I’m not a survivor of intimate partner violence, but I’ve worked closely with women and families who are. In my work with HomeSafe and now The Arc of Palm Beach County, I’ve sat across from caregivers during intakes who’ve quietly disclosed they were escaping abuse. Sometimes it’s said directly, sometimes it’s hinted at but the signs are always there. Those moments have left a deep impact on me and pushed me to keep learning how to show up better, advocate stronger, and support more intentionally. As a Developmental Specialist, I work with families of young children many who are under intense stress, navigating trauma, or starting over in new environments. My job focuses on early intervention, but often, what’s affecting a child’s development isn’t just speech or fine motor delays it’s what’s happening at home. I’ve had parents break down crying during sessions, sharing that they left a violent situation or are still in one but don’t know what to do. I’ve learned how to listen, how to validate, and how to refer them to the right resources. But those moments also remind me that I want to do more I not just react to crises, but help change the systems that fail these families in the first place. That’s why I’m getting my Master of Social Work. I want to keep doing this work, but on a deeper level. My education is teaching me how to understand trauma, how to approach these conversations with cultural humility, and how to design programs and policies that actually meet people where they are. I want to use my degree to advocate for families long before they’re in crisis, and to make sure services are accessible, especially for immigrant and underserved communities who are often left out or misjudged. I believe education can help reduce intimate partner violence in more ways than one. When survivors have access to education, it gives them more options whether that’s financial independence, access to therapy, or just the confidence to believe in a better future. And when professionals like me are educated, trained, and culturally aware, we’re better equipped to notice the signs, hold space for people’s stories, and respond in a way that’s empowering I not retraumatizing. I don’t take this work lightly. Every family I’ve worked with has taught me something about strength, survival, and the courage it takes to ask for help. I plan to keep doing this work, and this scholarship would help me stay focused on that goal. I want to be part of a generation of social workers who not only show up with heart, but with real tools to back it up. And I want every survivor I meet to know they don’t have to go through it alone.

I am currently pursuing my Master of Social Work at Florida State University, and receiving this scholarship would not only support my academic success, but it would also help propel a mission I’ve carried since the day I stepped foot in the United States. I immigrated from Haiti at the age of 14, shortly after the devastating 2010 earthquake. My mother and I survived the physical disaster, but we carried emotional scars no one could see. In the years following our arrival, my mother began to experience symptoms of PTSD, and I battled silent depression and survivor’s guilt. At the time, there was no language for this in our household. Mental illness, especially in Haitian communities, was taboo. We were taught to pray through pain, not speak it aloud. But I knew deep down that silence was not the answer. This early experience with unspoken trauma lit a quiet fire in me. I pursued an undergraduate degree in Psychology, and later worked at a nonprofit serving children and families impacted by abuse and trauma. During that time, I encountered more and more immigrant families, many from Haiti or Latin America, who had crossed borders to escape poverty, violence, and instability. These families needed culturally and linguistically appropriate mental health care. But the resources just weren’t there. I remember breaking down one night after listening to a young Haitian mother share her story in tears. That moment changed me. I realized I had to go back to school, not just to help, but to lead the creation of the resources I’d spent years searching for. That decision brought me to the MSW program at FSU. I’m now two semesters away from graduation. I work full-time during the day, attend class in the evenings, and co-lead a grassroots virtual community center I co-founded called Lakou Lokal. Our mission is to provide culturally responsive, spiritually grounded mental health education and resources to Black and immigrant communities. We create bilingual tools in Haitian Creole and English, run workshops for parents and young adults, and host conversations about mental health, identity, and healing. And we do it all while navigating tight budgets, full schedules, and the many barriers that come with being low-income graduate students. This scholarship would provide critical relief during a time when every dollar counts. But more importantly, it would allow me to direct more energy into Lakou Lokal and complete my degree without the looming weight of financial strain. My goal is to expand Lakou Lokal into a physical community center, one that offers trauma-informed counseling, family support, and wellness programming grounded in both clinical knowledge and cultural understanding. I believe the future of mental health care must be intersectional and inclusive. That means more than simply translating therapy into another language; it means creating systems that understand cultural context, intergenerational trauma, faith, and identity. My education is equipping me with the skills to do this work well, but scholarships like this are what make it possible for me to stay in the fight. I am not pursuing this degree for a title or a paycheck. I’m doing it because I’ve seen the gaps in the system. I’ve seen what happens when care is not accessible. And I’m committed to building something different, something rooted in equity, healing, and impact. This scholarship would be an investment not just in my education, but in the communities I serve and the future I’m building.

