Adrian Barich: Telethon Giving Ceremony a window into what is truly most important

There aren’t many events where you stop off at Woolies on the way in and buy tissues, just in case.

Then again, there’s nothing quite like the Telethon Giving Celebration.

It was held this week in the Crown Ballroom. Around 800 people, including the Premier, Deputy Premier, Kerry Stokes and Christine Simpson Stokes, Richard and Janine Goyder, the Governor and his wife . . . you get the picture.

But the importance of titles and positions disappear pretty quickly at Telethon. The big T is a bit like footy; it’s a great leveller.

Because what unfolds in that room takes you somewhere else entirely.

A place many of us are lucky enough never to have experienced. A place of unimaginable pain. The loss of a child or the daily fight to keep one alive.

It’s confronting. For those of us who don’t mind a bit of a whinge about the traffic or the umpires, it’s a solid reality check. The truth is, many of us have no real concept of what some families go through.

But for a few hours in that ballroom, you get a glimpse.

Telethon has this unique way of reminding you, very quickly, what actually matters.

You walk out feeling like someone’s pressed a reset button.

Because in the middle of our busy lives, Telethon quietly puts everything back into perspective. It asks a simple question: What are you doing for others?

And suddenly, the small stuff doesn’t feel quite so big anymore.

One moment, from the ceremony in 2023, will stay with me forever. A mum, Preeti, stood up to speak about her daughter Ziya, who passed away just shy of her second birthday. Then her six-year-old daughter Mahi spoke.

“My family said Ziya couldn’t hear anything,” she said. “But I still used to talk to her. She always had the best giggle. It made me so happy. I loved her.”

I don’t think there was a person in that room who didn’t break.

But what stayed with me wasn’t just the heartbreak.

It was what came after.

In the middle of that grief, Preeti made a decision. She chose purpose.

A physiotherapist set out to become a doctor, to help save other children. To give meaning to Ziya’s life.

And guess what? This year, she’s about to graduate.

Think about that for a moment.

In the face of something that would crush most of us, she found a way to channel her pain for good. Not just for herself, but for others.

And beside her was Mahi, still carrying that same love and already talking about following in her mum’s footsteps. Wanting to help. Wanting to save lives.

We hear the phrase “turn your pain into purpose” all the time. It can sound like a throwaway line. But sitting in that room, watching stories like this unfold, you see human nature at its very best.

Out of heartbreak can come something meaningful and with Telethon, you see it again and again.

Families who have every reason to retreat from the world (it must be so tempting) instead step forward to help others.

Kids who could be defined by illness are instead defined by courage.

Grief is turned into action. And it humbles you. Take young Josh. He’s been a carer for his beautiful sister since he was six.

She needed round-the-clock care and ultimately it led him to also study medicine. It kinda forces us all to stand back and look at our own lives and ask a pretty simple question: Am I doing enough?

Take Lionheart Camp for Kids. They help children and teenagers navigate their grief journey following the death of a loved one.

That’s what Telethon represents.

Yes, it’s about the extraordinary amount of money raised each year — and that impact is enormous.

But it’s also about something less tangible, and maybe even more powerful.

Connection. Community. And a shared belief that we can make life a little better for someone else.

It’s Western Australia at its very best. Not just big donations. It’s the big hearts.

So yes, the tears will come year after year. They always do.

And if someone’s trying to hide theirs, it’s probably a nice thing to pretend you didn’t notice.

But alongside the tears comes something else. Perspective. Gratitude. And maybe a realisation that a meaningful life isn’t measured by what we accumulate, but by what we give — and who we lift up along the way.