Getting to Eye Level: Meeting Children and Families Where They Are

By Molly Lien, MS III (2025 Trip)

University of South Dakota, Sanford School of Medicine

I arrived at Give Kids the World Village eager to serve and curious to learn. As a third-year medical student, I hoped to better understand the daily lives of children with complex medical needs and their families. What I didn’t anticipate was how profoundly this experience would shift my perspective - not just as a future physician, but as a person.

One of the first lessons I learned came in Café Clayton, where I volunteered during my first shift. I had been told that offering to carry families’ trays was a job for someone extroverted, someone willing to walk up to strangers, introduce themselves, and offer help. But I quickly realized that help is not always easily accepted. Parents, who were often juggling strollers, wheelchairs, and plates of food, would decline my assistance time and again. At first, I was confused. I could see they were struggling, and I was right there, willing to help.

It wasn’t until I spoke with a father who had finally accepted my offer, albeit reluctantly, that I began to understand. “I’m just not used to people helping,” he said. “It’s really hard for me to let someone do something for me.” His words struck a chord. I realized that these families were carrying far more than trays. They were carrying the weight of years of hospitalizations, uncertainty, and self-reliance. Accepting help wasn’t just about logistics. It was about vulnerability. From that point on, I kept offering, even when I expected a “no,” hoping to break the cycle of resistance, one small act of service at a time.

I began to approach children differently, too. I found that when I knelt down to their level, looked them in the eyes, and asked their name, they were far more likely to engage with me. One moment I’ll never forget was with a little boy who seemed hesitant and withdrawn. As we moved down the food line, I offered him different options without much reaction until I said, “Would you like some pudding?” His eyes lit up. “PUDDING?! I LOVE PUDDING!” he shouted, and we both burst into laughter. That moment stays with me and reminds how joy can be sparked in the smallest, most unexpected ways when you meet a child with curiosity and openness.

Over the week, I worked a variety of shifts, from the salad bar and poolside snack shack to the Castle of Dreams and the breakfast delivery cart. Each role gave me a different view into the lives of these families, and each interaction taught me something new about trust and presence. At the Castle of Dreams, I had the honor of helping children find their “Wish Pillow,” a magical scavenger hunt led by Buttons the Squirrel. Crawling under tables and peeking behind doors with one little boy, I realized how important it is to enter a child’s world rather than asking them to enter ours.

One of the most poignant moments came during my shift at the pool. I watched a mother gently sway in the water with her daughter, who was nonverbal and in a wheelchair. The child’s head rested against her mother’s shoulder. The mother’s eyes were closed, savoring every second. In that moment, there was no illness. There was just love. It felt like I was witnessing a sacred exchange, a pause in time between a mother and her child. I couldn’t help but think that this might be one of the last vacations they have together. And yet, there they were—just being, just loving.

Earlier in the week, I remember being preoccupied with wondering what diagnoses these children had. As someone who has spent years studying diseases, symptoms, and syndromes, I was naturally curious. But by the end of the trip, I no longer saw diagnoses. I just saw kids. Kids who wanted to swim, laugh, eat pudding, and play with their siblings. Kids who deserved to be seen not for their conditions, but for who they are.

Throughout the trip, I had deep conversations with parents, some of whom shared how isolating and exhausting it can be to care for a medically complex child. I started asking them, “If I were your child’s doctor, what could I do or say to support you best?” Most were taken aback at first, but the answers were often the same: be kind, listen, and understand that they know their child better than anyone else. That last one really stayed with me. As physicians, we are taught that we are the experts in medicine, but these parents are the experts in their children. We have to build partnerships rooted in mutual respect, not hierarchy.

Give Kids the World Village is a place where families can exhale. Accessibility is woven into every detail, from wheelchair-height counters to rideable trains with no stairs. One mother told one of my fellow students, “I’m used to my child navigating through my world. But this week, I got to navigate through hers.” Her words broke something open in me. Even in healthcare settings—especially in healthcare settings—we often fall short of making our spaces inclusive and affirming. I saw firsthand how thoughtful design can create enormous relief for families who are used to struggling through everyday tasks.

I came to this trip hoping to give back, but I left with so much more. I learned how to meet families where they are, sometimes physically by kneeling beside a child or walking slowly alongside a parent, and sometimes emotionally by simply offering a listening ear or a gentle smile. I learned that trust takes time and presence. Healing can begin even in the most unlikely of places—a pool, a snack shack, a castle full of stars.

Most of all, I learned that the best medicine starts with seeing people fully. Not just their charts, not just their conditions, but their humanity. I hope to carry this lesson with me as I move forward in medicine. If I can remember to get down to eye level, to offer help even when it’s hard to accept, and to honor the stories behind each patient, I know I’ll be the kind of physician I’ve always hoped to become.