I came to the United States at 14 years old, just months after the 2010 earthquake in Haiti. My family had survived the physical destruction, but the emotional aftershocks followed us here. We were alive, but deeply shaken. I watched my mother, once the most composed person I knew, unravel slowly under the weight of trauma. She began showing signs of PTSD, but in our Haitian community, there were no words for that. You prayed, you pushed through, and you kept quiet. That silence nearly swallowed us both. At the time, I didn't know I was also struggling. I just knew I cried a lot, had trouble sleeping, and often felt like I didn't deserve to be safe when so many others weren't. I now understand that I was carrying survivor's guilt and depression. But back then, I thought I was being ungrateful. Mental illness wasn't something we discussed, especially not in Creole, where even the language seemed to lack space for emotional pain. So I turned inward and upward. My faith became my anchor. My family comes from a long line of pastors, and one verse became the foundation of our household: "Here I am, Lord. Send me". I didn't know where I was being sent, but I knew I wanted to serve. In high school, I joined Key Club and began volunteering. I found comfort in helping others, even while trying to figure out how to help myself. After earning my A.A. and later my B.A. in Psychology, I began working at HomeSafe, a nonprofit supporting children and families who had experienced abuse, neglect, and other traumas. That job changed everything for me. I started working with recently arrived immigrants, especially young Haitian mothers, and I recognized pieces of myself in their stories. Many had crossed the border after escaping violence and poverty. They were anxious, depressed, and overwhelmed, but didn't have access to resources that understood their cultural background, their language, or their faith. I searched everywhere for anything that could help me serve them better. But what I found was a system that was not built for us. I broke down after one particularly emotional conversation with a young mom who reminded me of my mother. I realized I couldn't wait for the system to change. I had to be part of changing it. So I went back to school with a purpose. I'm pursuing my Master of Social Work at Florida State University, focusing on trauma-informed, culturally responsive care for immigrant families. Every paper I write, every client I support, is part of a mission I carry deeply in my heart. In 2023, I co-founded Lakou Lokal, a grassroots virtual wellness space for Black and immigrant communities. We lead workshops in Haitian Creole and English, develop mental health resources rooted in culture and faith, and create spaces where people can discuss hard things without shame. My dream is to grow Lakou Lokal into a physical community center that offers therapy, support groups, parenting classes, and spiritual guidance to those too often left out of the system. Mental illness shaped my life long before I had the words for it. It broke my family's silence, redefined my calling, and grounded me in a mission bigger than myself. The Arnetha V. Bishop Memorial Scholarship would allow me to continue this work as a career and a calling. Like Mrs. Bishop, mental health care is a right, not a luxury. And I'm here to answer the call, every day, with the exact words that guided my family and now guide me: Here I am, Lord. Send me.

When the Ground Shook, We Kept Walking When the ground shook on January 12, 2010, I was just a girl living in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, watching my country crumble in real-time. I know the scholarship is for African immigrants and children of African migrants, and though I am Haitian-born, I am also the daughter of Africa. Haiti is the first Black republic, and our ancestry is deeply rooted in West Africa: Yoruba, Igbo, Fon, and more. My last name carries the memory of my ancestors who were taken. In that way, my story is the story of migration, just further back in history. And today, as a TPS holder living in the U.S., I live with the constant weight of impermanence and the quiet desperation to belong. My parents left everything behind when we arrived in the U.S. after the earthquake. They were not college-educated but determined to give us a chance. They worked their way into low-paying jobs, often overnight shifts and backbreaking labor to keep us afloat. We shared a single rented room as a family of four. There was no privacy, no space to breathe, but there was love and sacrifice in every corner of that cramped room. The biggest challenge wasn't just poverty. It was invisibility. We lived quietly and carefully. I never invited friends over. I skipped out on school trips because we couldn't afford them. I translated everything for my parents' school forms, legal documents, and medical instructions while figuring out how to belong in a world that didn't always want to see us. That pressure hasn't gone away. In today's political climate, with immigration policies tightening and TPS protections under constant threat, it feels like we're still holding our breath. It's exhausting, but it also fuels my purpose. I became the first in my family to go to college. I studied psychology to understand trauma on my own and in my community. Now, I'm pursuing a Master's in Social Work, working full-time while interning and going to school because I want to be the kind of advocate we didn't have. I aim to open a multicultural resource and healing center for immigrant families where language, culture, and identity are honored, not erased. I want to ensure no child has to carry adult-sized burdens like I did. The challenge of migration didn't just shape me. It refined me. It taught me to be bold even when I'm afraid. It gave me empathy, fire, and a calling. My family's journey, though painful, made me someone who refuses to give up, even when the odds are stacked high. I carry my parents' sacrifices as fuel. I have my ancestors in my name. And I hold the next generation in my hands.

