A young infant cries, because that is almost all they know to do. An attentive parent says, “Oh, so tired!” and picks her up. The infant quickly settles.
Another infant waits for his mother’s gaze. When caught, he smiles; she smiles back.
A toddler is playing in a new and strange waiting room, sees a curious object across the room and looks pensively at her father. He says, “It’s okay.” She gathers herself and proceeds to the object, assured that her father still watches.
Leaving my office, a preverbal two-year old cries “broke!” because the head of his lollipop fell off. His mother, rushing to leave, says, “Forget the lollipop. Let’s go! There’s another one in the car.” The boy stays, absorbed in the tragedy. She threatens to leave him and walks towards the exit. He cries harder, “Broke, broke!” I say, “Oh no! The lollipop broke?!” He says “yeah” despondently, settles, moves on.
A verbal toddler watches traffic pass by, while I converse with my friend. He sees a truck, points and says, “truck.” My friend ignores him to continue our conversation. Growing agitated, he insists louder and louder, “truck, Truck, TRUCK!” Without missing a beat, my friend turns to him, says, “Truck!” and returns to our conversation. He settles; resumes his watch.
A preschool child yells, “I hate class! I don’t want to go! You can’t make me!” Her father asks, “Are you nervous about going to class?” The child looks down, settles comforted, waits.
A colleague shares her pain in our secondary trauma support group. The rest of us sit in silence, allowing our full presence to hold her pain among us, restraining our urge to make it better, fix it or hurry it away.
A new patient leaves me a voice message angry that I suggested an exposure exercise for homework. She has just read a news story in which another trauma expert derided exposure therapies. When she comes for therapy, I explain how the exercise is different in a way that satisfies her. I see the fractal of her infant self crying, desperate, and tell her, "Right now, I hear you also saying, 'I’m scared to start therapy and face my traumas, and I am not sure I trust you yet.'" She tears, breathes and settles, telling me how afraid she felt the night she called.
The need to be known is universal and devastating when denied. It’s rooted in an infant’s cry and flourishes into thou and I.