Скачать или смотреть Part 3- Conclusion: Circle of Wounds

Monday’s Mindful Moments are an invitation to contemplate the human journey of life with me. My wish is that these writings ignite a spark of thoughtful intention as you welcome this new week. With all my love & gratitude, Chelsea


I think back to this memory now. The car incident almost 30 years later. I think of cancel culture and what a behavior like this would mean today. I don't dare run through the what-ifs.





Instead, I move towards the impulsivity of an underdeveloped brain. The prefrontal cortex is the part of the brain that assists with the pros and cons of decision-making. I think about how this part of the brain does not reach full maturity until the age of 25 years old. I think of young, dumb kids navigating this world with the underdeveloped part of brain that helps with things like planning, prioritizing, and making intelligent choices.


I think about parents and how we spend our lives trying to protect our children, running the tape through, accessing this part of the brain repeatedly. I appreciate how beautiful it is witness a child’s developmental growth. I send my gratitude to every adult who helps strengthen this part of the brain through their patience, mentoring and connection.


I think of the kids less lucky. The ones who don’t have supportive adults assisting them with running the tape through and how painful it is to see the lifelong consequences of a lack of awareness, impulsivity and the double risk of untreated developmental wounds and trauma that compounds these already vulnerable developing brains.


It reminds me of my time working with severely emotionally gang kids in a lockdown facility where the culture and dynamics of the environment reinforced what was okay and what was not okay. I remember my job as a Therapeutic Behavioral Specialist in my 20s. Fresh out of college, thin, cute with platinum blonde hair and straight Betty Paige bangs. Young, often wearing Creeper shoes, a studded belt, black pants and a nice shirt tucked in. 5’8 and all of 123 lbs. Cute and professional enough given my job in a locked down facility working directly with severely emotionally disturbed, abused, gang kids recently let out of juvenile hall.


This facility was split. Half the ward had girls and the other half had boys. In the middle between all the locked doors was a cafeteria where the boys and girls ate at different times. Each ward had a few padded rooms designated for kids who had been restrained for being dangerous to themselves or others and each had hall had a designated as a classroom. Outside was a basketball court contained by a chain linked fence with barb wire. This was the court where I would learn to play sports often getting pelted in the face with a ball. It hurt but I didn’t care. Sports was a shortcut to connection and being tough was necessary if I had a chance at making any difference in my new role.


I recall my first day at this job. I introduced myself to the kid who I’d hardly describe as a kid since he was over 6 feet tall and looked more like a man. “Hello, I’m Chelsea and I will be helping you.” He replied instantly with a smile and these words. “Great! You can start helping me by getting on your knees and sucking my dick.” The group of boys that surrounded him burst out laughing.


And though I was terrified on the inside, I too was quick witted. “Well,” I said, “That isn’t the type of help they pay me for but it’s a pleasure to meet you.” My brain was flooded with fear that I’d be attacked or raped. But the fear was outweighed with determination and that is what kept me showing up day after day. I had no idea how to be a Therapeutic Behavioral Specialist but I knew what it was like to be a pissed off kid.


I witnessed the raw behaviors of these teens I directly worked day after day. One kid I worked with would smear his own feces on the classroom door to avoid going to school. A girl who I worked with would piss off the other kids with her obnoxious off handed comments and was once stabbed with a pencil by another kid. I was sitting next her trying to get her to knock off the s**t talking when that happened. Needless to say the pencil stab put an end to that. I can recall fights randomly breaking out and kids being carried off by staff into padded rooms where they would yell and scream and throw themselves into the walls.


I remember the cafeteria where the choice was some sort of awful hot entree or 2 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. One of the boys I worked with ate 6 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches everyday, two for each meal. He was too paranoid to eat any other food and I can’t say I could blame him.


I recall the countless files I read specific to each kid I was assigned to. The worst kids where the ones who got someone like me to work one-on-one with them. These were the kids that risked going back to juvenile hall if they failed placement here. I eventually stopped reading these files. They were all the same with some sort of abu...