Author: Jamie Hopkins

 I was nine years old when six-time Olympic medalist Clara Hughes stopped in my town on the final days of her cross-Canada bicycle tour – an initiative with a goal of starting conversations and ending the stigma surrounding mental health. I remember how incredibly excited I was to see those gold medals up close, and how cool it was to stand at the end of my driveway, holding handmade signs and cheering as Clara and her team rode by.

Amongst all the excitement of seeing those medals and dreaming of the day I’d have my own, there was one moment of Clara’s visit that I still think about to this day – a moment that her message surrounding the importance of mental health advocacy really stuck in my little fourth-grade brain. With the evening summer sun shining just right, and the town gathered together on the shores of the river, Clara started with one simple request: “Raise your hand if you, or anyone you know, has struggled with mental illness at some point in their life.” I didn’t raise my hand. I didn’t think I knew anyone who had a mental illness. And then I looked around. I realized how many hands were raised in the air – some proudly, some tentatively, but raised all the same. I saw my friends’ parents, teachers at my school, members of the community, all with their hands pointed up at that clear blue sky. I was curious, confused, maybe even a little uncomfortable. I wanted to know more, but I didn’t know if I could ask. By the end of the evening, I had heard Clara’s incredibly inspiring story of her mental health journey. But I left with a realization that there were so many other journeys that I had no idea existed.

It wasn’t until my first day of grade eight when this topic of mental health would resurface. The completely candid, honest way in which my teacher approached the topic of mental health was something that I had never seen before. Talking about mental health became more or less as normal as discussing what we had eaten for breakfast. My friends and I began talking openly with each other about our own mental health, and felt comfortable going to our teacher for support. In some of my toughest moments, this culture of openness would be what got me the support I needed without a second’s hesitation – something that I  can never be thankful for enough. I didn’t know it at the time, but that teacher would go on to be one of my first real models in mental health advocacy.

“If you want to bring a fundamental change in people’s belief and behavior…you need to create a community around them, where those new beliefs can be practiced and expressed and nurtured.”

― Malcolm Gladwell, The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference

I firmly believe that it’s the little things that make the biggest differences. Not everyone will have the privilege of listening to the story of an Olympian biking through their town. Everyone, though, has the power of themselves – a power to make a unique difference in the lives of the people they interact with every day. But as Malcolm Gladwell explains, without a community that allows those individual powers to thrive, it isn’t easy to start expressing yourself so vulnerably.

I was fortunate enough to have had a community that served as a safe place for my efforts to live openly about my mental health journey. I never had any reason to feel ashamed when I turned up in the emergency department. I was always seen right away, with care and compassion, no matter how many nights I came back. I was always taken seriously when I reached out for help at school. That validation and acceptance did much of the groundwork to lead me to being open and honest about my mental health struggles.

You won’t always be recognized for your advocacy efforts, and much of the time, you’ll have no idea if the little things you’re doing are making any difference. But trust me, someone, somewhere, is benefiting from your authenticity. It’s when I tell colleagues that I have to go for a psych appointment, and a curious co-worker sparks a meaningful discussion. It’s when I take my meds during class and someone asks me about it later, and then shares their own medication journey. It’s when I have the opportunity to be candid about my daily struggles. It’s when conversations start. That’s when the little things start making big differences.

Maybe you’re an Olympian biking 12000 kilometres across a country. Maybe you’re a teacher shaping the minds of our future leaders. Maybe you’re a doctor caring for hundreds of patients a day. Or maybe you’re like me – someone who has their own journey, their own experiences, and their own unique ways of making it through each day. No matter who we are, we are making a difference.

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