(Photo credit: AI-generated image, via ChatGPT)
When an Atlanta professional stepped into the life of a 14-year-old from a broken home, he discovered not only the power of compassion but a deeper understanding of gratitude, humility, and what it truly means to give back.
At a recent weekend get-together with a few families, conversation drifted, as it often does, to schedules and social plans for the coming week. Someone proposed playing tennis on Thursday evening. I hesitated, then excused myself, explaining that I already had an engagement. “What kind?” someone asked. I mentioned, almost in passing, that I mentor a child and would be spending time with him that evening. I also shared that I volunteer at a local boys’ home in Forsyth County—one that serves boys who cannot live with their parents.
That simple explanation sparked an unexpected flurry of questions. People wanted to know where the home was, what kind of children lived there, how I got involved, and whether it was difficult or emotionally draining. There was curiosity, surprise, and—eventually—encouragement. Many expressed admiration. A few admitted they had never even considered volunteering locally. That conversation stayed with me. It reminded me how little many of us often know about the struggles unfolding quietly in communities around us.
What If These Were My Children?
I live in Cumming, in metro Atlanta, and my volunteering journey began locally in 2019. Long before that, though, the seed had been planted.
My interest in children’s causes was triggered after I became a parent. As I invested time and energy in raising my own children, I became acutely aware of how privileged they were—stable home, consistent schooling, emotional security, and parents deeply invested in their well-being.
At the same time, I am someone who observes the world closely. I read widely, pay attention to my surroundings, and cannot easily look away from stories of children in distress. I came to learn about Bald Ridge Lodge, a group home in Forsyth County for boys aged 12 and older who cannot live with their parents due to abuse, neglect, abandonment, or family instability.
I found myself thinking: What if these were my children? And then, inevitably: What can I actually do to help?
Meeting Nolan and Learning of His Devastating Story
When I first began volunteering at Bald Ridge Lodge, I realized that institutions like them are careful in selecting volunteers and pairing them with their residents, and rightly so. Children who have experienced trauma learn early not to trust easily. They need stable, committed mentors.
Over time, I began mentoring a 14-year-old boy who had recently arrived at the Lodge. I’ll call him Nolan, a fictional name to protect his privacy.
Nolan’s story is not uncommon, but it is devastating. He grew up in a small town in Georgia. His mother left the family when he was five. His father struggled with untreated mental health issues, eventually losing his job. For a period, the family lived out of a car. There was abuse. After months of instability, they moved to a homeless shelter in Cumming. Eventually, the father abandoned the family altogether, and Nolan and his siblings were placed in group homes.
From Awkwardness To First Laughter
Our mentoring relationship began during the COVID lockdowns, which meant video chats. They were, frankly, awkward. Nolan was bored. I was unsure how to engage him through a screen. Conversations stalled. But persistence matters. Gradually, we moved from stiff video calls to in-person meetings at the Lodge.
At first, we simply “hung out.” No agenda. No lectures. The first time I took him out—just for ice cream— something shifted. We laughed. We joked. For a moment, he was simply a teenager being a teenager.
Even then, I could sense his guardedness. Trauma has a way of shaping tone, body language, and trust. Nolan had learned to be careful. He resisted closeness, unsure whether adults would stay.
The staff and administration at the Lodge do an amazing job of taking care of the boys’ day-to-day needs, and the volunteers complement this by providing additional support. Sometimes that means conversation. Sometimes silence. Sometimes, it’s a walk, or a trip to Walmart, or just being a consistent adult who shows up.
Were Our Cultural Differences a Barrier?
People often ask me whether our cultural differences were a barrier. In many ways, they were an ad- vantage. Nolan had never been exposed to Indian immigrants until he came to Cumming. He was not part of the social circles that many Indian American children grow up in. Our relationship was new territory for him— and that novelty created interest. We talked about food, education, discipline, and aspirations. He was curious. He was never uncomfortable with my background.
What struck him most, I think, was how invested Indian parents are in their children. For Nolan, that level of involvement was unfamiliar. He could hardly imagine parents centering their lives so much around their kids. In that way, my culture offered him a glimpse into a different version of family life—one rooted in stability and long-term planning.
At the same time, my heritage was never the defining feature of our relationship. Trust mattered more than culture.
A Moment That Changed Everything
Much later—after months of building rapport— Nolan opened up fully about his past. He spoke in detail about his mother leaving, the abuse, living out of a car, being hungry, being out of school, and eventually arriving at the Lodge.
I remember exactly where we were sitting. It was one of those conversations that alters you. As he spoke, I felt both humbled and overwhelmed. His resilience was extraordinary. His pain was unmistakable.
That moment strengthened my resolve—not only to continue mentoring Nolan, but to do more for children like him. It also forced me to reframe my own problems. So much of what we consider hardship pales in comparison.
When Mentoring Gets Hard
Mentoring is not a feel-good story every day. When Nolan turned 16, he got a job at a local pizza place. With his first paycheck came freedom—and poor decisions. He spent impulsively on things he quickly lost interest in. The Lodge had rules about saving and spending, but enforcement was imperfect.
At first, I hesitated to intervene. I didn’t want to lecture. I wasn’t his parent. But eventually, I confronted him gently about money, choices, and consequences. He was offended. We stopped meeting for several weeks.
When we reconnected, he apologized. But some of his habits persisted. That was a hard lesson for me: mentoring does not mean fixing. Some lessons are learned only through lived experience. You show up. You guide when invited. You accept limits.
What He Gained—and What I Did
Over time, I noticed changes. Staff at the Lodge noticed them too. Nolan became more thoughtful with money. He made better choices. He opened up emotionally. For the first time, he had an adult he could talk to about grief and anger without fear of judgment.
As for me, mentoring changed how I see my community. It forced me to acknowledge that not everyone in my county—despite its affluence—is doing well. It taught me how to build trust with a traumatized teenager. It taught me restraint, patience, and humility.
Most importantly, it reminded me that giving back is not about grand gestures. It’s about presence.
Why Volunteering Matters— Especially for Our Community
Even though many South Asian Americans struggle financially, a large percentage live in pros- perous neighborhoods. That can create emotion- al and psychological distance from local needs. Volunteering bridges that gap.
It also offers unexpected rewards. Studies con- sistently show that volunteering increases happi- ness and life satisfaction. It builds skills, networks, and cultural fluency. For immigrant families, it can be a powerful pathway to deeper integration into American civic life.
And when children see their parents volunteer, they absorb those values. To be of service becomes normalized.
The most common objection I hear is a lack of time. Careers are demanding. Family obligations are real. But the idea that only corporations or wealthy donors are responsible for social good is deeply flawed. Time matters. Presence matters.
Tushar Srivastava lives in the Atlanta Metro area with his wife and two kids. He works for Amazon and likes to play the guitar in his spare time. He has been a children’s mentor at various organizations and local schools since 2020.