I work with superheroes for a living. I’m an FX Artist. When my nieces and nephews ask what that means, I tell them I’m the one who gives superheroes their special powers.
That might sound playful, but it’s serious work. In movies, powers don’t appear by accident. Someone decides what a character can do, when they discover it, and whether they learn how to use that power before the story turns tragic. Powers only matter if they show up at the right moment.
My understanding of that didn’t come from my work alone. It came from my family.
My mom’s father died by suicide in the 1970s. She wasn’t told directly. She learned from another kid on a playground. There was no careful explanation, no adult conversation, no protection for a child receiving news that would shape her life forever.
That loss echoed through our family. Suicidal ideation touched more than one generation. Throughout my childhood, my mom sometimes had to step away from family life to take care of herself. Healing took time. It wasn’t neat or linear.
In my family, suicide was never taboo. It was talked about openly. That openness shaped me. It made the topic speakable, even when it was painful. It also taught me something important early on: silence doesn’t protect people. Tools do.
Outside my family, suicide kept appearing in my life. A student at my school. Someone I went to church with as a teenager. A former teacher I deeply admired, someone who created an inclusive classroom at a time when I was being bullied. That loss stayed with me the most. Over time, the number grew. Four people. And then more.
Eventually, I found my way to the Crisis Centre of BC. At first, I thought helping meant responding at the very end of the story. Instead, I learned something more powerful: prevention is about equipping people earlier.
Through training like safeTALK and ASIST, I learned that one of the most important “powers” you can give someone is language. The ability to ask a hard question plainly: “Are you thinking about suicide?” I learned that caring deeply isn’t a reason to avoid that question. It’s the reason to ask it.
Those tools changed how I show up in the world. I’ve used them with friends who were struggling. I’ve seen how much it matters when someone feels heard instead of alone. I’ve seen how a single, honest question can interrupt the story before it turns tragic.
That’s why I support the work of the Crisis Centre of BC, and why I now volunteer as a Youth Educator. But volunteering isn’t the point. The point is power. The kind of power that helps people notice what’s happening inside themselves. The kind that helps them name distress, ask for help, and recognize the current before they’re pulled under.
As an FX Artist, I give superheroes their powers.
Through the Crisis Centre of BC, people are given real ones.
Training, youth education, and crisis intervention don’t happen by accident. They exist because people choose to support them. If this idea of giving people their powers resonates with you, I invite you to support the work of the Crisis Centre of BC, take one of our training programs, sign up to be a monthly donor or one-time donor, or become a volunteer yourself. Your generosity helps ensure these tools are there when someone needs them, at exactly the right moment.
* This story is shared with permission. Some identifying details, including my name, have been changed to protect privacy and confidentiality.