Before she was even a teenager, Helen had begun to sneak out of the house at night, too. At first, she wanted to know what the world had looked like to her brother just before he died, but then she kept doing it because it felt like getting away, at least for a while. Her father was not arguing for a fresh start somewhere else. Her mother was not crying, refusing to leave her memories of her youngest child—and the marks she had made on the kitchen doorway as he had grown taller—behind. During the day, Helen walked down the halls at school where she earned good grades with a smile—her parents needed her to be “the strong one,” and she was. In the dark of night, though, Helen could walk for blocks and blocks, and as she moved in and out of the cones of yellow light from the streetlamps, there was no one to be strong for, no one to save.
Back from her work around the world, Helen drove her rental car down those same streets, unsure of what she hated more about her neighborhood: the fact that the houses were all supposed to look alike or the feeling that hers never had seemed like the rest. Next, she went to her father’s office where she packed his personal items into a cardboard box, among them an empty water bottle stashed suspiciously in the bottom desk drawer. When she unscrewed the top and put her nose to it, it smelled of alcohol. Helen felt like drinking, too, as she sat back and swiveled side to side in her father’s desk chair and eyed the hundreds of files stacked haphazardly in chairs around the room. On her way out, Helen politely thanked her father’s colleagues as they fumbled with awkward condolences, and with congratulations, too, about her many good works: “Your father was so proud of you. He talked about you all the time, you know.” Helen did know. She was, and had always been, living proof that her family was all right.
In a flash, Helen had a new job near her hometown, this time as a fund-raiser for a presidential campaign. There was work that needed to be done right here in the United States, she reasoned; besides, her mother needed her, too. At the office, friendly, impassioned calls with donors were interspersed with weepy calls from her mother: her house—the one she vowed never to leave—might go into foreclosure. It was on a day like this one that she made her way to my office and told me her story.
“I’ve never said all this to anyone before,” Helen confided as tears rolled in steady tracks down her cheeks. “Some people know some of it, but no one knows all of it. People look at me and they see all these great things I have done—and they are sort of astonished when they find something out about my family but no one really knows me. I don’t think anyone has ever really known me. It’s lonely.”
Helen sat silent for a long while, folding and unfolding a tissue.
“I’m so tired,” she continued. “I feel embarrassed to say that, to be sitting here crying, when I think about all the people in the world who have had it so much harder than I have. It’s like I don’t have the right to be as worn out or as sad as I am. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sometimes I feel like I don’t fit anywhere, like there isn’t a word for . . . whatever I am. I just have this feeling that I’m not like other people,” she concluded. “That I’m not normal.”
When I asked Helen if she had ever thought of herself as resilient, she was more taken aback than confused. Her answer was swift and firm: “No.”
“If I was resilient,” she went on to explain matter-of-factly, as if I was the one who was mistaken, “I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t need to talk to someone like you.”
Then, with impeccable timing, Helen glanced at her watch and interrupted herself to say, “Our time is up. I’ll see you next week.” She wiped the tears from her face and walked out the door, off to race back to her car.
***
Helen is a marvel. Whether she was making it through her childhood or to my office that first day, she overcame hardships, both big and small. The loss of her brother. Her parents’ grief. Her father’s death. International injustice. A flat tire. Helen leapt into action no matter what. Strong and determined, compassionate and brave, she was a hero to her family, and maybe to some others, too. Tirelessly, it seemed, she came to the rescue of those who needed her and she stood up for strangers around the globe. To those who knew her, Helen was a wonder, and maybe few would have guessed that, behind closed doors, she felt exhausted and different and alone.
But Helen was not as different from other people as she imagined. What follows are the most common adversities that children and teens wake up to every day. If you are wondering if you might have been one of those children or teens, ask yourself the following questions. Before the age of twenty:
• Did you lose a parent or sibling through death or divorce?
• Did a parent or sibling often swear at you, put you down, humiliate you, isolate you, or act in a way that made you feel afraid?
• Did you live with a parent or sibling who was a problem drinker, or who abused other drugs?
• Were you ever bullied by, or afraid of, kids at school or in your neighborhood?
• Did you live with an adult or sibling who struggled with a mental illness, or some other serious illness or special need?
• Did a parent or a sibling often push, grab, slap, or throw something at you, or ever hit you so hard that you had bruises, marks, or other injuries?
• Did you live in a home where you went without clean clothes or enough to eat, you could not afford a doctor, or you felt you had no one to protect you?
• Did someone in your household go to jail?
• Did a parent, sibling, or another person at least five years older touch your body in a sexual way or ask you to do something similar?
• Was a parent or sibling in your household sometimes hit, kicked, or slapped, or ever threatened with a weapon?
If you answered yes to one or more of these questions—or if you lived with an adversity not mentioned just above—you are not the only one. Considered individually, each of these experiences may affect only a minority of the population, but considered together under the umbrella of childhood adversity, multiple studies in the United States and around the world suggest that up to 75 percent of children and teens are exposed to one of these events—or more—as one problem may lead to another and another. Yet, as we all know, many young people, like Helen—and maybe like yourself—grow up and do well in the world, not just in spite of the difficulties they have known, but maybe even because of them. Social scientists call men and women like these “resilient.”
According to the American Psychological Association, resilience is adapting well in the face of adversity, trauma, tragedy, or significant ongoing stressors. Researchers say it is unexpected competence despite significant risks; it is achieving success despite serious challenges. No matter how exactly one chooses to phrase it, resilience is doing better than one might expect; it is making good when much has been bad. Certainly, after all she had been through, Helen had made good. She had adapted well, and she was more competent and successful than many may have predicted. So why, then, did Helen not think of herself as resilient?
The problem is that, colloquially, we talk about resilience in deceptively simple terms. We say people who are resilient “bounce back.” They “rebound.” And if we look in the dictionary, we see resilience defined as elasticity, as the ability to recover quickly and easily, to return to one’s original state after an illness or misfortune or shock. There are all sorts of situations for which this kind of springy definition makes sense, such as when we rebound from having the flu or we bounce back from losing a job. But none of these popular descriptions matches what goes on inside those like Helen, most of whom do not recover quickly or return to their original state, but are forever changed by their early experiences. When it comes to overcoming childhood adversity, resilience is no snap.
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