Half an onion, garlic, and ginger. Ingredients my Haitian and Bahamian culture uses to cure a stomach ache. From rubbing my seven-year-old legs with lwil maskreti (virgin castor oil) to drinking cerasee tea, faith in the benefits of cultural remedies has shaped my community. I come from a place where people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand what most Americans don’t: the value of a dollar bill. In little Haiti, a woman by the name of Violette Barlatier is deciding between paying her mortgage and her medical bills. She is my grandmother. In Maitland, Florida, a woman by the name of Smitha Barlatier filed bankruptcy due to medical bills and debt. She is my mother. I have wiped the tears of the generations before me and heard the defeated cries of the women who birthed me. The cycle of being a slave to medical expenses ends with my mother. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increases debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about modern medicine? There is a lack of understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role it plays in the success of health care. My love and respect for my community have provided me with a sense of responsibility and passion to pursue a degree in the field of medicine. As I travel through my journey of higher education I am inspired by the generations before me. By the women who have sacrificed everything to not only mitigate the fears of modern medicine but to give their people better lives. They have exposed me to the significance of unity within a community and the roles everyone plays. I finally know mine. I aspire to provide my community along with many other accessible medicinal resources. To relieve them of the burdens they carry after receiving them. As an aspiring travel nurse, I will provide my service to developing countries and address the health care issues at hand. There is a lack of advocacy for those who the health care system has silenced; the poor, homeless, and nonresident aliens. I plan to change that. My years of experience with each community has supported my reason to conclude that they all desire the same thing: to be heard.

Half an onion, garlic, and ginger. Ingredients my Haitian and Bahamian culture uses to cure a stomach ache. From rubbing my seven-year-old legs with lwil maskreti (virgin castor oil) to drinking cerasee tea, faith in the benefits of cultural remedies has shaped my community. I come from a place where people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand what most Americans don’t: the value of a dollar bill. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increases debt. There is a lack of understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role it plays in the success of health care. My love and respect for my community have provided me with a sense of responsibility and passion to pursue a degree in the field of medicine. As I pursue higher education education I am inspired by the generations before me; By the women who have sacrificed everything to to give their people better lives. I aspire to provide my community along with many other accessible medicinal resources. To relieve them of the burdens they carry after receiving them. As an aspiring travel nurse, I will provide my service to developing countries and address the health care issues at hand. There is a lack of advocacy for those who the health care system has silenced: the poor, homeless, and nonresident aliens. I plan to change that. My years of experience with each community has supported my reason to conclude that they all desire the same thing: to be heard.

Half an onion, garlic, cinnamon, and ginger. These are the Ingredients my Haitian and Bahamian culture uses to cure a stomach ache. From rubbing my seven-year-old legs with lwil maskreti (virgin castor oil) to drinking cerasee tea, faith in the benefits of the remedies have shaped my community. In little Haiti, a woman by the name of Violette Barlatier is deciding between paying her mortgage and her medical bills. She is my grandmother. In Maitland, Florida, a woman by the name of Smitha Barlatier filed bankruptcy due to medical bills and debt. She is my mother. I have wiped the tears of the generations before me and heard the defeated cries from the women who birthed me. I come from a place where the people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand the what most Americans don’t: the true value of a dollar bill. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increase of debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about the rest who do not? The minimal research on the healing properties of traditional medicine may be limiting medical recourses for struggling communities. In the near future, I plan to perform research with an understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role heeding the communities served plays in the success of health care. My sense of responsibility to make a change within the health care system and advocate for those society has silenced acts as the moving force behind my will to pursue a higher education. Aside from research, I aspire to become a Traveling nurse. I have heard an abundant of stories as to why people chose to travel with their careers but I have yet to hear a story that aligns with mine. I dream to travel to developing countries that are facing resource depletion. These countries are seen and sometimes heard but there is a significant lack of response. There are so many communities that are facing deaths due to the absence of a health care system that holds similar values and sees them as a priority and not a burden. Oftentimes our health care systems fail to see individuals and only sees the population. This makes rooms for the life of an induvial to seem insignificant on a grand scale. This perspective is a problem. It is the reason why we need more people within the health care system who can see value in saving an individual and a population. As a country with a plethora of technology and recourses there is no reason not to pursue both. My aspirations to conduct research and become a Nurse will make a difference in the lives of the unheard, unseen and those who have received the help they deserve. The opportunity to receive a scholarship will act as the foundation of all that I accomplish in the future. It will be what allows me to pursue the education needed to mitigated the challenges faced by people all around the world.

