Adrian Barich: Crying season is back as Telethon shows us the heartbreak and resilience of WA’s sick kids

Righto . . . we’re entering crying season again.

That time of year when the tissues come out and Telethon takes over our screens — and our hearts. A weekend when WA puts the footy banter and daily gripes aside and comes together for something far more important.

A weekend for the sick kids of WA. A weekend of hope. Of heartbreak. Of unfiltered, unforgettable humanity.

You know what I mean. One minute you’re smiling at a kid meeting their footy hero, the next you’re fighting back tears as a parent talks about a diagnosis that turned their world upside down. It’s raw. It’s beautiful. And it’s never been more needed.

Every year, Telethon reminds us of one basic truth: some people are doing it bloody tough. And they didn’t ask for it. They didn’t cause it. They were just handed a raw deal.

It’s a reminder, sometimes gentle, sometimes not, of just how lucky some of us are. And just how incredibly brave, patient and determined others have to be.

It opens our eyes to the terrible luck that some families are dealt. And then, just when you think you can’t take any more, it shows us the love, grit, and the utter magnificence of the people who rise to the challenge.

We’re humbled. Every year.

By the parents who sleep in hospital chairs and somehow still find the strength to smile.

By the kids who battle chronic illness or heartbreaking diagnoses and still find joy.

By the doctors and nurses, modern-day saints, who not only save lives but somehow manage to do it with grace, compassion and calm under pressure.

A few years back, I wrote that Telethon was like a “reset button” for all of us. And I still reckon that’s true.

In a world where we get caught up in trivial things like bad traffic, footy results, and/or flat whites not being hot enough, Telethon slaps us back into perspective.

It reminds us that some people are simply fighting for the right to grow up. And yet, they face it with a kind of courage that leaves the rest of us gobsmacked.

Like two years ago, when I was sitting at the Crown Ballroom for the Telethon Giving Ceremony.

A woman named Preeti Raghwani spoke. Her daughter Ziya had died from mitochondrial disease, just shy of her second birthday. It was the sort of moment where you could hear a pin drop in a room of 800 people. And that was before her other daughter, Mahi, just seven years old, spoke about her sister.

“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 would make me so happy.”

Then she added, quietly, “One morning she was cold, and she wouldn’t wake up. I loved her.”

It absolutely floored me. I wasn’t the only one. There were more tears in that room than you’d find during the final scene of The Notebook on Mother’s Day.

But it wasn’t just grief. Preeti, somehow, found a way to turn her pain into purpose. She stood in front of us and said she was now studying to be a doctor to help save other people’s kids. To give meaning to Ziya’s life. To be her gift to the world.

That’s what Telethon does. It shows us not just the pain but the resilience. The fight. The fierce love that can’t be extinguished, even in the darkest moments.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve found myself more affected by stories like these. These days, I cry at Billy Elliot, at Philadelphia, at Life Is Beautiful. I cry when I hear Eric Clapton’s Tears In Heaven and remember what inspired it. And I definitely cry during Telethon.

But here’s the thing: I’m not ashamed of that anymore.

If there’s one thing Telethon teaches us, it’s that vulnerability is not weakness; it’s the root of compassion. And we could all use a bit more of that.

This weekend, as Telethon returns, we’ll once again see the worst of circumstances met with the best of humanity. Kids who should be riding bikes and starting Auskick are instead learning to fight leukaemia. Parents who should be planning birthdays are instead planning hospital stays.

And yet, somehow, they continue to show up. They smile. They teach the rest of us about grace, grit and perspective.

That’s why we give. Not out of pity, but out of admiration.

Because every dollar raised doesn’t just help, it changes lives. It funds treatment, research, equipment, support programs, and real chances for brighter futures. It helps make miracles happen. And here in WA, we do it better than anyone.

So, if you’re lucky enough to have healthy kids (or grandkids) running around the house this weekend, take a moment. Stop. Hug them a little tighter. Thank your lucky stars.

And then give.

Whether it’s five bucks or $5000, if at all possible, just do your bit. Because you never know when you might be on the other side of that camera, hoping that strangers will care enough to help.

Telethon is WA at its finest. It’s not just the big names and big cheques; it’s the big hearts. It’s the community spirit. It’s the belief that every child deserves a fighting chance, no matter what.

So yeah, crying season is back. Let the tears flow. Let the heart swell.

And let’s do what we always do: dig deep and stand tall.

Telethon 2025 will be held on October 18-19 at RAC Arena. Tickets for the Opening and Closing concerts are on sale: telethon7.com.