I didn’t grow up dreaming about public service; I grew up needing it. After the 2010 earthquake devastated my home in Haiti, I came to the United States under Temporary Protected Status. I was supposed to stay briefly, but survival became a long, uncertain journey. I’ve spent most of my life navigating systems that weren’t built with people like me in mind. Now, I’ve committed to changing those systems from the inside out. I’m currently pursuing my Master of Social Work while working full-time. It’s hard, but it’s the most aligned I’ve ever felt with my purpose. Public service is not just a career path for me; it’s a calling. It’s how I make sure that others, especially immigrants and marginalized families, don’t have to fight as hard as I did to access care, support, and dignity. Growing up between two cultures, two languages, and two systems, I quickly learned that access was everything. So many people were left out of conversations that directly impacted their lives. Whether it was mental health, education, or housing, the people I saw most affected were the least likely to be heard. That injustice lit a fire in me. I didn’t want to be another person who beat the odds; I wanted to be someone who changed them. That’s why I co-founded Lakou Lokal, a grassroots initiative that provides culturally grounded mental health and wellness education to Haitian immigrant families. Through this work, we’ve held community workshops, built multilingual resources, and offered support in underserved or ignored spaces. Our approach combines culture, faith, and clinical knowledge to make mental health care more accessible, less stigmatized, and more effective for immigrant families. With the skills I’m gaining through my MSW program clinical training, trauma-informed practices, and policy analysis, I plan to open a community wellness center in Palm Beach County that serves immigrant families in their language and on their terms. The center will provide therapy, parent support groups, wellness workshops, and policy navigation assistance. I also plan to advocate for local and state-level policies that protect and support immigrants, particularly those under programs like TPS and DACA. My work is rooted in empathy but also driven by systems thinking. I don’t want to comfort individuals in pain; I want to confront the structures that keep causing it. Whether it’s advocating for inclusive healthcare, culturally competent education, or immigration reform, I plan to use my platform as a public servant to lift voices that are often silenced. Public service matters because it bridges the gap between lived experience and institutional power. It gives people like me the tools to survive the system and transform it. This scholarship would not just support my education. It would help me continue building the life and legacy I’ve committed myself to: one where no one is left behind simply because they were born on the wrong side of a border, or speak the “wrong” language, or carry the weight of a trauma this country doesn’t always want to acknowledge. I’m not in public service because it’s easy. I’m in it because it’s necessary. And I plan to spend the rest of my life making sure those who feel unseen know that someone is standing in the gap for them because someone once did for me.

