Hearing the cry

Written by Carolyn Spring
16 January 2020
Hearing the cry

For fifteen years – the most fulfilling and joyous, yet painful of times – I was a foster carer, looking after 22 children in total. I miss it, but I don’t miss the washing, the nappies, or the endless retrieval of half-chewed grapes from the floor.

I looked after one baby for nearly two years: I’ll call her Amber. She was four months old when she arrived, bald as a potato, tiny as a turnip, scrunched up like sweetcorn in her car seat. It was summer, and it was a heatwave, and her infant body stank of sweat and cigarettes and sour milk. But she gazed up at me, stirring from sleep, with Simpson-esque eyes, shooting me a love me, love me, don’t dare not to love me kind of a smile. There was something so desperate about it that I felt compelled not to leave her.

And indeed, she wouldn’t let me. She sat in her seat while I folded laundry. But there was no question of me taking it upstairs, not even for a moment. Not without her. ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ she would scream even as I moved towards the door. ‘Don’t leave me!’ she seemed to be saying. And so she came with me. Every single time.

We were out for the day one weekend, a big road trip of a day, to see turrets and towers at Warwick Castle. The older children had loved it: a mock joust, riding the ramparts, hide-and-seek through the arrow slits. A long day, a good day, a day of juggling primary age with toddlers, and Amber always in a sling by my chest, always skin-tight, always a moment away from ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ This was her survival strategy for life: scream so loudly that no-one would ever forget her, abandon her, or leave her – even for a moment. It was stupendously successful. It was exactly what she needed to do, to feel even just a little bit safe.

Then on the car journey home, disaster on the M6. There was an accident up ahead. The traffic slowed and crawled and eventually shuffled to a halt. For hours in melt-heat we sat, engine-off, in the middle lane, hot children, hot adults, and an Amber who mercifully had slept. Until now. ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ she cried, for milk, as was her wont immediately upon waking. And right at that moment, the traffic started moving.

But oh so slowly. It moved oh so slowly. So terribly, enragingly, unacceptably slowly. We needed to pull over at the next services, the next turn-off, the next lay-by. ‘Does feeding a baby count as a hard shoulder emergency?’ we debated, hearts pounding, to the ear-splitting backdrop of ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’, ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’, ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’

‘It’s coming,’ we all tried in turn to say, to console her. Try a dummy, try an empty bottle, try every manner of distraction technique known to man. But we needed fresh baby milk from the boot, and for that we needed to be stationary, and to be stationary we needed to get off this damned-turgid, why-does-it-hate-me motorway. But we were crawling in slow motion forwards, with a thousand hot and angry drivers swarming like bees up our backside. Everyone else wanted to get off the motorway too.

Maybe it was only a minute, maybe two. It felt like forever. And by the time we were able, safely, to pull over, ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ had become heart-rending sobs bereft of all hope. I could see it in every pore of her body: ‘The milk’s not coming. Nobody cares. I am hunger, and hunger is all that I am. There is no end to my hunger. The world is a too-dangerous place.’

And all the trauma of her early weeks came tumbling out, all the pain and all the distress erupting in that moment – from four months of neglect, and chaos, and abuse at the hands of the oh-so-helpful sex offender who was supporting her mother by babysitting. It was the most soul-searing pain I have ever seen in infant, child or adult.

There was no doubt about what to do. Park up, pick her up, soothe her, hold her, speak kindly to her, tell her it’s all going to be okay, and then ten seconds later the milk is ready and here it is now, here it is, it’s okay, you see, it’s coming, you’ve got it, I’ve got you, you’re safe now, you’re okay, it’s okay, everything’s going to be okay… And she’s too distressed at first to suckle, but eventually, close in to my chest, and with a soothing sway and a soft, gentle voice, and the gazing, deep-deep gazing, of eyes into eyes, the gulps of distress slowly ebb into the world’s most delicious sound, of suck-suck-suck on the bottle, and the raspy, choking breaths begin to settle, even through hiccups, into the growly sighs of relief.

This was a baby, who even at four months had been traumatised beyond what most of us can imagine. She didn’t trust the world. She didn’t trust that beneficence would reign and milk would appear, unless she screamed for it. She didn’t trust that I would stay close, unless she screamed for it. She didn’t know any other way of handling any other feeling, other than to scream for it.

