07/28/2025
I was a new developmental disability support worker. New to the job, new to the place, and especially new to Chris. He lived in what was called a "residential care home" twenty beds, long corridors, big staff teams. It was better than the institution that many had come from.
Chris was tall. Taller than me, and I’m six-one. His presence filled the room. And if I’m honest, I was scared of him. That fear didn’t come from knowing him, because I didn’t. It came from the whispers. The warnings. The sideways glances from staff who said, “Be careful around Chris, he has challenging behavior.”
On my second day, someone gave me advice. “If Chris is going to hit you, get close. Real close. He windmills, you see. And if you’re close, he might still hit you, but it won’t hurt as bad.”
Weeks passed. One day, Chris walked up to me. His arm lifted. I braced for it. I flinched. I ducked. But instead of a blow, I felt his hand, gentle, curious, rub the top of my head. Just a pat. Just a touch.
And I realized something.
He knew.
He knew I was afraid of him. He could feel it before I did. And somehow, in that moment, I think he wanted to tell me I didn’t need to be.
But his reputation still spoke louder than he ever had.
I did see him hit someone, eventually. It was a month in. Down one of those fire-doored hallways, Chris struck a staff person. Then he came barreling toward me. I panicked, dove into the laundry room, hid behind the door.
I was still scared. And still, I didn’t know him.
Later, I found out the staff had asked him the same question another person had already asked. It was a pattern I’d start to notice. Same question, different voice, over and over. His world full of repetition. Of people directing, instructing, poking at his day.
He wasn’t lashing out. He was fed up.
A few days later, I was meant to help Chris and a few others to go swimming. It was a weekly thing. I knocked on his door to let him know.
I barely got the words out before I saw it, his arm, swinging.
And then, clang, the top of my head rang like a bell. He caught me good. I didn't see stars. But I did see a pattern.
Turns out, three other staff had already told him about swimming. Three reminders, three interruptions, three little invasions of his space.
Chris wasn’t reacting to us. He was reacting to the system. To the noise. To the same question, again and again, from people who came and went through his life like a revolving door.
A year later, the home closed.
We were finally doing what we should have done from the beginning: supporting people to move into homes, not buildings, homes. Real homes. Chris and one other man decided to live together. His social worker was nervous. “What about his behavior? What if he hits someone? What if a staff’s alone with him and he lashes out?”
But of course, you know what happened.
He never hit anyone again.
Because Chris was never "challenging." His environment was.
And when that changed, he did too.
Ben
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ID: Image shows a man looking towards to camera with a blank expression. A title reads: A Developmental Disability Didn’t Make Him Dangerous. His Environment Did