I didn’t grow up dreaming about public service, I grew up needing it. After the 2010 earthquake devastated my home in Haiti, I came to the United States under Temporary Protected Status. I was supposed to stay for a short time, but survival turned into a long, uncertain journey. I’ve spent most of my life navigating systems that weren’t built with people like me in mind. Now, I’ve committed my life to changing those systems from the inside out. I’m currently pursuing my Master of Social Work while working full-time. It’s hard, but it’s the most aligned I’ve ever felt with my purpose. Public service is not just a career path for me, it’s a calling. It’s how I make sure that others, especially immigrants and marginalized families, don’t have to fight as hard as I did just to access care, support, and dignity. Growing up between two cultures, two languages, and two systems, I learned quickly that access was everything and that so many people were left out of conversations that directly impacted their lives. Whether it was mental health, education, or housing, the people I saw most affected were the least likely to be heard. That injustice lit a fire in me. I didn’t want to be another person who beat the odds, I wanted to be someone who changed them. That’s why I co-founded Lakou Lokal, a grassroots initiative that provides culturally grounded mental health and wellness education to Haitian immigrant families. Through this work, we’ve held community workshops, built multilingual resources, and offered support in spaces that often go underserved or ignored. Our approach combines culture, faith, and clinical knowledge to make mental health care more accessible, less stigmatized, and more effective for immigrant families. With the skills I’m gaining through my MSW program clinical training, trauma-informed practices, and policy analysis, I plan to open a community wellness center in Palm Beach County that serves immigrant families in their language, on their terms. The center will provide therapy, parent support groups, wellness workshops, and policy navigation assistance. I also plan to advocate for local and state-level policies that protect and support immigrants, particularly those under programs like TPS and DACA. My work is rooted in empathy, but it’s also driven by systems thinking. I don’t want to just comfort individuals in pain, I want to confront the structures that keep causing it. Whether it’s advocating for inclusive healthcare, culturally competent education, or immigration reform, I plan to use my platform as a public servant to lift voices that are often silenced. Public service matters because it bridges the gap between lived experience and institutional power. It gives people like me the tools to not just survive the system, but to transform it. This scholarship would not just support my education. It would help me continue building the life and legacy I’ve committed myself to: one where no one is left behind simply because they were born on the wrong side of a border, or speak the “wrong” language, or carry the weight of a trauma this country doesn’t always want to acknowledge. I’m not in public service because it’s easy. I’m in it because it’s necessary. And I plan to spend the rest of my life making sure those who feel unseen know that someone is standing in the gap for them, because someone once did for me.

I came to the United States after the 2010 earthquake in Haiti. At the time, it wasn’t a decision made out of hope or ambition, it was made out of necessity. What was supposed to be a temporary relocation turned into a permanent life in a country that never quite felt like home. I didn’t arrive chasing the “American dream.” I arrived because everything I knew had collapsed, and I had to survive. Living under Temporary Protected Status (TPS) has meant living in constant uncertainty. I’m not undocumented, but I’m not fully secure either. Every few years, my right to stay in the only home I’ve really known as an adult is called into question. I’ve lived most of my life in the U.S. in a type of limbo, legal on paper, but never feeling completely safe, never feeling fully embraced. And yet, even in that uncertainty, I’ve built something beautiful. I’m a first-generation graduate student pursuing my Master of Social Work while working full-time. It hasn’t been easy, but it has been purposeful. I’ve learned to navigate systems that weren’t designed for people like me, systems that often ignore the realities of immigrants, especially Black immigrants. Through this journey, I’ve found not just resilience, but a calling. My goal is to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker and open a private mental health practice focused on serving immigrant families and communities of color. I want to create a space where culture, faith, and healing can coexist, where people don’t have to explain their pain in someone else’s language or erase themselves to receive care. To make that dream real, I co-founded Lakou Lokal, a nonprofit initiative that provides culturally grounded mental health education and wellness resources to Haitian immigrant families. We host workshops, build community connections, and empower families to access support that reflects who they are. It started with a small group, but it’s growing because the need is great and the community is ready. My experience as an immigrant hasn’t only shaped my story, but it’s also shaped my mission. It’s made me deeply empathetic to those navigating complex trauma, displacement, and survival in silence. It’s also made me relentless in my pursuit of solutions. I want to build systems that don’t just serve but understand. This scholarship would help me stay on track toward completing my degree, growing Lakou Lokal, and eventually establishing a wellness center rooted in justice, access, and cultural care. It would allow me to continue doing the work I’ve already started because I’m not waiting for someone to hand me the American dream. I’m building something better. Being an immigrant isn’t just a part of my past, it’s the foundation of my purpose. And I carry that story with pride, knowing that everything I build from here is not just for me but for everyone who comes after me.