Even now, 18 years later, my heart hurts when I think of her.

And what I did to soothe her was so natural, so automatic – I didn’t need to read a book or go on a training course or study for a qualification to know it. It was instinct. It was normal. She was in distress, and what she needed was for me to stay calm, for me to resolve the source of her distress, and for me to provide a template for her nervous system to copy. The slow breathing, the gentle look, the melodic voice, the rhythmic rock, the skin to skin, the nonsense words said with meaning and truth.

Of course. Of course that’s what we do when a baby is distressed. We hold them, we talk to them, and we resolve the cause of their suffering. We promise them that everything is going to be okay, and they’re safe now, and we’re with them, and we’re not going to leave them, and we stroke their hair or we wipe their cheek or we clasp their fingers and we snuggle and we impart to them with every inch of our being everything we can of safety and love and soft, soothing presence.

At what point, I wonder, did we as adults ‘grow up’ out of that humanness? At what point did we think that we could soothe the distress of a traumatised adult – whose world has suddenly constricted, in flashbacks and memory glitches, back into the danger zone of milk-less-ness, or abandonment, or pain – with mere words, or worst still silence, or a threat to ‘behave’?

With that first explosion of ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ from Amber, I didn’t conduct an assessment. I didn’t whip out my clipboard. I didn’t check that I was operating within my competency, that I was adequately insured. I didn’t glance at the clock, or put out for someone to refer onto. I didn’t say, ‘I don’t deal with this expression of distress.’ I didn’t ask her to calm herself and that I couldn’t work with her until she did so.

Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ she was screaming, because in the way that her brain had interpreted the world up to that point, she needed to. The sense she had made of what had happened to her was that she was reliant on adults, but they were dangerously unreliable. Sometimes they left you all alone, even for hours at a time. Sometimes they hurt you. Very often they forgot to feed you. They didn’t notice you, or hold you, or comfort you. So you had to be loud. You had to be insistent, to maximise your chances of staying alive. Hungry? ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’. Tired? ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’. Lonely? ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ Wet? ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ And better at least than the option of inaction: at four months of age, Baby Amber’s strategy was working. Because at least she was alive.

But it had its limitations. It was a rigid, one-size-fits-all approach. It had one prototype for ‘people’ and they were deemed to be as cruel and neglectful as the first people who populated her primary weeks. It allowed no possibility of change. So there I was, new in her life, with every inch of my vagus nerve wanting to meet her needs, and show her that I cared, and regulate her body with mine. I wanted to feed her when she was hungry, comfort her when she was distressed. I wanted to share her gaze and match to her breath. I wanted to call forth curiosity and playfulness and joy. I wanted all these good things for her. But nonetheless, ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’

‘It’s okay,’ I wanted to plead with her, ‘I’m coming. I’m here.’ Just a few more moments to warm the milk, just let me get sat in a chair, just let me get you straight … but no. She had no patience. She had no tolerance for distress. ‘I’m dying!’ said her cry, and she believed it. ‘I need milk, and if I don’t scream for it now, it won’t come. It won’t ever come. And I will die.’ That was the primitive survival urgency behind every cry. She had learned to trust only in her own volume, and never in the goodness of her caregiver.

So it took a long time, to build that trust. Amber’s birth mum struggled when she saw her. ‘She’s a devil child,’ she used to say to me, exasperated at the senseless screaming froth in front of her. Very often, in the midst of a ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ she would turn away and go on her phone, lose herself in a daze of distraction just to shut it out. She felt helpless to respond to what this screaming-banshee-child wanted from her. I tried – gently – to show her. She couldn’t see it. She couldn’t reflect.

‘She just hates me,’ she lamented, time after time. And sometimes there was such sadness in that statement that my heart broke for her too. But other times rage poured out of her towards her daughter. ‘Shut up!’ she would shout at her, sometimes inches from her face. ‘Shut up!’

