This guest blog is written by participant Mike Hala Joly, who works with AyiboPost, a UUSC partner using investigative and field journalism to enhance the Haitian media ecosystem and platform voices left out of mainstream narratives.
In the media world, we often measure success by the impact of our stories: the revelations made, the corruption exposed, or the policies changed. However, at AyiboPost, we have come to believe that the most critical infrastructure behind any powerful story is not a camera or a server: it is the mental and emotional health of the human being telling it.
This isn’t just a philosophy; it is a survival strategy. Living in Haiti is a constant challenge, and working in media adds a layer of relentless stress. As an administrator, I see the toll it takes on our young team. They spend their days documenting our country’s hardest realities, listening to stories from people who could be their own parents or siblings. Over time, that weight accumulates. We realized that if we only focus on the output and ignore the people, our mission would eventually crumble.
This is where UUSC became a lifesaver. By providing access to psychological support, they gave us a space to process the unspoken stress of our lives, the urge to flee a neighborhood, the lack of a plan, the simple anxiety of staying alive.
But even with support available, choosing to take a break is a difficult step. When I received the invitation to the “Haiti Rising” retreat, I felt a deep bittersweet conflict. As a full-time worker who had just graduated in December 2025, I was exhausted, yet I had never left my son behind before. I also felt the weight of privilege: how could I take four days off when so many in my country live au jour le jour, unable to pause for even an hour?
Ultimately, I realized that I couldn’t pour from an empty cup. At the retreat in Cap-Haitien, I found a stillness I had forgotten existed. Without the rush of deadlines or the demands of motherhood, I rediscovered the simple joy of a full night’s sleep and the rhythm of my own writing.
This stillness allowed me to look at the world differently. Watching the local fishermen, I was reminded of my own desire for self-sufficiency: the simple, deep satisfaction I felt the first time I ate a tomato I had grown myself. It made me realize that “aligning” oneself isn’t just about professional balance; it’s about reconnecting with the earth and our ability to create life.
That reconnection reached its peak at the Citadel. My friend and I decided to hike to the top, and as I climbed those final steps, a profound sense of pride washed over me. I looked at my body—a body transformed by childbirth—and realized it was still capable of great things. Even the simple, vulnerable act of wearing a bikini in public for the first time felt like a victory. It was an act of reclaiming my own skin.
I left the Haiti Rising retreat not just rested but restored. I realized that the sea, much like our work, is a force that can both overwhelm us and heal us. I captured this feeling in a poem during my final hours there:
What does the sea cast out with such force and roar?
Are we meant to receive these gifts, or should we flee from these waves
This water that washes over our feet, our bodies, and even into our minds and our souls?
What the sea rejects does me so much good; it gives me so much pleasure, it makes me want to dance, it excites me, and leaves me pensive, sad, and nostalgic.
