My Story

I was born in Haiti, a place full of beauty and struggle, carrying a dream that many children take for granted—to have both of my parents by my side. For most of my life, that dream was only a longing. Though both of my parents were alive, I grew up without them. They left me in Haiti when I was just one year old, and from that moment on, I learned what it meant to live without a mother’s embrace or a father’s guidance.

More than half of my life has been spent moving from house to house, searching for stability that never seemed to last. I lived with my uncle, my grandmother, my aunt, my cousins—with almost everybody. Every two years, sometimes even sooner, I found myself packing my few belongings and adjusting to a new home, a new set of rules, and a new way of living. I had no “mother’s house” or “father’s house” to run to when life felt heavy. Instead, I carried my own weight, silently, because there was nothing else I could do.

I grew up watching other children run into their mother’s arms after school, or sit on their father’s lap while he gave them advice. I never had that. My arms were always empty, and my questions were always unanswered. I asked myself countless times, “Why me? Why do I have to live like this when my parents are still alive?” That was the heaviest part—the silence of their absence, not because they had died, but because they had chosen to leave me behind.

Every house I stayed in gave me shelter, but it never gave me a home. With my uncle, I learned discipline, but I also felt distance. With my grandmother, I felt care, but I also felt the weight of her age and struggles. With my aunt, I felt moments of kindness, but also moments when I knew I was a burden. With cousins, I laughed sometimes, but deep inside, I always felt like an outsider.

Changing homes every two years broke me in ways that are hard to explain. Just when I would start to feel a little comfortable, just when I would begin to feel like maybe I belonged, life would pull me away again. Each time I moved, I left a piece of myself behind, until I didn’t know who I truly was anymore. I didn’t have roots. I didn’t have a foundation. I was like a tree that kept being replanted but never had enough time to grow.

I cried many nights alone, wishing for the warmth of a mother’s hug or the strength of a father’s voice telling me I would be okay. But the nights were long, and the answers never came.

Sometimes I wondered if my parents ever thought about me while they were away, if they ever pictured me lying awake at night with tears soaking my pillow. I wanted to believe they loved me, but their absence felt louder than any love I could imagine. I grew up learning how to live without them, but deep inside, the little child in me never stopped waiting—waiting for the day they would come back, waiting for the day I would finally feel like somebody’s son, not just a responsibility passed from hand to hand.

There were days when I tried to hide my pain by laughing with others, pretending I was just like them. But deep down, I carried a loneliness that no one could see. People around me didn’t always understand what it meant to grow up without parents, and sometimes they treated me like I should just be grateful to have a roof over my head. They didn’t know that a house without love feels like just four walls trapping your heart.

As the years went by, I grew older, but the emptiness inside me grew with me. Each birthday was a reminder that another year had passed without my parents there to celebrate me. Each holiday felt incomplete, like something important was always missing. I often sat quietly, watching families together, and wondered if I would ever know what it felt like to belong completely, to be loved without conditions, to have someone call me their everything.