four years.

Four years. 

Time has a funny way of sneaking up on you. One moment to the next may feel but mere seconds in duration, when in reality years of your life have just passed by.

Four years ago tomorrow, a very passionate, naïve, energetic, yet clueless 25 year old girl moved to Haiti. 

I’ll never forget my first few days, weeks, and months in Haiti. Lifelong fantasies of traveling the world doing good, which I had dreamt about since childhood, were finally coming to pass. I devoured any opportunity to experience every part of Haiti that I could. Riding motorcycle taxis with the wind blowing through my hair, eating fried chicken and plantains off the street, filling up buckets of water to bathe, every part of the life and culture I had the pleasure of experiencing awakened me deep into the very recesses of my soul.

My journey in Haiti began without a road map and a well marked trail. It was a blind trek across uneven terrain and dark valleys, and to the summits of the highest of mountain peaks. 

Nothing prepares you for the day you hold a child dying of chronic malnutrition. 

No college course or textbook can truly encompass the deeply complex subject of poverty and its effects. 

There’s no manual on how to relocate to a foreign land, and respectfully and graciously adapt well to it’s environment and culture. 

I was prepared for adventure and excitement, but was entirely blindsided by discoveries of how many unique ways your heart could be broken, and how utterly debilitating isolation can be. 

Four years is enough time for a girl to become a woman. Enough time for her to begin to realize her true value, worth and capabilities. Enough time for her to completely fall apart and be put back together again. And enough time for her to truly find herself in the midst of what can feel like sheer chaos.

Four years ago I was embarking on a voyage of self-discovery, which would challenge the very core of my being. 

For the past four years I’ve lived in a chasm; a chasm that is caught between the sensation of flying, and the terror of drowning. 

A constant state of juxtaposition witnessing the joy of a soul transform before your eyes, while being penetrated by the deep agony inflicted by the heart wrenching realities of poverty. 

Learning how to walk all over again. 

And now, I’ve reached this place. This place where the things that used to feel so unfamiliar have now become a part of me. 

This place where my second language has become second nature. 

Where this raw collision of cultures has finally found a way to feel normal.

And coming to Haiti is truly coming home. 

Over the years I’ve met remarkable people, and have experienced inexplicable moments, but I think what has left me speechless the most are the things that happened within the walls of a little place called Jasper House.

Today I sat with all of our residents to reconnect with them, talk about issues and hard things, and remind them that we are a house of love and family. 

In the past month we have accepted six new women, two of whom are pregnant. 

As they all sat around me today, all nine women and two children, it was an overwhelming moment that left me without words. 

Four years ago I had no idea where God would take me. I had no idea that my heart would become filled with such a fervent passion to see the women of this country freed and restored, that it would alter the entire course of my life. 

And now, I sit and look at these precious faces and watch them learn how to rediscover themselves. 

I watch them too, metaphorically, being to learn to walk again. 

I see light and glimmer return to their eyes as hope and joy slowly begin to over shadow pain and brokenness. 

So I say today and looked at each beautiful face and once again found myself completely awestruck by the fact that this is my life. This is the life I so undeservedly get to live. 

Our story is just one miracle after another. Watching God continuously take the impossible and turn it into the possible right before our eyes. 

As one revolution around the sun comes to a close, and another one begins, I find myself yet again so overwhelmed by the wonder of it all. 

How so much beauty can spring forth from such deep pain. 

How suffering can create strength, wisdom and courage. 

And mostly, how God never fails. 

He hears the cries and prayers of those who feel so forgotten, and He answers them with you and me.

In a few months, two babies will be born to Jasper House. Two more babies who won’t have to grow up institutionalized in an orphanage.

Eleven women currently find refuge and shelter within our walls. 

Fifty-eight reignite their dreams and passion in our education centre. 

And here I stand aghast by it all, thinking back to my most earliest thoughts four years ago. 

All I had was a willing and obedient heart, and apparently that’s all you need for God to decide that you’re somebody He can use.

me too.

When I was a little girl, I used to think that when I got older I wouldn't have to be afraid of men wanting to hurt me anymore. I used to think that my chances of being assaulted or raped somehow decreased with time, and age provided a warp shield that would make me immune to sexual violation. 

Oh, sweet, young Maria, oh how you were wrong.

For the past several days, most of you have probably seen your Facebook feeds flooded with women posting the status of, "me too." 

And yes, because of who I am, and the work that I do, a Facebook post was no where near enough for me to comment on this subject, which has managed to infiltrate my daily life. 

I grew up with parents who did not shelter me from the evils of the world. By the time I was in elementary school I had a primary grasp on sexual abuse. I knew to "not let bad men touch my privates," to yell and scream if anyone did anything inappropriate to me, and to never, ever go anywhere with anyone I didn't know or trust - especially a man. 

I wasn't allowed to stay the night at friends' houses until I was in high school, and even then the parents, particularly the fathers, had to undergo strategic approval of my mother.

