That’s me in the photo — Kevin Berthia — standing on the edge of the Golden Gate Bridge.

I didn’t wake up that morning planning to go there. I hadn’t mapped it out or written a note. In fact, I didn’t even know how to get to the bridge. I had to stop and ask someone for directions.

I wasn’t trying to make a statement.

I was just tired.

Tired of pretending I was okay. Tired of holding in years of silent pain. Tired of feeling like I didn’t matter.

I was adopted as a baby and raised in Oakland, where showing emotion was seen as weakness. I learned early on to hold everything in. I became an expert at wearing a mask. Then my daughter was born prematurely. She weighed less than two pounds, and suddenly all the guilt and fear I’d buried came flooding up. I blamed myself. I believed I had failed her, failed my family, failed at life.

I never accepted that I had depression.

I just told myself to push through.

But that day on the bridge, I couldn’t push anymore.

I climbed over the railing, closed my eyes, and tried to find peace in the thought of silence. No more weight. No more shame.

And then I heard a voice behind me.

“Hey, wait a minute…”

It was Officer Kevin Briggs — a man I’d never met, who didn’t know my story, but who saw something in me that I had long stopped seeing in myself: a reason to stay.

He didn’t try to fix me. He didn’t dismiss me. He didn’t give some inspirational speech.

He just stood there and listened.

For 89 minutes, I talked. About things I had never said out loud. About pain I had buried. About fears and failures and that deep, hollow ache I couldn’t explain. And he just stood there, calm and steady, reminding me — not with his words, but with his presence — that I wasn’t invisible.

Eventually, I raised my arms. And he pulled me back.

A photographer captured that moment. The image went viral. That very day, a vote was being held about adding suicide prevention barriers to the bridge. Suddenly, my pain became a headline. A symbol.

But I wasn’t ready to carry that weight. Not yet.

I disappeared again. Silenced myself. Kept living, but not healing.

It wasn’t until eight years later, in 2013, that I stood in front of Officer Briggs again — this time, to present him with an award. For the first time, I looked him in the eyes and said thank you.

That night changed everything.

I realized my story — as broken as it was — could help others.

Not because I was perfect. Not because I had all the answers. But because I was real.

Today, I talk openly about mental health. I speak at schools, prisons, events — anywhere I’m invited — because I believe there is power in vulnerability. I have three beautiful kids, a loving partner, and most importantly, I’ve learned that healing begins with talking.

Depression is still part of my story.

But it’s not the end of it.

I’m still here.

And if you’re hurting — if you’re standing on your own edge — I hope you’ll hear this, too:

You are not alone.

You matter more than you know.

There is help. There is hope. And there is life on the other side of the pain.