Music plays & a bright light illuminates the stage. In fifth position, I am standing in front of an audience that is consumed by darkness. The intro of the song fosters graceful movements. A rhythm is composed. Hearing the faint sound of my steps as I jete across the stage prompts that I am alone. A suppressed memory begins to surface. The tempo of the music quickens. A chasse reflects my desire to escape the wave of repressed emotions tethered to the faded images of a child. A pique turn amplifies my internal conflict. If I drown, I will not make it. If I drown, how will I save myself? The dam has broken. Amid a stage, I am suffocating. This is my story. A young girl whose sense of self-worth unraveled. The thought “you are not good enough to eat” was the catalyst to mentally abusing myself. With disgust, I stared at the manipulated figure held by the frame. I substituted food with water and playtime with sit-ups until it stole my childhood. On a scale, I stood turned from the numbers recited as it developed my fear and obsession with weight. The craving to achieve the cookie-cutter build hid the internal damage I was causing. My constant battle quieting the voices yelling “you will never be good enough” ate away at my strength. Instinctively, I ran from the unbearable noise until finding sanctuary in counts of eight. Dancing became my refuge, providing moments when words could not touch the articulation of inner turmoil. An art that carried the weight of anxiety to prevent my spine from folding. Like a diary, without judgment, it collected the unfiltered recollections of moments that collectively stained my innocence. Pirouettes removed my fear of falling. Floor calypsos proved my will to rise. Elegantly performing in front of hundreds restored my confidence. Choreographing solos and ensembles lit a light for those to follow. I no longer face a deformed image but the reflection I wished answered to my name. My story inspired me to value the insecurities of others. When close friends disparaged themselves, I lifted their self-esteem. Their absence of self-worth broke my heart. I taught the subjective elements of beauty so they could see it within themselves. I grew smiles that were weighed down by tears. I held their hand to implicitly say “you are not alone”. Gradually, I destroyed their pessimistic lens. They began to see themselves the way I saw them: whole. The outro of the song begins to play. The river that grew from suppressed moments has evaporated. Now, optimism rests in its place. A developpe forms a state of serenity. The last fouette is a perfect turn. The bourre guiding me to the center of the stage places a warm smile on my face. A standing ovation reveals the audience. As my arms fold before me, the solace in knowing that I am breathing creates a graceful bow. Music fades & light slowly dims.

Half an onion, garlic, and ginger. Ingredients my Haitian and Bahamian culture uses to cure a stomach ache. From rubbing my seven-year-old legs with lwil maskreti (virgin castor oil) to drinking cerasee tea, faith in the benefits of cultural remedies has shaped my community. I come from a place where people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand what most Americans don’t: the value of a dollar bill. In little Haiti, a woman by the name of Violette Barlatier is deciding between paying her mortgage and her medical bills. She is my grandmother. In Maitland, Florida, a woman by the name of Smitha Barlatier filed bankruptcy due to medical bills and debt. She is my mother. I have wiped the tears of the generations before me and heard the defeated cries of the women who birthed me. The cycle of being a slave to medical expenses ends with my mother. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increases debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about modern medicine? There is a lack of understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role it plays in the success of health care. My love and respect for my community have provided me with a sense of responsibility and passion to pursue a degree in the field of medicine. As I travel through my journey of higher education I am inspired by the generations before me. By the women who have sacrificed everything to not only mitigate the fears of modern medicine but to give their people better lives. They have exposed me to the significance of unity within a community and the roles everyone plays. I finally know mine. I aspire to provide my community along with many other accessible medicinal resources. To relieve them of the burdens they carry after receiving them. As an aspiring travel nurse, I will provide my service to developing countries and address the health care issues at hand. There is a lack of advocacy for those who the health care system has silenced; the poor, homeless, and nonresident aliens. I plan to change that. My years of experience with each community has supported my reason to conclude that they all desire the same thing: to be heard.

Music plays & a bright light illuminates the stage. In fifth position, I am standing in front of an audience that is consumed by darkness. The intro of the song fosters graceful movements. A rhythm is composed. Hearing the faint sound of my steps as I jete across the stage prompts that I am alone. A suppressed memory begins to surface. The tempo of the music quickens. A chasse reflects my desire to escape the wave of repressed emotions tethered to the faded images of a child. A pique turn amplifies my internal conflict. If I drown, I will not make it. If I drown, how will I save myself? The dam has broken. Amid a stage, I am suffocating. This is my story. A young girl whose sense of self-worth unraveled. The thought “you are not good enough to eat” was the catalyst to mentally abusing myself. With disgust, I stared at the manipulated figure held by the frame. I substituted food with water and playtime with sit-ups until it stole my childhood. On a scale, I stood turned from the numbers recited as it developed my fear and obsession with weight. The craving to achieve the cookie-cutter build hid the internal damage I was causing. My constant battle quieting the voices yelling “you will never be good enough” ate away at my strength. Instinctively, I ran from the unbearable noise until finding sanctuary in counts of eight. Dancing became my refuge, providing moments when words could not touch the articulation of inner turmoil. An art that carried the weight of anxiety to prevent my spine from folding. Like a diary, without judgment, it collected the unfiltered recollections of moments that collectively stained my innocence. Pirouettes removed my fear of falling. Floor calypsos proved my will to rise. Elegantly performing in front of hundreds restored my confidence. Choreographing solos and ensembles lit a light for those to follow. I no longer face a deformed image but the reflection I wished answered to my name. My story inspired me to value the insecurities of others. When close friends disparaged themselves, I lifted their self-esteem. Their absence of self-worth broke my heart. I taught the subjective elements of beauty so they could see it within themselves. I grew smiles that were weighed down by tears. I held their hand to implicitly say “you are not alone”. Gradually, I destroyed their pessimistic lens. They began to see themselves the way I saw them: whole. The outro of the song begins to play. The river that grew from suppressed moments has evaporated. Now, optimism rests in its place. A developpe forms a state of serenity. The last fouette is a perfect turn. The bourre guiding me to the center of the stage places a warm smile on my face. A standing ovation reveals the audience. As my arms fold before me, the solace in knowing that I am breathing creates a graceful bow. Music fades & light slowly dims.

