The foundation of mental health is education. The stigma starts to fade, in my opinion, when kids are taught to understand their feelings, when families learn how to help them, and when schools react with care instead of silence. Education, advocacy, and the establishment of safe spaces where mental health is prioritized will be the foundation of my contribution to the world. I learned to keep my feelings to myself while growing up in a Haitian home. Children were supposed to obey without showing any emotion or trouble, and mental health was viewed as taboo. That silence made me feel shamed, but it also pushed me to become the adult I needed when I was young. At seventeen, I started working with children and immediately felt a sense of purpose. I realized healing doesn’t always start in a doctor’s office. It can start with a conversation in the classroom, with a parent who understands, or with a caring adult who listens. What I want to give the world is a foundation that makes mental health care both affordable and accessible, especially for children in low-income and minority communities. My vision includes free counseling, school-based outreach, workshops for parents and teachers, and culturally informed resources that break down cultural barriers to care. My lived experience is what makes my contribution unique. Just as I was shaped by the silence around me, I want to shape a world where education and awareness make mental health support impossible to ignore

Glass child, cracked but never shattered. Used but never appreciated. I grew up learning to hold myself together even when my environment seemed determined to break me. That resilience is what fuels my drive. Growing up in a Haitian household where mental health is viewed as taboo proved difficult. Children are expected to be obedient and grateful, never to show an ounce of sadness. I felt like I didn’t fit into anyone’s idea of who deserved to struggle or who deserved to be helped. So my emotions, without me realizing it, festered inside. I buried and ignored them until they came rising one night all at once and became too much for a twelve-year-old to bear. The next morning, I woke up, the opposite of what I wanted to happen, but exactly what I needed to happen. I realized no kid should have to bury their voice and emotions to feel safe at home or in society. My upbringing is what created the spark of fascination to care for others’ minds. As I lacked that person in my own culture, I decided to become that person for kids like me. This led me to pursue child psychiatry. At seventeen, I began working with children, knowing deep down that I had found my purpose. Since then, I have worked with kids facing a range of challenges, from behavioral struggles to special needs to growing up in low-income households. I have helped them learn and regulate their emotions, soothed their feelings, and provided them with nurturing support. I realized through these experiences that healthcare is not just done in a doctor’s office. It begins with a conversation, a sense of being safe, or a nurturing adult in a classroom. I want my foundation to advance healthcare not just in hospitals or clinics, but in schools, homes, and neighborhoods where access is often limited and stigma still runs strong. I believe in meeting children where they are and creating safe spaces where their mental and emotional health is prioritized. As a Black, queer woman from an immigrant family, I understand the cultural and systemic barriers that prevent many families, and especially their children, from seeking help. That is why cultural competency, empathy, and advocacy will be at the heart of my practice. All of my experiences, including my attempt to end my story, taught me that mental and emotional health should never be treated as an afterthought. It is a matter that deserves daily care and attention, and I am committed to carrying that into my career, creating spaces where every child feels safe and heard.

A young Haitian girl, trapped in the quiet chaos of her own mind, craved peace. At twelve, the weight she carried pressed down like a sunless sky. She didn't want to disappear; she only wanted to feel something other than the pain she woke up with each day. One night, she looked for silence in the forms of medicine bottles. But morning came, her body held on. And life, unfinished, gave her a breath, a beginning, not an end. She didn’t know what healing was supposed to look like, only that she was desperate to feel whole. So she started small, sharing her stories instead of burying them. She began feeling and naming her emotions, holding space for them, instead of shame for them. But healing didn’t come without resistance. Growing up in a Haitian household, mental health was taboo. Children were expected to be obedient, not emotional. Add to that the intersection of being Black and queer, and I felt like I didn’t fit into anyone’s idea of who deserved to struggle, or who deserved to be helped. That silence bred shame—yet empathy grew from that pain. I realized no child should have to suppress their voice to feel safe at home or in the world. This is what led me to pursue child psychiatry. After surviving my mental health crisis, I didn’t just want to live—I wanted to make my life meaningful. At 17, I began working with children, knowing deep down that I had found my purpose. Since then, I’ve worked with kids facing a range of challenges—from behavioral struggles to special needs to growing up in low-income households. As a preschool teacher, I’ve seen firsthand how early trauma, if unaddressed, can follow children into adolescence and beyond. That’s why I walk into my classroom each day not just as a teacher, but as someone who’s dedicated to being the adult I once needed—one who sees, hears, and uplifts every child. My career aspiration is to become a child psychiatrist specializing in early intervention for minority and low-income communities. I want to advance healthcare not just in hospitals or clinics, but in schools, homes, and neighborhoods where access is often limited and stigma still dominates. I believe in meeting children where they are and creating safe spaces where their mental and emotional health is prioritized. As a Black, queer woman from an immigrant family, I understand the cultural and systemic barriers that prevent many families from seeking help. That’s why cultural competency, empathy, and advocacy will be at the heart of my practice. But I want to go beyond individual care. My long-term vision is to create a nonprofit foundation focused on children’s mental health—one that offers free counseling, workshops for parents and teachers, school-based outreach, and culturally-informed resources. I want this foundation to be a lifeline for children who are struggling silently, especially in low-income communities where therapy is often seen as shameful or inaccessible. Just as importantly, I aim to establish a scholarship fund for Black women and LGBTQ+ students pursuing careers in child psychiatry and mental health. Representation matters, and I want to ensure that more professionals from diverse backgrounds are entering this field and leading it. I’ve had to navigate school, work, and healing with limited financial and emotional support. My family’s sacrifices have shown me the value of resilience and responsibility, but they’ve also meant I carry the weight of being the first to walk this road. I’ve balanced multiple jobs, including my current role as a preschool assistant teacher at Bezos Academy, while also volunteering with organizations such as Boys Town and the Pink Queen Foundation. I’ve helped in cancer seminars, made patient care bags, directed event guests, and served as a student aide in my school library. I’ve been part of the Black Student Union, Women of Tomorrow, and a faith-based club called First Priority. Balancing my academic coursework with jobs and volunteer work has required long nights, tight budgeting, and constant time management. Still, I show up—both in the classroom and at work—because I know the path I’m walking matters. I directly worked with children from a variety of backgrounds as a preschool assistant teacher. I managed their behavior, soothed their feelings, and provided them with nurturing support—abilities which I would be able to utilize in a career as a child psychiatrist. I realized through these experiences that healthcare is not just done in a doctor’s office. It begins with a conversation, a sense of being safe, or a nurturing adult in a classroom. I believe healthcare professionals are not just individuals who provide treatment; they also console those who are suffering, find the strength in others, and help individuals heal. That is what I would like to be in my future career, not just developing treatment plans but also providing hope. Every child deserves access to mental health care before their pain becomes overbearing. What inspired me to commit myself to this field wasn’t just my trauma; it was the realization that healing is possible, and that healing multiplies when it’s shared. I want to be a vessel for that healing. Every child deserves access to mental health support before their pain becomes too heavy to carry. Every child deserves to feel safe being exactly who they are. This scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of continuing my education, but it would be an investment in a future psychiatrist who is deeply committed to transforming how mental health is accessed, understood, and experienced by our youngest and most vulnerable. I’ve been given a second chance, and I plan to use it to create change, build community, and offer hope where it’s been missing.

