Kind Hearts for Kids: An Origin Story by Nicole Mitchell

I leaned forward in my chair, palm pressed against my forehead, eyes squeezed shut against the memory that wouldn't leave me. I see myself staring at the blank piece of paper before me, the writing prompt mocking me: "Create a story where you had to overcome a challenge." At that point in my life, I hadn't overcome anything. I had merely survived.

My stomach clenched as I remembered each new school, each new beginning. How I would sweat and shake nervously, waiting for the inevitable moment when a teacher would announce: "This is Nicole. She moved from _______. Tell us about yourself, Nicole." Followed by silence and hot tears that came so readily, so often, during my childhood.

The Invisible Child

I became the shy, invisible girl—a stark transformation from the child who once got in trouble for talking too much. At school, when birthday treats were passed around, I was often overlooked, truly feeling like I didn’t even exist. (Which likely led to my adulthood obsession with baking and sharing cupcakes!) At home, I taught myself to disappear in a house where my questions went unanswered and my tears dried unacknowledged. My parents often emotionally unreachable. I quickly learned: Do as you’re told. Do not expect comfort. Do not expect protection. I wanted to rebel. I wanted to scream, to break something just to hear the satisfying crash. I often slammed my door in frustration. This endless uprooting, this constant state of starting over, of never belonging anywhere—it was destroying me inside.

The Letters That Saved Me

"You're new," the girl said, the words falling between us not as a question but as recognition. "I know what that's like."

Jenni. The first friend who stayed. Not because my family didn't move again—we did, about a year later, but Jenni wrote letters. Real letters that arrived in envelopes with stamps, telling me about ordinary days, asking about mine, refusing to let distance sever our connection.

I often wonder aloud what might have happened without those letters. What hung in the balance if they had never appeared? If I hadn't finally felt truly seen by someone who cared enough to reach across the miles. Those envelopes arriving in the mailbox with my name—MY NAME—printed on them. Each one proving that belonging isn't always tied to location. Sometimes it lives in people who see you for who you are, even from far away.

When the Wounded Become Healers

Life contains moments that crack a person open, revealing everything vulnerable inside. For me, it came while sitting with a student as a special education paraprofessional, listening to story after story pour out of a child who just wanted—needed—someone to hear her. I knew that heartache all too well, so I did exactly what no one had done for me: I listened.

With each passing day, each shared confidence, something shifted inside me. Every step took me further from the wounded child I had been and closer to a decision that would change everything. What if the very experiences that had left me feeling so desperately alone could become a bridge to hundreds of children? What if my story didn't conclude with loss but with creation?

The journey from that constantly moving child, to Nicole Mitchell: Founder of Kind Hearts for Kids, followed no straight path. Doubt ambushed me at every turn, constantly whispering to myself: I can't do this. I don't know how. Who do I think I am? These thoughts still float around in my head.

Building a Safe Place

Kind Hearts for Kids began at my kitchen table, a humble origin serving just a handful of children. Today, the organization reaches over five hundred annually, with ambitious plans to expand our Kind Hearts family. We now have our own dedicated space—the Kind-Nest—where birthday parties happen for children who might not otherwise get to celebrate, where holiday events bring joy to those acquainted mainly with disappointment, where therapeutic art sessions help young hearts express what words cannot. Through all the growth, our fundamental purpose remains unchanged: creating a safe haven where children who have known too much instability can finally put down roots, where those who have felt rejection can find acceptance without condition.

Sometimes, after an event, I walk through the Nest when the children and volunteers have gone. My eyes looking over half-completed art projects, I straighten toys left on the floor, and in these moments, my mind drifts to the little girl I once was. The child who stopped unpacking her Barbies, her Strawberry Shortcake dolls, her beloved Archie comic books, knowing from past experience they would soon be packed away again.

If I could reach back through time, I would tell that little girl that one day, she would help build something permanent. Something that wouldn't be packed into boxes and carried away. Something that would not only help the children but be healing to her. That the very wounds that made her childhood so painful would become the wellspring from which she could offer healing to others. And in that profound truth lies both the origin of Kind Hearts and its continuing purpose—a purpose as solid and enduring as the foundation I never had as a child, yet somehow found the strength to dream of and the courage to build for others.

Finding My Voice

As Kind Hearts has grown, so too have the opportunities to share our story. I now find myself invited to speak on the radio, local tv, at fundraisers and more. Each invitation leaves me with a familiar tightness in my chest—that same constriction I felt as a child when a teacher called on me to introduce myself. The irony isn't lost on me. After creating a safe space where children can find their voices, I still struggle to fully claim my own. Standing before a crowd, microphone in hand, I feel like that small girl again—terrified of being seen, of taking up space, of being judged and falling short of expectations. It's a peculiar fear that doesn't entirely make sense. I can speak passionately one-on-one about our mission. I can advocate fiercely for the children we serve. Yet something about formally addressing a room full of people awakens old ghosts, old patterns of wanting to disappear. Perhaps it's because speaking publicly means claiming my story completely—owning not just the triumph of creation but the painful journey that preceded it. Or maybe it's the lingering fear that if people truly see me, they might walk away, just as I was forced to walk away from every connection I made as a child. Whatever the reason, I'm learning to breathe through it, to stand in that discomfort, after all growth rarely happens in comfortable places.