Half an onion, garlic, and ginger. Ingredients my Haitian and Bahamian culture uses to cure a stomach ache. From rubbing my seven-year-old legs with lwil maskreti (virgin castor oil) to drinking cerasee tea, faith in the benefits of cultural remedies has shaped my community. I come from a place where people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand what most Americans don’t: the value of a dollar bill. In little Haiti, a woman by the name of Violette Barlatier is deciding between paying her mortgage and her medical bills. She is my grandmother. In Maitland, Florida, a woman by the name of Smitha Barlatier filed bankruptcy due to medical bills and debt. She is my mother. I have wiped the tears of the generations before me and heard the defeated cries of the women who birthed me. The cycle of being a slave to medical expenses ends with my mother. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increases debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about modern medicine? There is a lack of understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role it plays in the success of health care. My love and respect for my community have provided me with a sense of responsibility and passion to pursue a degree in the field of medicine. As I travel through my journey of higher education I am inspired by the generations before me. By the women who have sacrificed everything to not only mitigate the fears of modern medicine but to give their people better lives. They have exposed me to the significance of unity within a community and the roles everyone plays. I finally know mine. I aspire to provide my community along with many other accessible medicinal resources. To relieve them of the burdens they carry after receiving them. As an aspiring travel nurse, I will provide my service to developing countries and address the health care issues at hand. There is a lack of advocacy for those who the health care system has silenced; the poor, homeless, and nonresident aliens. I plan to change that. My years of experience with each community has supported my reason to conclude that they all desire the same thing: To be heard.

Half an onion, garlic, and ginger. Ingredients my Haitian and Bahamian culture uses to cure a stomach ache. From rubbing my seven-year-old legs with lwil maskreti (virgin castor oil) to drinking cerasee tea, faith in the benefits of cultural remedies has shaped my community. I come from a place where people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand what most Americans don’t: the value of a dollar bill. In little Haiti, a woman by the name of Violette Barlatier is deciding between paying her mortgage and her medical bills. She is my grandmother. In Maitland, Florida, a woman by the name of Smitha Barlatier filed bankruptcy due to medical bills and debt. She is my mother. I have wiped the tears of the generations before me and heard the defeated cries of the women who birthed me. The cycle of being a slave to medical expenses ends with my mother. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increases debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about modern medicine? There is a lack of understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role it plays in the success of health care. My love and respect for my community have provided me with a sense of responsibility and passion to pursue a degree in the field of medicine. As I travel through my journey of higher education I am inspired by the generations before me. By the women who have sacrificed everything to not only mitigate the fears of modern medicine but to give their people better lives. They have exposed me to the significance of unity within a community and the roles everyone plays. I finally know mine. I aspire to provide my community along with many other accessible medicinal resources. To relieve them of the burdens they carry after receiving them. As an aspiring travel nurse, I will provide my service to developing countries and address the health care issues at hand. There is a lack of advocacy for those who the health care system has silenced; the poor, homeless, and nonresident aliens. I plan to change that. My years of experience with each community has supported my reason to conclude that they all desire the same thing: To be heard.

Half an onion, garlic, and ginger. Ingredients my Haitian and Bahamian culture uses to cure a stomach ache. From rubbing my seven-year-old legs with lwil maskreti (virgin castor oil) to drinking cerasee tea, faith in the benefits of cultural remedies has shaped my community. I come from a place where people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand what most Americans don’t: the value of a dollar bill. In little Haiti, a woman by the name of Violette Barlatier is deciding between paying her mortgage and her medical bills. She is my grandmother. In Maitland, Florida, a woman by the name of Smitha Barlatier filed bankruptcy due to medical bills and debt. She is my mother. I have wiped the tears of the generations before me and heard the defeated cries of the women who birthed me. The cycle of being a slave to medical expenses ends with my mother. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increases debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about modern medicine? There is a lack of understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role it plays in the success of health care. My love and respect for my community have provided me with a sense of responsibility and passion to pursue a degree in the field of medicine. As I travel through my journey of higher education I am inspired by the generations before me. By the women who have sacrificed everything to not only mitigate the fears of modern medicine but to give their people better lives. They have exposed me to the significance of unity within a community and the roles everyone plays. I finally know mine. I aspire to provide my community along with many other accessible medicinal resources. To relieve them of the burdens they carry after receiving them. As an aspiring travel nurse, I will provide my service to developing countries and address the health care issues at hand. There is a lack of advocacy for those who the health care system has silenced; the poor, homeless, and nonresident aliens. I plan to change that. My years of experience with each community has supported my reason to conclude that they all desire the same thing: To be heard.

