” her anxiety persists.
Traveling has become a complex challenge for us. Unlike my biological children, who associate backpacks with excitement and adventure, Lily’s past has made every outing fraught with stress. Recently, while driving her to meet other mothers and children, she began to spiral into anxiety from the moment we got in the car. Despite my attempts to reassure her with calming words, her emotional state deteriorated as we drove toward the unknown.
For a fleeting moment, while cruising through the beautiful landscape, I felt a glimmer of the joy I once had for travel. Lily sat in the back, seemingly calm as she snacked on Life cereal, her hair flowing in the breeze. But that moment was short-lived. Upon our arrival, she quickly escalated, leading to behaviors that were difficult to manage.
After spending a couple of hours at the gathering, during which Lily had some fun, she suddenly lashed out—swearing and throwing dirt. It was a stark reminder of how quickly things could shift from joy to chaos. As I rushed her back to the car, she unleashed her frustration, calling me names and kicking my seat, leaving me feeling helpless.
I wish I could have navigated that situation better. In hindsight, I should have positioned myself next to her in the backseat to provide comfort, but the intensity of her outburst made that challenging. I long to return to those serene moments when travel felt effortless and joyful instead of a source of anxiety.
My hope is that one day, Lily will associate the sight of a packed backpack or a new green road sign not with dread, but with excitement and anticipation.
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Summary
The emotional impact of a backpack for a foster child can be profound, often evoking fear and anxiety due to past experiences. While attempts to create positive experiences through travel and new activities are essential, the lingering trauma complicates every outing.
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