Who's in Your Lakou?A Reflection for Haitian Heritage Month
In Haitian culture, the lakou is more than a physical courtyard. It’s a way of being—a communal rhythm that guides how we show up for ourselves and one another. It’s where wisdom is exchanged, healing is nurtured, and community is made real. For those of us in the diaspora, the lakou carries even deeper meaning—it holds the promise of reconnection, of rooting ourselves again in something ancestral and enduring.
I was recently reminded of this during Pawòl Lakou, an immersive evening hosted by the Haitian Creole Language Institute of New York. The event brought together Haitian healers and artists who shared modalities that support our spiritual and cultural well-being. Linda Duverné, founder of Sajes Living, spoke about flower essences and their properties for physical and emotional healing. Riva Nyri Précil guided us through a hands-on spiritual candle dressing workshop. There were teas brewed from traditional herbs and food that nourished our bodies while the conversations fed our souls.
Wynnie Lamour Quansah, founder of the Institute, opened the evening by grounding us in the meaning of lakou. And in the midst of her welcome, she offered a question that stayed with me:
Who’s in your lakou?
She wasn’t asking us to name people just for sentiment. She was asking who surrounds us with care, who we learn with, build with, heal with. Who makes up the web of support that keeps us grounded?
And maybe even more urgently—who do you need?
That night, NYU’s small event space transformed into a modern-day lakou. We stood, sat, mingled, learned. We laughed. We shared. And for a few hours, we remembered that community is something we can choose to build, again and again. A week later, I’m still holding the question Wynnie posed. Still asking myself: Who’s in my lakou? Who do I want to gather with now? And how am I showing up in theirs?
As we enter Haitian Heritage Month, this question feels especially timely. The school year is winding down. Educators are pushing through testing season, wrapping up lessons, and supporting students across the finish line. And yet, so many are running on empty. I’ve been there myself—utterly depleted, exhausted in body and spirit, and unaware of how much I was giving until my own health faltered.
In these moments, the lakou is not just metaphor. It’s medicine.
It’s an invitation to pause and reflect:
What do I need right now?
Who is supporting me?
Where can I offer care to someone else?
Who are my people—the ones who see me, uplift me, and walk with me?
Maybe your lakou looks like a monthly gathering. Or a friend you check on every Sunday. Maybe it’s a small circle where you trade meals, wisdom, childcare, or joy. Whatever form it takes, the lakou reminds us that our healing is not a solo act. It’s something we do with and for each other.
This month, I hope we can lean into that truth. I hope we choose to create new lakou spaces—wherever we are. For educators. For parents. For creatives. For the weary and the wondering. For those navigating grief, change, or just the end-of-year stretch.
The lakou holds space for all of it. And that’s why I offer this reflection not as a final word, but as a gentle invitation:
Who’s in your lakou? And who do you need to become to hold space for theirs?