Half an onion, garlic, and ginger. Ingredients my Haitian and Bahamian culture uses to cure a stomach ache. From rubbing my seven-year-old legs with lwil maskreti (virgin castor oil) to drinking cerasee tea, faith in the benefits of cultural remedies has shaped my community. I come from a place where people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand what most Americans don’t: the value of a dollar bill. In little Haiti, a woman by the name of Violette Barlatier is deciding between paying her mortgage and her medical bills. She is my grandmother. In Maitland, Florida, a woman by the name of Smitha Barlatier filed bankruptcy due to medical bills and debt. She is my mother. I have wiped the tears of the generations before me and heard the defeated cries of the women who birthed me. The cycle of being a slave to medical expenses ends with my mother. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increases debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about modern medicine? There is a lack of understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role it plays in the success of health care. My love and respect for my community have provided me with a sense of responsibility and passion to pursue a degree in the field of medicine. As I travel through my journey of higher education I am inspired by the generations before me. By the women who have sacrificed everything to not only mitigate the fears of modern medicine but to give their people better lives. They have exposed me to the significance of unity within a community and the roles everyone plays. I finally know mine. I aspire to provide my community along with many other accessible medicinal resources. To relieve them of the burdens they carry after receiving them. As an aspiring travel nurse, I will provide my service to developing countries and address the health care issues at hand. There is a lack of advocacy for those who the health care system has silenced; the poor, homeless, and nonresident aliens. I plan to change that. My years of experience with each community has supported my reason to conclude that they all desire the same thing: To be heard.

"WHAT DO YOU THIRST FOR?" Half an onion, garlic, and ginger. Ingredients my Haitian and Bahamian culture uses to cure a stomach ache. From rubbing my seven-year-old legs with lwil maskreti (virgin castor oil) to drinking cerasee tea, faith in the benefits of cultural remedies has shaped my community. I come from a place where people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand what most Americans don’t: the value of a dollar bill. In little Haiti, a woman by the name of Violette Barlatier is deciding between paying her mortgage and her medical bills. She is my grandmother. In Maitland, Florida, a woman by the name of Smitha Barlatier filed bankruptcy due to medical bills and debt. She is my mother. I have wiped the tears of the generations before me and heard the defeated cries of the women who birthed me. The cycle of being a slave to medical expenses ends with my mother. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increases debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about modern medicine? There is a lack of understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role it plays in the success of health care. My love and respect for my community have provided me with a sense of responsibility and passion to pursue a degree in the field of medicine. As I travel through my journey of higher education I am inspired by the generations before me. By the women who have sacrificed everything to not only mitigate the fears of modern medicine but to give their people better lives. They have exposed me to the significance of unity within a community and the roles everyone plays. I finally know mine. I aspire to provide my community along with many other accessible medicinal resources. To relieve them of the burdens they carry after receiving them. As an aspiring travel nurse, I will provide my service to developing countries and address the health care issues at hand. There is a lack of advocacy for those who the health care system has silenced; the poor, homeless, and nonresident aliens. I plan to change that. My years of experience with each community has supported my reason to conclude that they all desire the same thing: To be heard.

"WHAT DO YOU THIRST FOR?" Half an onion, garlic, and ginger. Ingredients my Haitian and Bahamian culture uses to cure a stomach ache. From rubbing my seven-year-old legs with lwil maskreti (virgin castor oil) to drinking cerasee tea, faith in the benefits of cultural remedies has shaped my community. I come from a place where people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand what most Americans don’t: the value of a dollar bill. In little Haiti, a woman by the name of Violette Barlatier is deciding between paying her mortgage and her medical bills. She is my grandmother. In Maitland, Florida, a woman by the name of Smitha Barlatier filed bankruptcy due to medical bills and debt. She is my mother. I have wiped the tears of the generations before me and heard the defeated cries of the women who birthed me. The cycle of being a slave to medical expenses ends with my mother. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increases debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about modern medicine? There is a lack of understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role it plays in the success of health care. My love and respect for my community have provided me with a sense of responsibility and passion to pursue a degree in the field of medicine. As I travel through my journey of higher education I am inspired by the generations before me. By the women who have sacrificed everything to not only mitigate the fears of modern medicine but to give their people better lives. They have exposed me to the significance of unity within a community and the roles everyone plays. I finally know mine. I aspire to provide my community along with many other accessible medicinal resources. To relieve them of the burdens they carry after receiving them. As an aspiring travel nurse, I will provide my service to developing countries and address the health care issues at hand. There is a lack of advocacy for those who the health care system has silenced; the poor, homeless, and nonresident aliens. I plan to change that. My years of experience with each community has supported my reason to conclude that they all desire the same thing: To be heard.

