Tam sat in the corner of the classroom, wide-eyed and restless. It was her first day. The room buzzed with chaotic energy—girls talking, laughing, making cruel jokes, poking and prodding one another just to see how far they could push things. Tam didn’t know anyone. She didn’t know who was safe or who she could trust. She was alone and in shock.

Tam’s life was a long list of “un’s”: unsafe, unpredictable, unimaginable, and unsustainable. She knew little about her parents—just that her father left before she was born, and her mother was addicted to drugs. During her childhood and early teens, Tam bounced from extended family to acquaintances to foster care. She didn’t belong anywhere or to anyone. She had dropped out of school around sixth grade.

With all that instability, Tam never found her footing. She didn’t develop friendships, routines, structure, or a sense of self-worth. What she did develop was a cloudy understanding of how to survive. With no proper guidance, she trusted the wrong people and ended up in dangerous situations. After several stints in juvenile detention for various charges, she landed here.

That week, I brought a special guest with me—a tiny puppy named Tang. He and his siblings were staying at a local shelter, waiting to be adopted. Today’s visit was part of his socialization, and a chance for the girls to love on a sweet little pup.

As soon as we walked in, the room erupted in “oohs” and “awws.” The girls always looked forward to seeing Remi, our regular therapy dog, but this was something extra special. Tang was tiny, shy, and uncertain of his surroundings. The girls made a safety circle on the floor, and we let him wander from one girl to the next.

As they giggled and cuddled him, I scanned the room. There are always a few girls on the outskirts, watching. Some are unsure how they feel about dogs. Others just aren't in the mood. Most often, it's the newest arrivals.

I noticed Tam right away. She was clearly uncomfortable, awkward, and unsure of what to do with herself—drifting around the edge of the group, watching intently.

I began sharing Tang’s story—how he didn’t have a forever home yet. I asked the girls how they thought he might feel.

“Sad,” they said.

“Lonely.”

“Scared.”

Then I asked, “What do you think he’s feeling right now, here with all of you?”

There was a moment of silence. Then a voice, quiet and unexpected:

“Hope.”

I looked up. It was Tam.

I gently asked her why she said that. She stumbled over her words a bit but said she thought being with people who cared—even just for a while—gave Tang hope. That maybe things wouldn’t always be bad. That even if people didn’t know exactly how to love him, they were trying, and that mattered.

Tam was hesitant to hold him at first, but when she finally did, something inside her softened—maybe even broke open. She turned away so the other girls wouldn’t see her tears. Tang stayed still in her arms, quiet and calm.

I distracted the group with a clean-up task and moved to stand beside her.

“He’s so little,” she whispered. “It’s not okay for him to be alone. Why does he trust me?”

“Maybe,” I said softly, “he knows you understand.”

She nodded. We stood there quietly together in that moment.

Over the next few weeks, Tam began to open up and share pieces of her story with me. Then one day, she was gone.

I don’t know where she went. But I choose to trust that God had her there for such a time as this.