As an adolescent girl, I was rather annoyed by these antics, even if I knew they were always for my protection. I knew there were people in the world who could harm me, but I didn't really know.

Fast forward about fifteen years, and I'm who I am today. A 29 year old woman, living and working in Haiti, helping women recover from sexual trauma and start their lives over. This movement of "me too," resonates so deeply within me, I'm not sure one blog post can contain all of the words and emotions I wish to convey. 

As I journeyed from girlhood to womanhood, the outcry of sexual assault and gender based violence began to grow louder and louder. My best friends, coworkers, classmates, etc, would confide in me, sharing various stories of how they were taken advantage of, how they “never thought he would do something like that,” how much pain it caused them, and most of all, how they felt no one could ever know.

A silent battle.

Every day women carry an enormous weight left behind by their perpetrators. The have to fight nightmares and flashbacks, and try to keep it together when placed in triggering environments. 

Our society has conditioned us to believe that men will always be more sexually aggressive than women, and women must do what they can to either indulge their desires, or keep themselves safe from harm.

All of which play into the extremely harmful, misogynistic, and sexist dogma our culture has perpetrated for centuries. 

Over the past four years, I’ve felt my exterior harden. I’ve felt myself create a shell around myself as a vortex of protection. I’ve had people tell me I should be more soft and gentle, but when you walk outside every day and have sexual obscenities yelled at you, and have kiss sounds smacked at you as though someone was beckoning a dog, you begin to let the gentleness fade away.

In a world where men feel entitled to your body just because your genetic makeup suggests allure in their eyes, being soft and gentle makes you vulnerable. It makes you a target, it places you in danger. 

You have to always be aware of who and what is around you, what’s going on and what is their motive.

In a world of rape culture, you have to always be two steps ahead, otherwise you become prey, you become a victim. 

Even in the midst of this vigilance, you can still fall into traps and find yourself manipulated and coerced into situations you never wanted to be in.

I don’t believe that men and women are the same. You can tell just by looking at us how different we are. I believe that we both have different, yet complementary gifts, and when selfishness and self ambition is set aside, we can work together, and complement one another in harmoniously beautiful ways. 

However, our culture, and largely church culture, have also distorted these views. 

When women are constantly referred to as nothing more than subservient helpmates, created to submit to men, a phenomenon begins to occur. Men see themselves as superior and begin to truly believe, consciously or not, that women are to submit to them in every situation - even if by force. 

This directly translates into physical and sexual interactions. Men see themselves as entitled to women’s bodies, and utilize their strength to dominate a woman into submission. 

Tie this mindset into our overexposure to sexuality i.e. media, pornography, etc, and you have men and boys with an insatiable desire for sex, with no way to fully satisfy. 

When you’re exposed to women being used as objects daily, and are also being taught that you are superior, you can’t help but develop a mindset that women exist for your pleasure and don't merit the same dignity and respect as fellow men - again, whether you acknowledge it consciously or not.

It’s okay to keep going… even if she tells you to stop.

For the past few days I’ve watched as so many of my incredibly brave friends have acknowledged their own sexual assault in such public ways. 

While I am so proud of them for speaking out, I am outraged by the amount of women who are having to do this… and I know they are only a small portion. 

The problem doesn’t start or stop in Haiti.

It doesn’t start or stop in Syria or India. 

It doesn’t start or stop in the United States or Australia. 

The problem is far beyond being just a problem. 

It’s a global pandemic of epic proportions.

As long as I live this earth, I will always have to be aware of my surroundings. 

I will always have to say a silent prayer as I enter an uber with a male driver, and follow my own GPS to make sure he’s actually taking me to my destination.

I will always have to think twice about who I’m alone with and make sure I always have an exit plan.

It’s exhausting to always be on guard and feel as though you have to protect yourself, look over your shoulder, and question who you can trust - but such is the world in which we live.

I am fully aware of the fact that women are capable of sexually abusing and assaulting others, and I know that young boys and men are often victim as well. However, the mass majority of sexual crimes are indeed committed by men to women.

So how do we address such a widespread issue? 

How do we reconcile the fact that 1 out of every 6 women in the United States alone have been victim of attempted or completed rape? 

I definitely do not have all the answers, however, I do think there are real things that can be done to at least start some ripples that eventually turn into waves of change. 

As long as masculinity is equated to sexuality, nothing will ever change. If women continue to be painted as objects, and men continue to be taught that sex is what makes them a man, this cycle will not only perpetuate, but worsen. 

We have to create more safe spaces for people to talk about sexuality. How it relates to them as individuals and how it influences their actions with others. As long as we try to sweep these problems under the rug and pretend like they don’t exist, nothing is ever going to improve.

We have to stop teaching young boys that femininity is something to be rejected and looked upon with disgust. Teaching them to tap into their emotions, and the importance of empathy allows them to develop a strong sense of self and the ability to stand firm on what they know to be true. When you teach a boy to shut off his emotions, how in the world will he be able to determine right from wrong, and know when he should stand up and say no? 