Music plays & a bright light illuminates the stage. In fifth position, I am standing in front of an audience that is consumed by darkness. The intro of the song fosters graceful movements. A rhythm is composed. Hearing the faint sound of my steps as I jete across the stage prompts that I am alone. A suppressed memory begins to surface. The tempo of the music quickens. A chasse reflects my desire to escape the wave of repressed emotions tethered to the faded images of a child. A pique turn amplifies my internal conflict. Amid a stage, I am suffocating. My constant battle quieting the voices yelling “you will never be good enough” ate away at my strength. Instinctively, I ran from the unbearable noise until finding sanctuary in counts of eight. Dancing became my refuge, providing moments when words could not touch the articulation of inner turmoil. An art that carried the weight of anxiety to prevent my spine from folding. Like a diary, without judgment, it collected the unfiltered recollections of moments that collectively stained my innocence. Pirouettes removed my fear of falling. Floor calypsos proved my will to rise. Elegantly performing in front of hundreds restored my confidence. no longer face a deformed image but the reflection I wished answered to my name. The outro of the song begins to play. The river that grew from suppressed moments has evaporated. Now, optimism rests in its place. A developpe forms a state of serenity. The last fouette is a perfect turn. The bourre guiding me to the center of the stage places a warm smile on my face. A standing ovation reveals the audience. As my arms fold before me, the solace in knowing that I am breathing creates a graceful bow. Music fades & light slowly dims.

“As for me and my house we will serve the Lord”, Psalm 37:4, and Luke 1:37: three out of the plethora of bible verses and religious quotes displayed around my house. My perfect Sunday morning service and Mon-Saturday afternoon attendance reflect the entirety of my childhood. Being immersed in such a religious community can either mold or hinder one’s perception of the world. Mine experienced both. I spent 6 Januaries in the sanctuary reciting a vow that I promised never to break. Weeks prior, I sat in a classroom being taught about the evils tethered to “abominable” sexualities and the disgrace of those who fall into temptation by partaking in such activities before marriage. The “Vow of Purity” is what they called it. We were taught that not everyone was destined to find love; some people were meant to be alone to fully surrender their lives to God. This was terrifying. I carried this message in my pocket throughout middle and high school. As time passed my pockets grew heavy. My attraction to those around me was absent and the more I tried to foster these emotions the more I thought that message belonged to me. I was conditioned to believe that I was either meant to fall in love with a man or no one at all. The choices were already set and stone and I was denied the right to expand or eradicate them. So, I made a choice. I bestowed myself the right to choose the love I knew I wanted and deserved. A love that is not limited to the boundaries set by those around me but one that reflects Corinthians 13:4. “Love is patient, Love it kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.” This is the love they preached about in Sunday School and the love that was “honorable” in Bible study. A love like this is one in that I could not set limitations or boundaries. From a young age, I ran from the attraction I had toward women and those who were undeniably kind to me. The day I decided to stop running, was the day I learned to love myself for who I was. I was no longer my communities’ image of a devoted religious Haitian daughter but an image I recognized in the mirror: myself. My first love reflects the kind of love described in Sunday school and in bible study. He taught me that love is unquantifiable and should not be limited to one gender if that is not true to you. His words is the message I now carry in my pocket; they never grow heavy. My journey to get to where I am today fostered a strong love for people. Compassion and Empathy came from it. I hope to use my journey to guide me as I enter my career path. As an aspiring Nurse, I plan to provide patients with a sense of comfort and acceptance regardless of their background. My sexuality is no longer confined to the label next to the box my church and family drew for me. That alone is a victory in itself. It is not perceived as a heavyweight but as a beautiful part of my identity. Their box has been eradicated and now consists of the box I proudly draw and check for myself. ☒ Bisexual