She couldn’t mentalise and step out from her own reactions, her own emotions, her own desperate, tragic hurt and lostness, and see that Amber was just trying to survive. It wasn’t personal. I could see what Amber was doing, what she needed, how scared she felt at this uprush of hunger that she had felt so many times previously, that had never been abated. It was, to her as a newborn, a survival crisis. The imprint of that trauma, of hunger, of the absolute lack of milk now and forever more, triggered in her every time her stomach now emptied. Of course she reacted the way she did. She was right to. It was instinctual smarts.

But her mum couldn’t see that. She could see only that her baby hated her, and she pushed away all consciousness of her, too hurt in her own hurt to be able to attend to the hurt of her baby. On one occasion she left Amber, four months and two weeks old, sat upright on a wooden chair, while she went to answer her phone. Not once did she look back. I froze for a moment, not knowing what to do, then sprang forwards to catch the little flopsicle as she toppled into my arms, catching her before she hit hard on the floor. Her mum was oblivious. It wasn’t malicious and it wasn’t intentional. She just couldn’t predict that that would happen. For good reason – though painful reasons, and reasons steeped deep not in blaming or judging but child protection at its best – her next four children were removed at birth.

The baby that was Amber is an adult now. She was adopted at the age of nearly two. I loved her with all my might and we formed a fierce bond as she learned to know me and trust me and believe me when I said, ‘I’m here.’ Adoption, although well-meaning, was another trauma for her to endure: so closely attached to me and then, seven days later, gone forever, never to be held again. Maybe it had to happen. Maybe it was best that it happened. There are no easy answers in the complex world of fostering and adoption.

Amber taught me that trauma is not just an event that we can remember. For certain, she will have no memory of those first four months of life, the sexual abuse, the abandonment, the neglect. It broke me daily to imagine what she had endured. And when she arrived, she didn’t look at me and say, ‘I am an abuse victim. This is what happened to me.’ Of course she didn’t. She had no words, no memories of the explicit kind. But she had implicit memories and beliefs and a strategy for life that was forged in that trauma. ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ as a baby, but ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’as a toddler tantrumming too. I imagine adolescence was another form of ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’, perhaps just involving clothes and music and phones.

She was late walking as an infant because she refused to try to move. She wouldn’t crawl even. ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ she would scream, and various children in our multi-mix household would rush to her assistance, to pass her whatever toy was now out of reach. So she didn’t need to walk. The ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ was all-powerful. Then suddenly one day it suited her to, and she did. Just like that. But then ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ at the stair-gate, or ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ in the bath. ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ whenever she was thwarted, whenever the dread of lack or loneliness surged up through her.

She didn’t know – she couldn’t remember, or verbalise or conceptualise – why decibels were her superpower. She couldn’t say that she didn’t want to be left in the cot because she was afraid you were never coming back. She could explain none of it. But her body knew and remembered everything.

This is how trauma plays out. Unless resolved, its imprint stays within us. Whilst it is acceptable for a baby to ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ with rage, it evokes less sympathy the older we get. By the time we are adults, in therapy or needing to be in therapy, we may have no more words than Amber to explain why we’re reacting the way we are. We are distressed, and the ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ flashes up like lightning through us, in a microsecond: this imprint of trauma because we too were left, or hurt, or unloved. The Baby Amber in each of us still reacts with terror.

There are two responses to the Baby Amber within us. There is the reaction of the foster carer, someone with some skill and understanding, who can mentalise and reflect, who understands trauma, who knows that our behaviours aren’t a personal attack, that they are the echo of trauma, that they had survival value then, even if they are outdated now. This in many cases is the therapist, who in similar ways but different ways offers attunement and presence and the steady, gaze-to-gaze compassion to retrain our nervous systems from a different template.

And then there is the birth mother character, inadequate to meet our needs, perhaps intentionally malicious, but often just wrapped up in her own pain and unable to step beyond it. That is what many of us experienced from our literal birth mothers. But often, too, she is now gone, or at least distant in our life. Instead, we so often play her role ourselves. We look down at the screaming-banshee inner-child within us, our own traumatised equivalent of Baby Amber, and we call it a devil-child. We turn away from it to our phone, with literal or metaphorical numbing, with self-harm or self-abuse or dissociation or medication. We can’t bear to look. We don’t know what to do with it. We don’t know what it wants. We don’t know how to make it stop making that god-awful noise.

