They say life is like a roller coaster—and this past month, I’ve felt every twist, every climb, and every heartbreaking drop.
Just a few weeks ago, I was at the Carimi reunion concert, surrounded by my people, my culture, my childhood in melody form. That night was pure joy. The arena pulsed with pride and rhythm. Haitians from every walk of life came together to sing, to dance, to remember simpler times—when life was sweet and full of dreams. I was with my sister, my cousin, laughing like we were kids again. That music transported us—took us back to Haiti, to the days when we had no idea how beautiful life was while we were living it.
And then, like a drop I never saw coming, my aunt passed away.
The night before, we were joking. She said she felt good. We were laughing about how much she loved to eat—this thin woman with an appetite like a big man, as we’d say in Haitian Creole. She wasn’t just hungry for food—she had an appetite for life. She lived fully, loved freely, and gave endlessly.
I didn’t know it would be our last laugh.
We only knew she was sick two weeks ago. Just two weeks. We thought we had more time. We always think we do.
A Month of Mountains and Valleys
From the highs of nostalgia and national pride at the Carimi concert, to the numbness and grief of unexpected loss, this month has pushed me to emotional limits I didn’t know I had.
But that’s life, right? Mountains and valleys. Music and mourning. Joy and sorrow.
There were other family gatherings. More laughter. Tears tucked behind smiles. And now, I’m standing in my backyard with my hands in the dirt—planting vegetables, flowers, trees. Trying to build something beautiful from the ache in my chest.
And I think of her. I wanted her to see this. To see us grow, bloom, thrive. She was always there for us, asking nothing in return. Just giving, supporting, loving—quietly, fiercely.
She Was More Than My Aunt
She was a trailblazer. A nurse, a lawyer, one of the first secretaries in her part of Port-de-Paix. She didn’t have biological children, but she raised half the community. She had a laugh that could heal, and a presence that demanded respect even when she was silent.
And in the end, when she knew it was her time, she didn’t scream. She didn’t beg. She accepted it with grace, leaving the same way she lived: gently, courageously, completely herself.
Rooted in Love, Growing Through Grief
Now as I water my garden, I realize something: grief and growth live side by side.
This garden is my prayer.
These flowers are my memories.
These trees are my legacy—ours.
She’s not gone. Not really. She’s in the seeds I plant, the music I dance to, the laughter I carry forward, and the way I love my people just like she did.
To Anyone Reading This
If you’re in a season of joy—dance hard. Sing louder.
If you’re in a valley—feel it. Don’t rush the grief.
And if you’re in between, like I am—welcome. You’re not alone.
Life is indeed a roller coaster. But every ride—every tear, every song, every laugh—makes us more human.
Until next time,
Xoxo,
JPP