“As for me and my house we will serve the Lord”, Psalm 37:4, and Luke 1:37: three out of the plethora of bible verses and religious quotes displayed around my house. My perfect Sunday morning service and Mon-Saturday afternoon attendance reflect the entirety of my childhood. Being immersed in such a religious community can either mold or hinder one’s perception of the world. Mine experienced both. I spent 6 Januaries in the sanctuary reciting a vow that I promised never to break. Weeks prior, I sat in a classroom being taught about the evils tethered to “abominable” sexualities and the disgrace of those who fall into temptation by partaking in such activities before marriage. The “Vow of Purity” is what they called it. We were taught that not everyone was destined to find love; some people were meant to be alone to fully surrender their lives to God. This was terrifying. I carried this message in my pocket throughout middle and high school. As time passed my pockets grew heavy. My attraction to those around me was absent and the more I tried to foster these emotions the more I thought that message belonged to me. I was conditioned to believe that I was either meant to fall in love with a man or no one at all. The choices were already set and stone and I was denied the right to expand or eradicate them. So, I made a choice. I bestowed myself the right to choose the love I knew I wanted and deserved. A love that is not limited to the boundaries set by those around me but one that reflects Corinthians 13:4. “Love is patient, Love it kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.” This is the love they preached about in Sunday School and the love that was “honorable” in Bible study. A love like this is one in that I could not set limitations or boundaries. From a young age, I ran from the attraction I had toward women and those who were undeniably kind to me. The day I decided to stop running, was the day I learned to love myself for who I was. I was no longer my communities’ image of a devoted religious Haitian daughter but an image I recognized in the mirror: myself. My first love reflects the kind of love described in Sunday school and in bible study. He taught me that love is unquantifiable and should not be limited to one gender if that is not true to you. His words is the message I now carry in my pocket; they never grow heavy. I am most proud of the respect and love I have developed for myself and others. My journey to get to where I am today fostered a strong love for people. Compassion and Empathy came from it. I learned to love people for who they are and in doing so the relationships I’ve built have been nothing but nurturing in so many ways. My sexuality is no longer confined to the label next to the box my church and family drew for me. That alone is a victory in itself. It is not perceived as a heavyweight but as a beautiful part of my identity. Their box has been eradicated and now consists of the box I proudly draw and check for myself. ☒ Bisexual

Music plays & a bright light illuminates the stage. In fifth position, I am standing in front of an audience that is consumed by darkness. The intro of the song fosters graceful movements. A rhythm is composed. Hearing the faint sound of my steps as I jete across the stage prompts that I am alone. A suppressed memory begins to surface. The tempo of the music quickens. A chasse reflects my desire to escape the wave of repressed emotions tethered to the faded images of a child. A pique turn amplifies my internal conflict. If I drown, I will not make it. If I drown, how will I save myself? The dam has broken. Amid a stage, I am suffocating. This is my story. A young girl whose sense of self-worth unraveled. The thought “you are not good enough to eat” was the catalyst to mentally abusing myself. With disgust, I stared at the manipulated figure held by the frame. I substituted food with water and playtime with sit-ups until it stole my childhood. On a scale, I stood turned from the numbers recited as it developed my fear and obsession with weight. The craving to achieve the cookie-cutter build hid the internal damage I was causing. My constant battle quieting the voices yelling “you will never be good enough” ate away at my strength. Instinctively, I ran from the unbearable noise until finding sanctuary in counts of eight. Dancing became my refuge, providing moments when words could not touch the articulation of inner turmoil. An art that carried the weight of anxiety to prevent my spine from folding. Like a diary, without judgment, it collected the unfiltered recollections of moments that collectively stained my innocence. Pirouettes removed my fear of falling. Floor calypsos proved my will to rise. Elegantly performing in front of hundreds restored my confidence. Choreographing solos and ensembles lit a light for those to follow. I no longer face a deformed image but the reflection I wished answered to my name. My story inspired me to value the insecurities of others. When close friends disparaged themselves, I lifted their self-esteem. Their absence of self-worth broke my heart. I taught the subjective elements of beauty so they could see it within themselves. I grew smiles that were weighed down by tears. I held their hand to implicitly say “you are not alone”. Gradually, I destroyed their pessimistic lens. They began to see themselves the way I saw them: whole. The outro of the song begins to play. The river that grew from suppressed moments has evaporated. Now, optimism rests in its place. A developpe forms a state of serenity. The last fouette is a perfect turn. The bourre guiding me to the center of the stage places a warm smile on my face. A standing ovation reveals the audience. As my arms fold before me, the solace in knowing that I am breathing creates a graceful bow. Music fades & light slowly dims.

In these last six months, I have learned the significance of communication. More so, the value of being heard. I decided to film a documentary to address the psychological effects of experiencing homelessness. After talking to several homeless individuals, five homeless/poverty-related organizations and doing multiple literary analyses, I have gained a new perspective on my community as well as many others. “Thank you for listening to me” – Clearance, 64 years old, homeless for 4-years. I can’t say that I have made the world of-difference in every homeless individual I spoke to but, I can say that I changed the perspective of the world to one. “People like you change the world” – Sherry, 59 years old, homeless for 2-years. I come from a place where the people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand the what most Americans don’t: the true value of a dollar bill. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increase of debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about the rest who do not? In the near future, I plan to perform research with an understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role heeding the communities served plays in the success of health care. The research performed will be influence by my role in my community as well as my future education in medicine.

