The Weight I Carry by terrence

The Weight I Carry by terrence - February 2026 Scholarship Essay

Identity is a strange, shifting thing for me. Most days, I’m walking this tightrope between a deep, bone-deep pride in being Haitian and this nagging feeling that I’m an outsider looking in at my own classmates. In my community, "getting by" isn't the goal. Survival is the baseline. I learned that lesson earlier than most when I lost my mother. That kind of loss doesn't just go away; it sits in your gut. I decided to move that weight. I funneled all that silence and grief into two places: the football field and the powerlifting rack. People see me under a heavy bar and see strength, but they don't see the work ethic it took to get there. Powerlifting taught me that you don’t grow by avoiding the heavy stuff—you grow by getting under it and pushing back.

But I'll be honest: I wasn't always this vocal. When I first stepped into an American classroom, the gap between me and the other kids felt like a physical wall. I was the immigrant kid with the "wrong" accent and the "wrong" clothes. I did what a lot of people do to survive—I tried to disappear. I started pushing my culture into the background, trying to be more "American" so I wouldn't stand out. My Creole started to rust from lack of use. I thought that by shedding my Haitian self, I could navigate life as a Black man in this country with less friction. I was fitting in, sure. But I was also hollowing myself out.

The shift happened at [Name of High School]. Watching my peers own their stories made me realize my mistake: my Haitian roots weren't a burden. They were my armor. I stopped hiding. I started bringing that "never-quit" energy to my team as a senior leader on the field, and I started speaking my language again with the people who actually knew me. I finally understood that the raw power I use to squat hundreds of pounds is the exact same resilience my ancestors used to survive so that I could be standing here today.

Now, I spend my Tuesday afternoons in a small classroom helping Haitian ESOL students with their homework. It’s a funny dynamic—I’m the teacher on paper, but I’m the student in reality. As I help them with math or English, they’re helping me reclaim my voice, sharpening my Creole, and keeping me grounded. They’re my weekly reminder that being Haitian means winning when the odds say you shouldn't. I’m not just chasing a degree for myself anymore. I’m doing it for the mother I lost and for a culture that refused to let me stay small.