Tina Nicodemo

When I was around 18 years old, an acquaintance of mine attempted to take his own life. I did not know him well — he was a friend of a friend — but it deeply saddened me that he had reached such a painful place. Something in me felt compelled to act. I decided I would visit him every day in the hospital to show him that there were people in the world, even strangers, who cared about him. If someone else could see value in him, perhaps one day he could begin to see it in himself. On my first visit to the psychiatric ward, the room was silent. He lay in bed while his parents sat quietly beside him. I will never forget the look in his eyes when I walked in: disbelief, confusion, and anger, almost like a wounded animal unsure why someone had entered his space. He never spoke, but I could sense he was trying to understand why I was there. Still, I kept coming back. For weeks, he barely spoke. I would sit with him and talk about ordinary things — music, current events, everyday life. Sometimes we sat in silence. Slowly, over time, he began talking again. One day, I brought him a cassette by my favourite band, Depeche Mode — their album Music for the Masses. He especially connected with the song Never Let Me Down Again. As the weeks passed, we became genuine friends. I was incredibly happy when he became well enough to leave the hospital. Eventually, life returned to normal. We spent time together within our larger friend group for a while, but as often happens, time passed and we gradually lost touch. About seven years later, while on a lunch break from teaching, I stopped at a mall food court to eat. A woman sitting nearby kept looking at me. She eventually approached and asked if I remembered her. I recognized her face but could not place her until she revealed that she was his mother. She thanked me for showing up for her son during one of the darkest periods of his life. She shared that he was doing very well — he had a good job, was living with his girlfriend, and had built a stable life. Then she told me something I never knew at the time: she and her husband had previously lost their daughter, his older sister, to suicide. He was their only remaining child. My heart broke for them. In that moment, I understood more deeply what those quiet hospital visits had meant — not only to him, but also to his parents. While I believed I was simply helping one hurting young man feel less alone, my presence had also given hope and comfort to a grieving family. This experience taught me to trust my instincts when it comes to kindness and compassion. We rarely understand the full impact our actions may have. It also taught me that people often carry struggles we cannot see. Sometimes they cannot find the words to ask for help, even when connection is exactly what they need most. We cannot solve every problem for the people around us, nor should we try to. But we can notice when someone is hurting. We can listen without judgment, remind people they are not alone, and encourage them to seek support. That experience changed me profoundly. It taught me to lead with compassion instead of assumptions and showed me the importance of simply showing up for people. Those lessons continue to shape the mentoring and coaching aspects of the work I do today, and they are a large part of why helping others grow and heal brings me such deep joy.