By Mathieu Gagnon
Ladders are intriguing things, aren’t they? Well…not really, I know. But let’s pretend they are for a minute. They often come up when we talk about progress – “climbing the corporate ladder”, “moving up the social ladder”, “grabbing a rung on the ladder of success”, etc. They symbolize aspiration, upward movement, and achievement.
But they also have a dark side. Ok I know that sounds a bit overdramatic – but hear me out. In August 2024, one particular ladder (more precisely, the unforgiving space between its top rung and the hard ground on which it stood—plus gravity…thank you very much Sir Isaac Newton!) turned our quiet family life upside down.
I was inside making lunch when I heard my wife cry out from the outside patio. I had never heard her make sounds of pain like that before – not even during two childbirths. The cries and wails were raw, almost animal-like, bone-chilling. She had fallen from our ladder and landed hard on the patio stones. When I reached her, she was crumpled on the ground, twisted, almost frozen. It was horrifying. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I called the ambulance that took her away, did my best to soothe our son as he seemed to spiral into a panic attack, and eventually drove with him to the hospital so we could all be reunited. We live in Kingston, Ontario—beautiful, but far from family. My brother is hours away. My mother is even further. In that moment, I felt very alone.
As we sat in the small, white-and-grey ER room, harshly lit by fluorescent lights, we learned the full extent of her injuries: both wrists broken, her pelvis fractured in two places. Thankfully, she could feel and move her feet—an incredible relief, as it meant her spinal cord was intact. Still, I felt overwhelmed and needed to tell someone—anyone—what we were going through. Calling my mother or brother felt too overwhelming at that moment. I didn’t want to answer a flood of worried questions or manage their reactions from afar. I just needed comfort.
Almost instinctively I reached for my phone, opened WhatsApp, and sent a private message to a few friends from FIGT. Within minutes, I had a space to share the moment, to feel heard and supported. These weren’t only names on a screen or tiny profile pictures, they were real people—scattered across time zones and continents—who responded in ways that truly mattered. And they embodied the notion that community isn’t defined by geography or proximity, but by presence.
My wife eventually returned home after a week in the hospital. And so started a long process of caretaking. The physical side of things—helping her in and out of bed, washing her, feeding her, supporting her through daily routines—was tiring. The emotional toll was just as heavy: Worry, sadness, anger, etc. And then there was the social loss. I missed my regular FIGT activities and the people I got to talk to every week. I missed the spontaneous chats, the projects, the virtual meetings, the shared laughs and ideas. And I wondered: what would happen to those connections now that I was no longer available to partake and contribute to them? Would I slowly lose the community I had found only a few months prior to my wife’s unfortunate accident? Short answer: I didn’t. As the fog slowly began to lift over the months, I found that my community was still there. Nothing had changed even tough I had been silent and absent. And now that I think about it, how could it be otherwise? FIGT is a community made up of people who know what it’s like to come and go. To live through transition. They understand how to hold space for someone—even from a distance, and even when that person needs to step away for a while.
Today, my wife is doing much better and continues to heal. And me? I’m more connected to the FIGT community than ever. So here’s what I learned: If you need someone, reach out to us. Don’t hesitate, don’t second-guess whether it’s the “right time” or “too much.” Reach out the way you would to a close friend or family. Someone—likely many people—will be there for you. We won’t be able to heal broken bones or cure disease, but we will support you, comfort you, and remind you that you are never truly alone.
Mathieu Gagnon is a Canadian diplomatic Adult Third Culture Kid and a member of FIGT since January 2024. His international upbringing spans France, Morocco, Canada, Côte d’Ivoire, Haiti, and Switzerland. He now resides in Kingston, Ontario, with his wonderful wife and two children. Mathieu serves as a professor of psychology at the Royal Military College of Canada and co-hosts the TCK Research Podcast with his friend and colleague, Andrea Schmitt.