The sound of Amber crying would tear through me like a hailstorm of knives. It was, for me at that time, literally the worst sound I could ever imagine. My heart rate jumped and I was moved to action, with an absolute, immediate, frantic imperative. That is the power of attachment, of neurobiological circuits designed to ensure that a mother does not forget her baby. But when the cry is unleashed with such pain, it is beyond painful to hear it. I lived on edge for months, waiting for the next ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ Sometimes I would even wake in the night, from a dream, imagining that I had heard it.

And that itself is a picture of what living with our own inner child can be like: the terror of when it will cry next; what it will do; and like Amber’s mum we can demonise it, leave it unprotected to topple to harm, and walk away. The neglect we would never tolerate to a real live human being we readily accept towards ourselves. How painful. How tragic. How sad.

There are no pat answers here. There is only an awareness of trauma where it is unresolved, every ‘Yiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhrrrr!’ that has gone unheard and unresponded to, and which deserves the driver of your life to pull over onto the hard shoulder if necessary to attend to its needs. Can you do that? Can you reach down, with compassion and care, and lift your traumatised self out of its car seat, out of its lack and unlovedness and pain, and speak kindly to it, feed it, tell it that you’re here now, that everything is going to be okay? Because that perhaps, for some people, might be the first step towards healing.

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Why can’t I just get over my trauma?

‘If I could just get over it, I would,’ I say, and I’m trying not to sound irritated or hurt but I’m not quite sure what emotion my face is displaying and my throat is tight and my fists are clenched and really I’d rather not be here, and neither am I convinced that I’m a good enough actor to hide all of this.


What do you need?

‘How can I help you?’ the therapist asks me. ‘What do you need from me?’
I look at her closely, examining her features, whilst also looking through her, to make sure I don’t connect too closely.
First the fear: Is this a trick? What does she mean? What does she want? Why is she saying this?
Then the shame: What right have I to be helped?
And afterwards, the sadness: No-one has ever offered to help me.

Three emotions in three seconds.


  • Rachael on 16 January 2020 at 3:29 pm

    Immediately going to share this blog post with my therapist, it supplies the explanation of my own inner child’s scream, need and fear of death. My therapist knows this already, but I can’t explain it, words cheat the feelings and feel completely inadequate.
    If I ever doubt that I am overreacting or making up my trauma, I remind myself of the awareness of that scream, the abandonment, the fear, the ‘why does noone understand what I need, I must be doing it wrong’, the feeling of being near death. That can’t be faked or made up, it was a reality.
    As a child, my cry stopped, it just caused more stress for others, which made the ‘I’m going to die’ risk seem worse, but that Dissociated part now screams. Self soothing takes a long while to learn and takes practice. No matter how hard I try, for me there is no replacement for a unconditional hug from a mother. It seems counter-productive to give yourself what a carer should have been able to give. Why should I have to do it? Because I need to learn not to perpetuate the cycle of abuse myself. Self acceptance and self compassion – unfortunately there isn’t an instant version to buy at the supermarket.
    Thanks for the words and the thought process Carolyn.

  • Rubee Nisha on 18 January 2020 at 5:04 pm

    I really feel this blog post in my veins and in my stomach.

  • Sophie on 19 January 2020 at 3:35 pm

    Yet another vital, visceral and brilliant piece of writing Carolyn. Really helps explain that terrible ‘sting’ we can feel when treating people who have experienced trauma. Thank you and great work!

  • Penelope Welch on 19 January 2020 at 3:53 pm

    And so many of us do not even remember the cries only the results now and yet we gave love because it is natural to a child to do so and because we are born with that only ability to wail because we may die if we do not. Such a short period of time that causes years and years of pain and problems for us.

  • Lavender on 19 January 2020 at 4:36 pm

    “We look down at the screaming-banshee inner-child within us, our own traumatised equivalent of Baby Amber, and we call it a devil-child. We turn away from it to our phone, with literal or metaphorical numbing, with self-harm or self-abuse or dissociation or medication. We can’t bear to look. We don’t know what to do with it. We don’t know what it wants. We don’t know how to make it stop making that god-awful noise.”