Mother, Daughter, and Sister. A mother of 2 and a sister to 11. An identity that has conformed with each chapter in her life. An identity that has molded her into the woman she is today; to the black woman she is today. She is selfless; she is resilient; she is my mother. The number 8 represents the age she was forced to leave her country; the place she called home. With her sister's hand in hers, she suppressed her fears, so she could be the one to tell her” everything is going to be ok”. She wasn't wrong, but she wasn’t right. The gray area reflects the moment when she was told her freedom would be taken. That she would be a slave to the negative connotation behind the word, “immigrant”. She was abused by the people who were supposed to protect her. She was broken down so they could make her into the woman they thought she needed to be: inadequate and dispensable. The number 26 represents the age she had her firstborn: a girl. She told her would move heaven and that she would move the earth for her. So, she did. She stood next to her when her lowest could not seem to get any lower. She inspired her to hold the hands of her community and to give back to them what was taken from her mother: a sense of unity, a voice, and someone to tell her that everything is going to be ok. She taught her children how to articulate their feelings, so their voices could never be taken from them. She taught her daughter how to stand when everyone around her demanded that she takes a seat. The woman she is today is the woman I aspire to be.

In these last six months, I have learned the significance of communication. More so, the value of being heard. I decided to film a documentary to address the psychological effects of experiencing homelessness. After talking to several homeless individuals, five homeless/poverty-related organizations and doing multiple literary analyses, I have gained a new perspective on my community as well as many others. “Thank you for listening to me” – Clearance, 34 years old, homeless for 4-years. I can’t say that I have made the world of-difference in every homeless individual I spoke to but, I can say that I changed the perspective of the world to one. “People like you change the world” – Sherry, 36 years old, homeless for 2-years. I come from a place where the people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand the what most Americans don’t: the true value of a dollar bill. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increase of debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about the rest who do not? In the near future, I plan to perform research with an understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role heeding the communities served plays in the success of health care. The research performed will be influence by my role in my community as well as my future education in medicine.

In these last six months, I have learned the significance of communication. More so, the value of being heard. I decided to film a documentary to address the psychological effects of experiencing homelessness. After talking to several homeless individuals, five homeless/poverty-related organizations and doing multiple literary analyses, I have gained a new perspective on my community as well as many others. “Thank you for listening to me” – Clearance, 34 years old, homeless for 4-years. I can’t say that I have made the world of-difference in every homeless individual I spoke to but, I can say that I changed the perspective of the world to one. “People like you change the world” – Sherry, 36 years old, homeless for 2-years. I come from a place where the people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand the what most Americans don’t: the true value of a dollar bill. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increase of debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about the rest who do not? In the near future, I plan to perform research with an understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role heeding the communities served plays in the success of health care. The research performed will be influence by my role in my community as well as my future education in medicine.

In these last six months, I have learned the significance of communication. More so, the value of being heard. I decided to film a documentary to address the psychological effects of experiencing homelessness. After talking to several homeless individuals, five homeless/poverty-related organizations and doing multiple literary analyses, I have gained a new perspective on my community as well as many others. “Thank you for listening to me” – Clearance, 34 years old, homeless for 4-years. I can’t say that I have made the world of-difference in every homeless individual I spoke to but, I can say that I changed the perspective of the world to one. “People like you change the world” – Sherry, 36 years old, homeless for 2-years. I come from a place where the people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand the what most Americans don’t: the true value of a dollar bill. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increase of debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about the rest who do not? In the near future, I plan to perform research with an understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role heeding the communities served plays in the success of health care. The research performed will be influence by my role in my community as well as my future education in medicine.

In these last six months, I have learned the significance of communication. More so, the value of being heard. I decided to film a documentary to address the psychological effects of experiencing homelessness. After talking to several homeless individuals, five homeless/poverty-related organizations and doing multiple literary analyses, I have gained a new perspective on my community as well as many others. “Thank you for listening to me” – Clearance, 34 years old, homeless for 4-years. I can’t say that I have made the world of-difference in every homeless individual I spoke to but, I can say that I changed the perspective of the world to one. “People like you change the world” – Sherry, 36 years old, homeless for 2-years. I come from a place where the people fear medical bills more than the illness at hand. A place where children are not afraid of needles, but the cost of the medicine prescribed for them. In many ways, I understand the what most Americans don’t: the true value of a dollar bill. The influence social positions have on health is not adequately considered when prescribing pharmaceuticals. The individuals’ lack of resources contributes to the severity of an illness and increase of debt. Those who live in culturally rich communities have access to traditional medicine, but what about the rest who do not? In the near future, I plan to perform research with an understanding of the social determinants of health and the vital role heeding the communities served plays in the success of health care. The research performed will be influence by my role in my community as well as my future education in medicine.