A young Haitian girl, trapped in the quiet chaos of her own mind, craved peace. At twelve, the weight she carried pressed down like a sunless sky. She didn't want to disappear; she only wanted to feel something other than the pain she woke up with each day. One night, she looked for silence in the forms of medicine bottles. But morning came, her body held on. And life, unfinished, gave her a breath, a beginning, not an end. She didn’t know what healing was supposed to look like, only that she was desperate to feel whole. So she started small, sharing her story instead of burying it. She began feeling and naming her emotions, holding space for them, instead of shame. Despite this, making my mental health a priority proved difficult in a Haitian household. Mental illness was considered a taboo topic, and emotions and feelings were reduced to disobedience and dramatics. Being both queer and Black increased the pressure; I did not fit into anyone's idea of who should suffer and who should be heard. The silence bred shame. But it also created empathy. No child should ever have to feel unsafe to say what is inside of them. As a college student and preschool assistant teacher, I know taking care of myself, both physically and mentally, is crucial. I have worked with children of all backgrounds, many of whom are low-income. When I walk into a classroom each day, I walk in with a purpose: to teach, provide a nurturing energy, and a listening ear. What inspired me to commit to this profession was not solely based on my trauma; it was the realization that healing is possible, and that healing multiplies when shared and accessible. Every child deserves access to mental health support, and every child deserves to feel safe being who they are. My largest goal is to be a child psychiatrist in low-income and minority communities. I wish to create a foundation with access to free therapy, school assistance, parent workshops, and materials for various cultures. Additionally, I will also award a scholarship to Black and/or LGBTQ+ women who are interested in pursuing a career in child psychiatry because it is important to have more representation in this field of work. This scholarship would decrease the financial burden. Most importantly, it would invest in a future mental health professional who truly cares about ensuring all children are seen, heard, and loved. My second chance is about more than living; it is about creating a difference. I am committed to starting this difference, starting with myself.

I tried to end my story too early, but life had not finished writing to me yet. I was only 12, holding a pain too vast for a child that young. I didn’t want to die—I didn’t want to keep hurting. I thought the pills would make the pain disappear, like flipping off a light switch. Instead, when I woke up the next morning, my body rejected the pills and I was given a second chance. That second chance is the reason I care so deeply about mental health. It’s not just a national issue, it’s personal. It’s a lived experience. I know what it’s like to feel shut off from a world that doesn’t always make space for complex emotions, especially when you’re a young Haitian girl. I know what it’s like to feel like no one sees the weight you carry. That’s why I speak up now. I educated myself on mental health. I began journaling, creating boundaries with others, and telling myself the truth. Telling myself the truth allowed me to discover something I tried burying deep down: that I am gay, and that is okay. I care about mental health because so many kids, especially Black caribbean, queer kids like me - are hurting in silence. We don’t always have the words, the safe spaces, or the adults who understand. But I want to be that adult. The one who shows kids that there’s nothing shameful about their feelings. That their lives matter. That healing is possible. That is why I am dedicated to creating my foundation where children as well as adults are educated, advocated for, and supported, especially in low-income communities. I want to create something that goes into schools, homes, and communities, providing tools, safe spaces, and honest conversations about mental wellness. My foundation will focus on early intervention, culturally targeted care, and LGBTQ+ accepting support because I understand what it's like to grow up feeling like you have to hide who you are in order to make others happy with how you turned out. Through workshops, school programs, and family outreach, I hope to normalize mental health conversations and help children know they are not broken. Mental health isn’t just a buzzword to me. It’s something I've lived, overcame, and live with. It’s why I’m still here. And it’s the reason I’m dedicating my life to becoming a child psychiatrist. So I can create and provide the resources and safe environment that every child deserves to have.