If you own a television, smart phone, or interact with more than 2 people each day, you probably were unable to escape the political and cultural commentary this week regarding the testimony of Dr. Ford against Judge Kavanaugh.

It has been a difficult week for me to process all the emotions I have experienced in the midst of a hearing so far removed from me. This post is not political, although the events that have spurred my thoughts certainly are.

In my life and my work, I always hope to be an advocate. When people ask me about the type of social work I do and after I explain that I work in Juvenile Detention, the responses I get are always varied:

“Wow, that must be so hard.”

“Are you ever afraid of the kids you work with?”

“I could never work with kids who have charges like that, good for you.”

These responses are all meant to be encouraging, I think, but I have often wondered at times why people react to the kids I work with in this way.

And I think this week, after watching the hearings and the responses on our nation’s stage, I have a little bit of a better understanding.

I strive to see each child who comes into my office as just that, a child. I intentionally tell every child I meet with that we do not ever need to talk about their charges. That does not mean we will not address inappropriate behavior, but it does mean I do not bring up traumatic memories for these kids in a stressful environment if it is not necessary.

I work with the kids that other people are “afraid of” because I passionately believe in the underdog. The kids with violent charges, petty charges, sexual charges, and runaway charges are all worthy of a second chance. I advocate for these children on a daily basis because I believe, with all of my being, that they will succeed if they are able to.

But for some reason, when the situation becomes further removed, I don’t seem to have that same grace for this man being accused of assault. On the one hand, assault is deeply personal. While this hearing is far enough removed that I could shut off MSNBC at any point, it strikes me in the core of my being because I, along with so many that I know and love, have been affected by assault, and it has lasting, traumatic effects for so many.

At times I think that when I assist kiddos in learning perspective taking skills, I use my approach with my memorized questions and responses, without actually considering what the lives of the people affected by my kids’ actions really look like.

Is it possible that I want these kids to feel supported in a stressful environment so badly that I do not allow myself time to process what impact their actions have had on people in the community?

I tell every child that comes into my closet-sized, stuffy office that what is said there stays there, and that I will always believe what they tell me. I tell the kids this because I want them to know that what they think and believe matters to someone enough that they will be believed without questioning.

But when my kids lie to me, and show to me that they did not uphold the expectations, we talk about it. We talk about what went wrong, and what was difficult for them about doing the right thing. We also talk about why it was so hard for them to tell the truth about messing up, and more often than not the reason has something to do with the patterns they have seen the adults in their lives modeled when it comes to falling short. Yelling, substance abuse, physical abuse, not being able to pay bills on time, or not being able to put a roof over their heads.

The thing is, kids and adults have similar reasons for not telling the truth. As Brené Brown explains throughout her research, the feeling of shame is powerful enough to keep people from exposing their true selves, which includes telling the truth about the times we fall short.

So after watching the hearing this week and feeling pain in my stomach, I think I understand more than ever before why people question the work that I do. I am thankful for this new perspective not because it will effect the way I see my kids in any way, but rather I hope it will effect the way I can take my approach with my clients and offer the same grace to the people outside our facility.

As Senator Leahy said this week, “Bravery is contagious.”

Dr. Ford sharing her story is brave. Reliving trauma when you do not owe that to a single person is courageous. Women are victimized daily, and need to be offered support and resources every time they come forward.

Telling the truth is brave. It takes incredible courage to be vulnerable in our shortcomings and own up to our mistakes. And when we do, we still deserve to be treated with dignity and grace.

So this week, I am reminded that the same bravery victims exhibit when coming forward is needed when the kids in my office and the adults across our country own up to their mistakes. Those who commit crimes need just as much grace as those who come forward to say they were hurt.

And while sometimes it feels like telling the truth may be putting everything on the line, having the courage to say “sorry” can be incredibly healing.

So for me, I think being an ordinary advocate this week looks like being kind to myself and others; To my kids, to strangers, and to those who disagree with me. Justice is an incredibly important part of my life, and I will always advocate for the underdog. Victims need to be heard and believed, and perpetrators need to be asked why they are afraid to say sorry.

This week has been draining and emotionally taxing as millions of women relived their trauma alongside Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, yet her bravery has also inspired so many to shake off this idea of shame and come forward with the truth. I pray that all the kids I work with see this week as a reminder to use their perspective-taking skills and see how our actions affect others. I also hope the world has seen the power in sharing the previously shameful parts of our stories in order to advocate for ourselves and others.

When we dare to offer grace to one another, and to ourselves, we put our bravery on display for the world to see. This week, I’m grateful for Dr. Ford’s bravery. What an example you are.

It has been 35 working days in my new position within the walls of the juvenile detention facility. Of course, anyone who has worked in mental health or social services knows that this number only includes the calendar days and not the late night phone calls or Sunday afternoon stops to the facility for emergency assessments.

It has been 35 days working in my new position and today was the day I finally cried in front of my coworkers.

Anyone who knows me in any small capacity knows this is not a rare occurrence or necessarily a significant one. I have recently moved to a new city, started work in a new facility, and have still been trying to find my bearings, both professionally and personally over the last month and a half.