To me, the American dream was never about a white picket fence or a perfect credit score. It was about the possibility of crossing borders, surviving trauma, and believing that hard work and purpose could lead to freedom, dignity, and a future worth fighting for. I came to the United States after the 2010 earthquake in Haiti. What was meant to be temporary, a place to recover, to breathe, became a long-term reality I didn’t fully choose. I never had the chance to settle down or feel safe; I just had to keep going. Living under Temporary Protected Status (TPS) has meant always being in limbo, not fully undocumented, but never fully secure. Not a citizen, not a tourist, not a refugee. Just someone quietly trying to build something solid in a country that treats my presence as a question mark. So when people talk about the American dream, I think about limbo. I think about what it means to chase stability with no roadmap, no certainty, and no guarantee. My definition of the American dream is this: To survive systems that weren’t built for your protection and still create something lasting, liberating, and beautiful. Despite every legal, financial, and emotional obstacle, I’ve refused to stop dreaming. I co-founded Lakou Lokal, a grassroots initiative providing culturally grounded mental health education and wellness resources to Haitian immigrant families. I’ve worked full-time while earning my Master of Social Work, not because I had the privilege of choosing both, but because survival demanded it. My life has been shaped by systems, yes, but also by resistance, faith, and a calling to serve. My dream isn’t about assimilation. It’s about transformation. I envision a future where I’ve opened a private practice that centers the healing of immigrant families and communities of color. A future where therapy doesn’t require you to erase your culture. Where language barriers are met with care, not shame. Where the trauma of migration is met with real support. Where people like me are no longer pushed to the edges of society, but held and seen. In this dream, I’m not just stable, I’m giving back. I’m mentoring. Teaching. Building new systems where we no longer have to prove our worth to exist. I’m creating access where there was none, especially for those who are here, but not always welcomed. The American dream, for me, is not about what this country gives. It’s about what we create despite what it withholds. I don’t have a passport that guarantees protection. But I do have a purpose. I have proof through my work, my advocacy, and my education that I belong here. And this scholarship would bring me one step closer to a future where students like me don’t have to keep choosing between survival and success.

The life of my dreams is not just about what I get to do, it’s about what I get to undo. It’s about dismantling the idea that strength means silence. That survival is enough. That care is a luxury reserved for those with access, money, or proximity to whiteness. In my dream life, I’m a Licensed Clinical Social Worker with a thriving private practice rooted in justice, restoration, and joy. I work with Black women, immigrant families, and anyone forced to carry more than their share, offering care that’s culturally grounded, spiritually aligned, and radically compassionate. No code-switching. No over-explaining. Just space to heal and be. I’ve earned my LCSW and opened a practice that provides culturally competent mental health services to immigrant families and communities of color. I no longer have to choose between healing and survival; instead, I’ve created a space where healing is survival and thriving is the goal. I help others navigate what I had to navigate alone: trauma, displacement, faith crises, identity struggles. I remind them they’re not broken, they’re just carrying too much without enough support. I’m also the co-founder of Lakou Lokal, a grassroots initiative that reimagines mental health care for Haitian families and communities of color. We create resources in our own language. We talk about trauma without shame. We meet people where they are—church basements, WhatsApp chats, kitchen tables—because wellness should never be gatekept. Lately, that dream has taken on sharper edges. As a Black immigrant woman, I’ve felt the weight of targeted policies, cruel rhetoric, and the silent shrinking of support systems meant to protect us. In the last few months alone, I’ve had to fight harder for access to education, to resources, to basic dignity. But in that fight, I’ve found clarity: this work isn’t optional. It’s necessary. It’s urgent. It’s personal. Right now, I’m working full-time while earning my Master of Social Work. Some days, I’m tired. But I know what I’m building is bigger than me. I’ve seen what happens when systems fail people who look like me, and I refuse to accept that failure as normal. Instead, I choose to be part of the reimagining. The life of my dreams includes healing circles and policy change. Therapy sessions and protest chants. A house in Cap-Haïtien with a wraparound porch for community gatherings and a backyard garden that grows both mangoes and medicine. It includes mentorship programs, scholarship funds, and storytelling projects that remind Black girls they are not too much, they are just enough. In this dream, I give back without burning out. I hold space for others without losing myself. I serve those who look like me, live like me, pray like me, and those who don’t. Because healing, like justice, is collective. This life isn’t about prestige, it’s about presence. It’s about creating something I never had: accessible, affirming care that honors identity, history, and culture. It’s about making sure others don’t have to fight so hard to be heard, helped, or whole. What I’m building isn’t just a career, it’s a legacy. One rooted in care, community, and the radical idea that we all deserve to be well. My dream is not just to succeed, but it’s to leave the door open behind me. Thanks to this scholarship, I move one step closer not just to a degree, but to a future where healing is no longer a privilege. And I plan to build that future with my hands, my voice, and my people by my side.