The Ripple Effect

A couple of weeks ago, while rehearsing with Deborah Cheetham-Fraillon (Yorta Yorta woman, Soprano and Composer) at the Festival of the Voices in Hobart, she posed a thought-provoking question that has lingered with me: "What happens to the notes once the music is performed, where does it go?" Perhaps we'll never truly know. Perhaps music becomes part of a memory or brings comfort on a difficult day. Perhaps it reminds someone of a loved one or quietly changes our perspective on the world. The singer rarely knows the full impact of their performance, not often giving it a second thought. But Deborah's question made me reflect, and I'm grateful she shared that insight! In my work, we frequently discuss the ripple effect of kindness. We may never truly know the impact of kindness we offer, and sometimes we only recognize the difference we've made years later—or, in some cases, not at all. I think kindness has a similar quality to music. When I ponder this, I think of my high school music teacher, Mr. De Rosier. An American living in a small Australian town during the 1980s and 90s, he faced challenges, including being a gay man in a time filled with prejudice. Reflecting on that now, I understand he shouldered burdens that many of us adolescents didn’t fully comprehend at the time. Concurrently, I was dealing with my own struggles. My parents were divorcing, and home didn't always feel safe. During those times, school became a place I merely endured—except for the music room. The music room was my refuge. One rainy lunchtime, a group of us was sent there to avoid the weather. While some students were misbehaving, Mr. De Rosier entered and ordered everyone to leave. I spoke up, feeling it unfair for the entire group to be punished for a few. He responded with anger, telling me to "go home to your mommy and daddy. You go cry to them." He didn't realize those words hit a child for whom home was not always a sanctuary. I returned home feeling unsettled, and my mum explored what had transpired. She contacted the school to explain our family situation. The next day, something remarkable happened: Mr. De Rosier publicly apologized to me over the school PA system. Reflecting on that moment now, I realize how much humility it must have taken for him to do that. However, what has truly stayed with me over the years isn't merely the apology; it's what followed. He gifted me a bass guitar, taught me to read bass clef, invited me to join the concert band and stage band, and created a safe space for me to spend my afternoons. He instilled a sense of purpose in my life. Years later, while working as a nurse at St Vincent's Hospital, I heard someone calling, "Miss Sara! Miss Sara!" I turned to see Mr. De Rosier who introduced me to his partner as he awaited his clinic appointment. Later, when he was hospitalized, I visited him and brought the peaches he had requested. At the time, it felt like such a small gesture, but he has since passed away. I never had the chance to express to him what he meant to me. I didn't get to share that a timid teenager carried forward the gift he had given her into every phase of her career. Each time I strive to create a space where another person feels safe, each moment I choose curiosity over judgment, each time I remind someone to see the person beyond their diagnosis, and every time I sit with another individual to make them feel seen, heard, and valued, I am still drawing on the impact of kindness he imparted to me. We often say that people might not remember precisely what we said or even who we were, but they will remember how we made them feel. I believe this to be true not just for those living with dementia but for all of us. Perhaps that’s our legacy—not the titles we hold or the achievements we gather—but the feelings we leave with others. Mr. De Rosier likely never grasped where the music went. He may have never realized that one heartfelt apology, one bass guitar, and one act of belief would ripple through decades of my life, influencing those he would never meet. That’s the extraordinary aspect of kindness. Like music, once it departs from us, it no longer belongs to us. It travels, and perhaps our greatest privilege lies in not knowing where our own music will go. Perhaps we all carry someone else’s music. I’d love to hear about the person who quietly changed your life’s course. Who are they, and what makes them unforgettable? Until next time...

There are moments in our professional lives that feel almost ordinary. A conversation at the end of a shift. A few extra minutes spent listening. An apology. An invitation to join in. A quiet act of encouragement. At the time, they rarely feel like defining moments; we move on to the next person, the next task, the next day. But the person on the receiving end may carry that moment for decades, illustrating the ripple effect of kindness in our everyday interactions.

This week, I've been reflecting on the impact of kindness during our routine exchanges. Not the major achievements that define a career, but the small moments that quietly shape another person's life. I've come to believe that the words we choose, the way we respond to distress, our willingness to remain curious rather than judgmental, or simply creating a space where someone feels safe, heard, and valued can have an impact far beyond what we ever witness.

People may not remember every conversation or detail of an interaction, but they often remember how someone made them feel. Whether they felt safe. Whether they felt seen. Whether they felt respected. And, as Michael Verde beautifully reminds us, whether they felt interesting enough for someone to genuinely want to have a conversation with them. Those feelings often become the lasting memory of the encounter.

As clinicians, educators, leaders, and carers, we rarely see the full impact of our work. Much of it disappears into someone else's story. Occasionally, we're given the privilege of hearing how we made a difference; more often, we aren't. Perhaps that's exactly as it should be.

Our role isn't to collect evidence of our impact; it's to keep showing up with humility, compassion, and integrity, trusting that even the smallest acts of kindness may continue rippling long after we've forgotten them. Who might still be carrying something you gave them years ago, without you ever knowing? This is the essence of professional insight stories–the profound change initiated by simple acts of kindness.