By Stephanie Robert
I grew up in Immokalee, Florida – a town densely populated with Hispanic and Haitian immigrants, all striving for better lives in the United States. Yet, health care access was scarce. With only two small clinics, medical care was limited to annual check-ups, dental screenings and vaccinations.
When the pandemic struck, barriers to health care access grew. COVID-19 fears increased the anxiety around seeking medical care. Hospitals were far away, and for many, including my mother, seeing a doctor became a last resort. Even as her symptoms worsened, she avoided seeking help. Months before her diagnosis, my mom began experiencing severe symptoms — vomiting constantly and developing a persistent cough. Despite my pleas, she put off seeing a doctor.
Her reluctance to seek medical care wasn’t solely due to COVID-19 fears; it was also shaped by her distrust in a health care system that often felt hostile to people like her. For immigrant communities, language barriers and a lack of culturally sensitive care can feel like insurmountable obstacles. My mother’s hesitation reflected a broader issue faced by non-English speakers who fear that their needs and voices won’t be understood or respected.
Finally, after four months, I convinced her to visit her primary care doctor. I could see the hesitation in her eyes, but she agreed. After a brief examination, we were quickly sent to the emergency room. There, we waited for hours, anxiety filling the room. When the doctor finally called us in, the news hit like a tidal wave: My mother had uterine cancer, and it had metastasized.
As a 15-year-old, hearing that news was overwhelming, but explaining the diagnosis to my mother was even more challenging. She didn’t speak English, so I had to translate the doctor’s words into Haitian Creole for her, holding back my own tears. I did my best to interpret the gravity of the situation, although I didn’t fully understand what “metastasized” meant at the time. Still, I knew it sounded terrifying, as though hope was slipping through our fingers.
The drive home was a silent and painful journey. I fought to hold back my tears, not wanting to cry in front of my mom and stepdad. But as soon as we got home, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I went to my room, closed the door, and let the tears flow. My mom, hearing me, came into my room and sat on the edge of my bed. In a rare moment of vulnerability, she held me close and told me, “Pa kriye, mwen bezwen ou fò pou mwen, pou nou. Kriye pa pote anyen pou nou.” Translated, it means, “Don’t cry, I need you to be strong for me, for us. Crying does not benefit us.” In Caribbean culture, emotions aren’t often expressed openly, so her words were a significant expression of love and strength. Seeing her break down for the first time made everything feel even more real and raw.
After her diagnosis, my mom had surgery to remove her uterus and the cancerous masses that had spread to other parts of her body. Following that, she began chemotherapy, a grueling process that drained her physically and emotionally. But beyond the physical toll, one of her biggest struggles was navigating the language barrier. Though I translated for her when possible, I couldn’t always be there, and my frequent school absences weren’t sustainable. My mom often had to face her treatments and appointments alone, with a limited understanding of English. I watched her become more reserved and withdrawn. We began to realize that the healthcare system wasn’t designed for people like my mom.
My mother’s journey was not just a battle against cancer; it was also a fight against the systemic inequities embedded in health care. Immigrant communities like ours often face these same challenges, where a lack of language accessibility prevents individuals from advocating for their health. Ensuring language accessibility is crucial so non-English speakers can navigate their care with dignity and understanding.
Studies show patients who are not fluent in English often receive lower-quality care, leading to poorer health outcomes. A 2021 study found that the mortality risk for Latinx children in multiple pediatric intensive care was 3.7 times mortality risk than their White and African American peers. This disparity was reduced to comparable levels after hospitals implemented interventions that included hiring additional bilingual staff and expanding interpreter services.
Through this experience, my mother has taught me the importance of resilience and the power of community. Despite the many barriers she faced, she remained strong, not just for herself but for our family. Her journey highlighted the urgency of health care reform that bridges language gaps and ensures all patients, regardless of their background or language proficiency, receive high-quality, compassionate care.
My hope is that by sharing her story, others in similar situations might feel empowered to seek the care they deserve, and that health care systems will recognize the critical need for inclusivity. Language barriers should never be the reason someone hesitates to seek help, nor should they result in lower quality care. Immigrant communities bring strength, diversity and resilience to this country, and they deserve a health care system that values and protects their well-being just as much as anyone else’s.
Stephanie Robert is a third-year public health major.
“My public health story” essays originated from an assignment on public health storytelling for a public health messaging and dissemination course led by Brittney Dixon-Daniel, Ph.D., M.P.H., director of the Bachelor of Public Health program.