We have to give women and girls the opportunity to feel safe to share their stories, and not merely provide them sympathy, but support and empowerment. 

We have to let women and girls know that sexual assault is NEVER their fault. Under no circumstances whatsoever. 

We have to take a stand against this type of behavior - speak out and stand up.

Men, dear men, please, if you're reading this and find yourself enraged or disgusted by these truths, please, please do something about it. 

The fight against sexual violence cannot be won by women alone. All people must stand together and say no more. 

At the heart of it, I don’t believe this is strictly a gender issue, it’s a cultural issue - one that must shift on a global scale. 

And to do that, we all have to stand together. 

We can all band together to make sure that one less woman and girl say - “me too.”

when poverty wins.

I've always been an optimist. Someone who sees the glass half full, the sunshine behind the rain, and the purpose in the pain. 

I think this pure, unadulterated optimism outlook gives me the ability to paints my skies with goodness and cheer. It allows me to have this mentality that life will be good and kind no matter what unfortunate hands are dealt, and that has been the saving grace that has given me the stamina and strength to find the beauty amongst the tragic brokenness of Haiti. 

Yet, over the past four years, my sense of hope and optimism has slowly been warn down but the harsh realities of life amidst the developing world. 

When I first began my journey in Haiti, I came with a heart full of joy, love and an eagerness to absorb every ounce of knowledge and understanding I could of this broken, yet beautiful island that was enwrapped in such an enigma. 

I spent a good chunk of my first few years pushing out the negative. Refusing to fall into the mindset that Haiti was irreparable, and that Haitians were not to be trusted seeing that the only things they did well were lie and steal.

I refused to believe that this was the norm, this was the majority. I wanted to believe that love truly could conqueror all, it could even repair a life that had been shrouded in misery and compounded in trauma. 

Even when I would hear of negative stories of theft and betrayal, I would think to myself how I would be one of those unscathed by the evils of the poverty mentality. 

However, what I failed to realize is that poverty is no simple monster.

Poverty is a viscous force that is its own trauma in of itself. It shapes your brain and understanding to believe that today is all you have, and if you don't do everything in your power to survive, you may not live to see tomorrow.

Poverty has a way of stripping a person from their dignity. It teaches them that defense mechanisms are their weapons, and pride is their currency. 

Men feel powerless with lack of opportunity and means to make a living wage, and release their aggression in fits of rage and domination over women. Women in turn accept this mistreatment, and are led to believe that their bodies are commodities, and they too have to be hardened and distrusting because this life will never cease to deal them an unfortunate hand.

Poverty destroys.

Poverty strangles, decimates, and poverty devours. 

And this is not only in Haiti where these truths are proven evident. 

This is a life when poverty wins.

As my time in Haiti has gone from weeks to months, and months to years, slowly, the rose colored glasses have had to come off. 

These truths have gradually worn me down as I trudge through what feels like betrayal and defeat. It is gut wrenching to feel that all you have done is love someone and shown them genuine kindness, and yet, it somehow isn't enough.

It's exhausting, disheartening and unbearably discouraging. 

A feeling that makes you feel as though giving up is the only option.

I've had to face the harsh realities that sometimes, no matter how much goodness I project into my world, there are situations that poverty will win.

There will be people, whom I love, who lie, and cheat, and rob me blind.

There will be people who, at the end of the day, don't see me as anything other than a white foreigner (blan), thus resembling a robust bank account with a never ending stream of income, and therefore seek to take advantage for their personal gain at any turn. 

There are people, whom after years of honesty and devotion, will sometimes reach a place of desperation, in which stealing seems to be the only option. 

It will never stop hurting to feel violated, disregarded, and used. It will never stop hurting when the stereotypes are proven painfully true, no matter how much I want them to be wrong. 

 But, my enemy are not a people who have been plagued by misfortune, no, my enemy is an intangible force that breeds lies through deceitful words that cause the people I love so to make decisions that jeopardize their lives, safety and futures. 

There will forever be situations in which the evil, crippling force of poverty will indeed triumph. 

However, there are still, far more situations filled with beauty, filled with reminders that there is hope that together, true change can occur. 

It will take generations to undo the devastation of centuries of poverty, but, I will never stop believing that my tiny drops in the bucket are making and impact.

I'm not sure I'll ever get used to manipulation, or the realization of betrayal from someone I loved, but I do hope that rather than embitter, and jade me, they make me all the more tender and understanding of a life that I will never live. 

My prayer is that my heart would remain open and humble to listen and learn just how severe and haunting the fear of not knowing where your next meal may come from can be. 

And yet, amongst all the pain, the suffering and the brokenness, there is a beauty, there is a magic, and strength that poverty hasn't quite been able to extinguish. 

Unparalleled strength lies within our souls, and that strength continues to cause my spirit to rise with the hope that although there are days when poverty wins, there are many more when I get to see its defeat.