    And we are too ill & physically weak & in pain in our adult selves to be able to give her what she needs, even when we do know….. So I feel “the terror of when it will cry next; what it will do; and like Amber’s mum we can demonise it, leave it unprotected to topple to harm, and walk away.”

    And the cycle continues. Shit I want to get off this ‘merrygoround’.

    • julia williams Schlegel on 5 April 2020 at 8:54 pm

      Me also. It hurts so bad. But at least I’m not numbing it out much.

  • Clair Wenger on 19 January 2020 at 10:05 pm

    Thank you for writing and sharing this. Thank you for loving and caring for this child so deeply with such attuned and unconditional love. A true inspiration and a soulful practise x

    • julia williams Schlegel on 5 April 2020 at 8:55 pm

      Me also. It hurts so bad. But at least I’m not numbing it out much.

  • Gail Churney-Baum on 20 January 2020 at 9:54 am

    Thank you Carolyn, your words really help to make sense of some of the pain my clients feel and I hope to be able to use your wisdom in future sessions.

  • janet on 21 January 2020 at 2:48 pm

    Thank you Carolyn. Your words reflect the pain of this process with such precision and yet they are so soothing. You are right it is so difficult to reach within ourselves with such care and compassion and even harder to keep doing it time and time again.

  • esme on 25 January 2020 at 5:37 pm

    Carolyn ~ I am new to your site after recommendation and am so glad to have found you. As an adoptive Mum of traumatised children I have done much reading and long term therapy work. This piece will be so helpful in explaining trauma to those who do not ‘get it’.

    “Can you reach down, with compassion and care, and lift your traumatised self out of its car seat, out of its lack and unlovedness and pain, and speak kindly to it, feed it, tell it that you’re here now, that everything is going to be okay?”

    For our family to hold ‘baby Amber’ in our minds whilst trying to reach our children, and have compassion for ourselves as parents, I think will really be beneficial. Thank you so much.

  • Louisa Aspden on 26 January 2020 at 4:05 pm

    This is beautiful and beautifully written. I would like to share on Facebook on my Creative Counselling page. It would help a lot of my clients. Not sure if this is ok with you, or how to do so.
    Thank you so much for writing it.

  • vivienne cracknell on 27 January 2020 at 8:47 pm

    Thank you Carolyn for this beautiful description of how your soul reached the very essence of this tiny child and her longing for love. As a mother and psychotherapist I have always wondered why I feel the pain of childhood abuse so acutely. Your insight probably provides me with the answer.

  • Teri Reisser on 15 October 2020 at 6:51 pm

    This was so hard to read. But necessary. Thank you.

  • Alison Green on 23 November 2020 at 10:59 am

    This is the best description of “inner child” that I have read anywhere. I understood it intellectually before, but never really “got it” and certainly couldn’t “feel it”. Now I can. Thanks, Carolyn.

  • Liz Roberts on 15 January 2021 at 8:16 pm

    I too am new to Carolyn’s work, having been recommended by a psychiatrist friend who is supporting me as I wrestle with my own inner child at the age of 57! All I can say at this point is ‘wow!’ and that I am looking forward to the delivery of 2 of her books tomorrow. ?

  • Laura on 22 February 2021 at 12:05 am

    Learning to.. and even better and more challenging (because we are taught not to yiiiiaaaaarrrrrr) is to listen to our yiaaaaaarrrrrs of pain. Of terror. Of being abused, being raped, not being helped or rescued… I’ve only just begun to let out my yiiiiaaaaarrrrrrs.. to listen to the baby me who is telling me what happened, what he did, how it felt. To the 6yo me telling me the same and crying for a mum who never came, to the 12yo me, still trying and still being ignored and told to shut up and “be easy”… until we let ourselves up out of the darkness of being quiet and stopping screaming and crying, we can’t really feel free and allowed…

  • Sharon Goldberg on 21 August 2023 at 10:23 am

    Explained in a better way than I have seen anywhere else. I could understand baby Amber and now see woman (mainly) who do struggle to get their needs met and are rightly suspicious and scared of sharing their inner most thoughts and feelings. Why am I going to be different from anyone else?
    A very powerful piece. Thankyou.

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