22/10/2026
I spent much of today reflecting on yesterday. For context, the SAFE Centre opens on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays between 9:00 AM and 12:00 PM for emergency relief, and until 2:00 PM for our Allsorts Café. So yesterday we were closed, but I was at the building preparing for an important forum for older generations, hosted by our local MP, Chris Picton.
The doorbell rang, and I could see a lady outside who looked quite distressed. Even though we were closed, I went to speak with her. She told me she was looking for her son (let’s call him Brad). She hadn’t seen or heard from him in a week. Though Brad was doing it tough, he always kept in contact with her, and she was at her wits' end. She asked if I knew him, or if he had visited us for a meal, emergency relief, a shower, or laundry, mentioning he was "couch surfing" in the area.
The name sounded familiar, but we see so many people that it’s impossible to remember everyone. Yet, as we talked, her story hit me hard—it's a story I have heard far too often. Brad struggled with mental health issues and life was tough for him. He couldn’t live at home for various reasons, but he was also unlikely to manage without assistance in a home of his own. He had fallen through the cracks of the system for years, but none of that had changed a mother’s love for her son. She had weathered years of worry, and that unwavering love was written in every line on her face. She had feared for him many times before, but this time she feared the worst. Had something happened to him? Had he reached a new low and decided he couldn't do this anymore? We were her last port of call before contacting the police.
As she spoke, I grew fairly certain I knew Brad and asked if she had a photo. She did, and it confirmed that I did know him reasonably well from the past few months.
That was when I felt conflicted. We are called the SAFE Centre for a reason; some people come to us because they don't want others to know where they are—especially in domestic violence situations, but also with homelessness. Some want to escape, some are ashamed, and others just want privacy. What should I do? My first duty of care was to Brad, but I also couldn't imagine what it would feel like to be unable to contact my own child.
To cut a long story short, she gave me enough confidence (and I knew Brad well enough) that I felt comfortable telling her I had seen Brad just a few days ago, and that he seemed to be doing OK. The relief on her face was tangible. I could tell, however, that even though this was the news she hoped for, she wouldn't truly be at peace until she saw him with her own eyes or heard his voice. We continued to talk, and I offered what advice I could, but deep down, I knew nothing less than hearing from him would bring her total peace.
Then, I witnessed something that could be put down as coincidental but it's hard to fully convey it's significance in this post. For about 20 minutes, my empathy for Brad’s mum had grown, and her despair had impacted me deeply. I wanted to know Brad was OK, too. I had never met this woman before, but our lives had intertwined through a common concern; her worries had become mine.
Suddenly, her phone rang with an unrecognized number. Thinking it might be news about Brad, she answered. As her eyes welled up, I watched her tears fall and act like a magic elixir. Colour flooded back into her face, her whole countenance changed, and her soul—which had been in the pit of hell—rose to the highest heaven. Of course it did. She was speaking to Brad!
I have been left profoundly impacted by how vital empathy is in our world. In recent years, I’ve heard some say it’s a weakness. Our most powerful leaders often imply that to win or succeed, you have to discard compassion. Well I don’t know about you but I can’t imagine living in a world like that – I want to care about Brad, and his mum, and to be honest I want you who have read this far to care too!
