Full Circle
There has always been a greater price—we just didn’t see it. Every decision carries a cost, even when that cost is silent, not easily recognize, or ignored. Yet there is always a price.
Many of us who were born in the U.S.A., or who came here as minors, understand that the journey from Ayiti to the United States was seen as worthwhile. Still, we rarely examine the true cost—the spiritual and psychological. Yes, we have heard the horror stories, especially from those who traveled by boat, but for every detour and every shortcut we took, we eventually met the obstacle and the hurdle we tried to avoid.
We can never escape what we are meant to face. At best, we only delay destiny’s encounter—but eventually, we will meet again. And if we don’t, we leave behind a greater obstacle than the one we were running from, passing it on to future generations.
While our parents dodged the weight and hardships of a broken nation in the early 90s, we are now coming full circle, facing the consequences of those decisions. They left to create a better living conditions and it worked—but did we ever ask for how long this escape plan would work? How long can a bandage truly hold? And how long can fleeing remain a solution?
Do you still not see the accumulation of obstacles and burdens left behind? The problems have multiplied, and living conditions have drastically deteriorated. The house of cards is collapsing. In fact, what our parents once chose as the most favorable outcome—leaving Ayiti for other countries—is now reversing itself.
The country are parents said they would return to retire in is now in worse condition now then when they left. No one remained to tend to it. The heart of the nation departed, and those who stayed behind often did so while hoping that one day they, too, could leave. They were present physically, but their hearts and spirits were elsewhere.
Only a small remnant remained—those who carried the true heart of Ayiti. They always knew this day would come—the moment when everything would come full circle. Those that hope to return home didn’t expect the turmoil and challenges that many of our people our facing now. Like what are we coming back to? And if we couldn’t make work when conditions were merely difficult, how will we return in old age when the nation is crumbling?
This reflection is not about judging our parents’ decisions as wrong, but about understanding the larger picture. We all have the right to choose our path and destiny, and that choice deserves respect. Yet, as the sun reflects outward, it also calls us to look inward.
The decision to leave brought short-term rewards, but it has also created long-term consequences that outweigh those gains. Some sold everything—homes, land, and property—only to face even greater obstacles and turmoil in new places. For others, the Spiritual cost: Is that they will never feeling at home—never fully adapting—living with constant unease and silent suffering. Why? Because that journey was not part of their destiny.
Anytime we take a path that was never meant for us, there are spiritual implications—energetic consequences that a person may not immediately recognize.
For some, there is a spiritual debt that follows them from place to place, from country to country—an ongoing instability born from a spiritual trade-off. Every shortcut and every detour eventually leads to a dead end. Detours often begin smoothly, but their true cost is revealed later.
Imagine if Jean-Jacques Dessalines and the other great leaders had decided that fighting for freedom was too risky, and instead chose to flee to another country. That choice may have eased their personal burden, but it would have altered history completely—not only for Ayiti, but for the many nations that were helped and inspired by, a free Ayiti.
We cannot all be Jean-Jacques Dessalines—that is understood and respected. But when fleeing becomes the majority response, it can no longer serve as a long-term solution. Today, the sun reveals what was once hidden: that strategy is weakened and was never meant to replace the real work required to restore and protect both the people and the land.
The great exodus has reached its limit. The people are exhausted. Some of our people are in deep reflection, concerned about their future and wondering where to go from here. Others are more attuned and feel the shift—not only for those without proper documentation or those facing the end of TPS, but a shift within a nation that affects the collective. Everything is coming full circle, not just for Ayiti, but for the world.
The road that appears easy and smooth can become the most dangerous path to travel. In trying to avoid a thunderstorm, we must be careful not to walk into a Category 5 hurricane. Sometimes, while avoiding a lake, we fall into the ocean. Or while trying to avoid climbing a hill, we end up climbing a mountain.
The sun is only revealing what we once missed. This reflection is not meant to condemn past decisions, but to prepare us for a brighter future. And a better future cannot exist without honest reflection on the past—reflection that gives us the understanding and wisdom needed to navigate what is ahead us.
For some of us, the path to travel—or to completely relocate—was written in the stars, and our parents acted on that calling. They left. But if everyone flees, or is swept away by the spell of leaving, who remains to build and sustain strong communities? The truth is simple: the stronger the community, the stronger the nation. When communities are broken, it becomes easier for the wicked to destroy a weaken and fragile nation.
One of the lifelines of any nation is its communities, and communities are made up of people. Too often, we believe leadership alone is all that is needed to create a great nation. Yes, strong leadership is essential—especially for structuring change—but leaders cannot lead empty communities, nor communities that have been stripped of what makes them whole.
What are our communities most deficient in? Many of our best have left—teachers, doctors, and those with skills, gifts, and talents. This absence creates a deficiency, much like blood becoming anemic. When the blood is weak, the body suffers. In this case, the body is the community, and it is no longer properly nourished.
Those who are talented and remain on Ayiti soil often cannot fully use their gifts, because the nation itself has been broken down. What happens to a broken nation over a long period of time?
Collective Reflection: What have you been running from? What remains unresolved, waiting for your courage? Remember—what you are meant to face will always find you.