Music plays & a bright light illuminates the stage. In fifth position, I am standing in front of an audience that is consumed by darkness. The intro of the song fosters graceful movements. A rhythm is composed. Hearing the faint sound of my steps as I jete across the stage prompts that I am alone. A suppressed memory begins to surface. The tempo of the music quickens. A chasse reflects my desire to escape the wave of repressed emotions tethered to the faded images of a child. A pique turn amplifies my internal conflict. If I drown, I will not make it. If I drown, how will I save myself? The dam has broken. Amid a stage, I am suffocating. This is my story. A young girl whose sense of self-worth unraveled. The thought “you are not good enough to eat” was the catalyst to mentally abusing myself. With disgust, I stared at the manipulated figure held by the frame. I substituted food with water and playtime with sit-ups until it stole my childhood. On a scale, I stood turned from the numbers recited as it developed my fear and obsession with weight. The craving to achieve the cookie-cutter build hid the internal damage I was causing. My constant battle quieting the voices yelling “you will never be good enough” ate away at my strength. Instinctively, I ran from the unbearable noise until finding sanctuary in counts of eight. Dancing became my refuge, providing moments when words could not touch the articulation of inner turmoil. An art that carried the weight of anxiety to prevent my spine from folding. Like a diary, without judgment, it collected the unfiltered recollections of moments that collectively stained my innocence. Pirouettes removed my fear of falling. Floor calypsos proved my will to rise. Elegantly performing in front of hundreds restored my confidence. Choreographing solos and ensembles lit a light for those to follow. I no longer face a deformed image but the reflection I wished answered to my name. My story inspired me to value the insecurities of others. When close friends disparaged themselves, I lifted their self-esteem. Their absence of self-worth broke my heart. I taught the subjective elements of beauty so they could see it within themselves. I grew smiles that were weighed down by tears. I held their hand to implicitly say “you are not alone”. Gradually, I destroyed their pessimistic lens. They began to see themselves the way I saw them: whole. The outro of the song begins to play. The river that grew from suppressed moments has evaporated. Now, optimism rests in its place. A developpe forms a state of serenity. The last fouette is a perfect turn. The bourre guiding me to the center of the stage places a warm smile on my face. A standing ovation reveals the audience. As my arms fold before me, the solace in knowing that I am breathing creates a graceful bow. Music fades & light slowly dims.

Mother, Daughter, and Sister. A mother of 2 and a sister to 11. An identity that has conformed with each chapter in her life. An identity that has molded her into the woman she is today; to the black woman, she is today. She is my mother. The number 8 represents the age when she was forced to leave her country; the place she called home. With her sister's hand in hers, she suppressed her fear so she could be the one to tell her” everything is going to be ok”. She wasn't wrong, but she wasn’t right. The gray area reflects the moment she was told her freedom would be taken. That she would be a slave to the negative connotation behind the word “immigrant”. She was abused and broken down by her “protectors” so they could mold her into the woman they thought she needed to be: inadequate and dispensable. The number 26 represents the age she had her firstborn: a girl. She told her would move heaven and that she would move the earth for her. So, she did. She inspired her to hold the hands of her community and to give back to them what was taken from her mother: a sense of unity, a voice, and someone to tell her that everything is going to be ok. She taught her daughter how to stand when everyone around her demanded she takes a seat. The woman she is today is the woman I aspire to be.

Music plays & a bright light illuminates the stage. In fifth position, I am standing in front of an audience that is consumed by darkness. The intro of the song fosters graceful movements. A rhythm is composed. Hearing the faint sound of my steps as I jete across the stage prompts that I am alone. A suppressed memory begins to surface. The tempo of the music quickens. A chasse reflects my desire to escape the wave of repressed emotions tethered to the faded images of a child. A pique turn amplifies my internal conflict. If I drown, I will not make it. If I drown, how will I save myself? The dam has broken. Amid a stage, I am suffocating. This is my story. A young girl whose sense of self-worth unraveled. The thought “you are not good enough to eat” was the catalyst to mentally abusing myself. With disgust, I stared at the manipulated figure held by the frame. I substituted food with water and playtime with sit-ups until it stole my childhood. On a scale, I stood turned from the numbers recited as it developed my fear and obsession with weight. The craving to achieve the cookie-cutter build hid the internal damage I was causing. My constant battle quieting the voices yelling “you will never be good enough” ate away at my strength. Instinctively, I ran from the unbearable noise until finding sanctuary in counts of eight. Dancing became my refuge, providing moments when words could not touch the articulation of inner turmoil. An art that carried the weight of anxiety to prevent my spine from folding. Like a diary, without judgment, it collected the unfiltered recollections of moments that collectively stained my innocence. Pirouettes removed my fear of falling. Floor calypsos proved my will to rise. Elegantly performing in front of hundreds restored my confidence. Choreographing solos and ensembles lit a light for those to follow. I no longer face a deformed image but the reflection I wished answered to my name. My story inspired me to value the insecurities of others. When close friends disparaged themselves, I lifted their self-esteem. Their absence of self-worth broke my heart. I taught the subjective elements of beauty so they could see it within themselves. I grew smiles that were weighed down by tears. I held their hand to implicitly say “you are not alone”. Gradually, I destroyed their pessimistic lens. They began to see themselves the way I saw them: whole. The outro of the song begins to play. The river that grew from suppressed moments has evaporated. Now, optimism rests in its place. A developpe forms a state of serenity. The last fouette is a perfect turn. The bourre guiding me to the center of the stage places a warm smile on my face. A standing ovation reveals the audience. As my arms fold before me, the solace in knowing that I am breathing creates a graceful bow. Music fades & light slowly dims.