Since the first day I stepped into my small, closet-sized office within the juvenile detention facility, I have been dealing with crisis after crisis. With what we know about skills deficits in youth, we are able to come to the conclusion that it is normal for the same youth to need reoccurring crisis intervention services due to a deficit in the skill set needed to handle these crises on their own throughout their childhood and into adolescence.

With that being said, since my first day I have had several of what I will call “frequent flyers” in my office. These are the kids who need just a little bit more support than others, and while at times they may be frustrating, they often times allow us to build rapport that we as clinicians seek in order to empower the kids we work with.

One of my frequent flyers seemed to need my assistance daily once he figured out that my office was a quiet escape from the loud banging of other residents on their cell doors (and once he saw that I had silly putty to play with, which I completely understand). This kiddo was smaller than much of the larger residents in the facility, but his smaller stature never stopped him from talking big and acting bigger.

This child jokingly would ask for my nice pen every time we stepped into my office. It was a small reminder to me that these kids do not have much of anything when they’re in our facility, not even pens to write to their families on most days. Some kids broke into my office one night and stole most of my pens, and this kid made it a point to promise me that it was not him, and I appreciated that.

The staff seemed to know a bit about this kid from previous incarcerations, and he was definitely described to me as a “trouble kid” from the start.

Me, being the “fixer” that I am, sought out to give this child the grace and attention he was seeking right away. From special plans to come meet with me on his hard days, to incentives for using his coping skills, to letting him have the extra 10 minutes in my office just to talk about his favorite amusement park rides, I sought to pour into this child in a way that said, “I know you’re scared and don’t have what you need to be successful, and I want to help.”

Anyone who is in the “helping” field (or those of us who just fall into helper mode in our personal relationships) can attest to the fact that when we invest our time and care into a person, it can often be hard to set realistic expectations for what the outcome of a process may be.

So after countless break downs, stealing of pens, physical aggression, setting off sprinklers, threatening to kill themselves, and defiance of all rules in our facility, this kid would have been deemed a “bad kid.” However, quiet moments with this child and conversations about small interests reminded me daily that this person who seemed to be out to ruin everyone’s days was still just a child, scared and unsure of the future.

Then a week passed where my client did not have a breakdown. Transition times were quiet and sprinklers did not go off. I passed my kiddo in the halls and he would flash a mildly sarcastic, toothy smile and throw me a big thumbs up. I smiled back and reminded this child that he was working to build skills so that the rest of his life he would be more prepared to face whatever came his way. I felt hopeful.

Eventually this child got the news that while charges were being lessened, home was still not an option. So we sat, and talked, and tried to see the positive in the upcoming transitions. I knew this would be a hard time for this child, so I jumped into helper mode and provided lots of check-ins and extra conversations. In the helping world, we have plenty of resources to assist our kids in times of transition: strengths-based approaches, positive mindsets, and lots of coloring books. And yet sometimes, these approaches just are not enough.

All of these events took place in the first 34 days at my new job, which leads us to today: day 35.

Today is the day this child will move to a placement and, as could be expected, is afraid. This child has already been placed on lockdown due to an increase in extreme behaviors. I go up to the cell and ask how the kiddo is doing. I discuss the events of the last 24 hours: defying staff orders, setting the sprinkler off, and having extra time with peers taken away. The kiddo seems happy to be leaving soon. I have papers for this child to sign, reviewing our time working together. I know its not imperative to get these signed, and while the only pen I have on me to offer this child to sign a safety plan with is my nice, gold, highly coveted pen, I trust that this kiddo and I have built enough trust that after signing the paper through the flap in the cell door, the pen will be handed to me.

I was wrong. My kiddo grabs the pen from my hand immediately after I asked nicely that it not be taken, and starts to dance around the cell while calling me the full list of names that describe my lack of intelligence. I quietly mutter, “Please don’t let this be the note we end on. We have worked so hard together. You know that pen was a gift.” Nothing. Nothing but threats to flush the pen down the cell toilet as I click away in my heels to the superintendent’s office.

I busted through the doors and began to sniffle as I stated, “My nice pen finally got stolen.” And then it hit me. All the emotions, all at once, in my supervisor’s office.

“Why are you crying?” I am asked. I explain that it’s not really about the pen.

“You know you can’t trust them,” I am told.

“I know he likes the attention, but we had built such good rapport and I really felt like he would care enough to not end our time working together that way.”

“Oh no, never let your guard down with these kids, Darcy.”

These are the words spoken to me as I wipe my tears and sniffle upon attempting to compose myself. These people care about these kids, don’t get me wrong. They love these kids. They just did not understand how invested I was and why I would be so heartbroken about a pen. And yet, it felt like so much more of a loss for me.

So today, on day 35, I was reminded that my investment in the lives and hearts of these kids is a strength, and not a weakness.

I was reminded that this investment will often result in tears, and often cause me to question the quality of work that I do with these kids.

I was also reminded to dare to continue to offer my heart to these kids, because sometimes I may be the only person to do so.

My tears dried, and my kid got his pen. We all win.

Day 35.