Kevin Berthia awakened on the worst morning of his life and decided, after years of struggling with depression, to drive to the Golden Gate Bridge and plunge.

Berthia, who was 22 years old at the time and lived in Oakland, California, had never visited the famous monument before and had to ask for directions several times along the route.

However, minutes after parking in a space near the north end of the bridge on March 11, 2005, he left his keys in the ignition and began strolling along the 1.7-mile width, staring down at the San Francisco Bay, and told himself, “The water is my freedom.” “I am ready.”

Before long, the young father who had recently lost his job and was drowning in medical costs following his daughter’s premature birth climbed over the railing and found himself balancing on a thin metal conduit that ran around the exterior of the bridge.

The icy water of the bay swirled 220 feet beneath him.

“I started my countdown,” Berthia remembers today. “And I braced myself for impact.”

Then something unexpected occurred. Two decades later, Berthia still refers to it as “a miracle.”

California Highway Patrol Sgt. Kevin Briggs, whose responsibilities included keeping an eye on the bridge, happened to be traveling by when he noticed Berthia on the opposite side of the railing, lost in concentration as he grabbed the metal framework.

Throughout his tenure, Briggs prevented more than 200 individuals, including Berthia, from jumping to their deaths from the bridge. He was dubbed “the guardian of the Golden Gate Bridge.”

When he noticed Berthia, he moved quietly into action.

“Hi,” Briggs recalls saying to Berthia, who was peering attentively into the ocean. “Is it acceptable if I come over and talk to you for a while? I am not going to touch you. I’m just here to chat to you and listen.”

Briggs persuaded Berthia to speak up about why he intended to commit himself over the following 92 minutes.

“I never try to tell anyone what to do,” Briggs adds. “I simply listen with empathy and understanding, allow them to express their feelings, and then encourage them to consider returning.”

It works.

Berthia says that, for the first time in his life, he confessed his “deepest, darkest secrets” to Briggs. He dragged himself back over the railing and was brought to a nearby hospital, where he spent the following 11 days.

Berthia’s mental health issues resurfaced shortly after she came home.

“For the next eight years,” he relates. “I went back into one of the deepest, darkest depressions I’ve ever experienced.”

But things began to change in 2013, when the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention approached Briggs, who was about to retire after 23 years with the state highway police.

The group wanted to recognize the veteran patrolman for his service and hoped to have one of the people he had saved from leaping receive his medal at a ceremony in New York The only issue was his lack of communication with those whose lives he had saved.

ow accept their request.

The only problem was that he had never communicated with any of the people whose lives he had helped save. The only “thank you” he ever received was from Berthia’s mother, Narvella, who wrote him a note.

“I never followed up with anyone because I never wanted to be a trigger,” Briggs adds, admitting that he understands why none of the bridge survivors had ever contacted him:”They want to forget that day.” “They want to put it behind them.”

Briggs drove to the return address Berthia’s mother had placed on the mail, introduced himself, and informed her of the impending wedding.

Narvella rapidly devised a scheme to get her son, who had already tried suicide a dozen times, to New York for the event, convincing him that he had won an all-expenses-paid vacation to the city through a radio station.

When Berthia came and finally saw the guy who had saved his life, he was astounded.

“I was like, ‘Dang, this whole time it was a cop who saved me,'” says Berthia, who was so consumed by the dark thoughts unfolding inside his head that day in 2005 that he never looked up to see who I wouldn’t have opened up to him the way I did if I had known who he was.”never had any positive encounters with law officers. If I had realized who he was, I would not have opened up to him the way I did.”

Berthia understood it didn’t matter after meeting him.

“We’ve been friends ever since,” adds Briggs, who is 62 years old and has survived cancer and childhood sexual assault. Berthia claims that their bond goes deeper than that.

“We’re more like brothers,” he explains. “What transpired that day was unrelated to the fact that he was white and I was Black. It’s all about the power of connection, namely human connection.”

Berthia’s reconnection changed his life, as he delivered an unexpected speech while presenting Briggs with his award, which stunned the hundreds of people in attendance.

“I talked about everything that led me to the bridge that day,” he shares. “For the first time in my life, I was myself, the person I had always wished to be. I was upfront, honest, and vulnerable. ” And when I finished, the entire room stood up.”

Berthia realized for the first time in his life that he wasn’t alone in his suicidal thoughts, and he was inspired to do all he could to alter things.

In the years that followed, he not only discovered the skills he needed to manage his depression better, but he also established an eponymous organization dedicated to reducing stigma from mental illness and therapy. A

“Never in a million years did I think that my living in this dark place could help others,” Berthia, who is now forty-two, says. He has delivered speeches to thousands of individuals, including police academy graduates and primary school students.

He collaborates with Briggs, who has also developed into a polished and strong speaker on the subject of suicide prevention, presenting their riveting narrative several times a year.

Their goal is to inspire people to do what Briggs did on that fateful day 20 years ago, when the two men first met on the Golden Gate Bridge. Suicide is still common: the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimates that over 49,000 individuals will commit suicide in 2023.

“It really is all about just listening and not feeding these folks [in crisis] a bunch of crap, telling them they’re going to help people in crises realize it’s about learning how to talk to someone who is suffering.”

Both guys said their purpose is to assist folks in crises to recognize they are not alone.

“It’s a crappy subject,” admits Briggs, “but we have a great time.”

Berthia comments, “It’s not an easy topic to talk about, but as I always tell people, ‘Kevin makes you think, and I make you feel.'”