This reflection was written by Jeroham Meléndez, who works in communications at Dio, for this week’s Wingèd Ox, a weekly news digest distributed to the college community. You will find reflections from previous weeks here.

In early September, my family and I visited La Ronde, the local amusement park operated by Six Flags, continuing our annual tradition. This year, for the first time, my eleven-year-old daughter was excited to ride Goliath (the big roller coaster) with me. I was equally excited to share the experience with her and discover new ways to bond with her. Yet, alongside the thrill of the drops and turns, I was also concerned about how she was experiencing the ride and whether she was safe.

On October 12, a tragic accident on the same roller coaster at a Six Flags park in Georgia claimed the life of a 42-year-old man. A few days later, I saw on Instagram that Six Flags had closed nine roller coasters across its parks, including La Ronde’s Goliath. When I first read the news, I was disappointed. I enjoyed the attraction and found myself joining others in lamenting its closure.

But something stayed with me after I put my phone down. Later that day, I read more about the accident and the man who had died. I learned his name and saw photographs he had shared on social media that day. Suddenly, this was no longer simply news about an attraction closing. It was the story of a human being whose life had ended tragically, a family facing an unimaginable loss, and a child who had been riding beside his father, just as my daughter had been beside me on that very same roller coaster. As I thought about how I had enjoyed the ride while worrying about her safety, I could not help wondering whether this father had felt the same way about his own child. The thought brought the tragedy much closer to home.

I found myself deeply affected. I could not know what that man had experienced in his final moments, but I could no longer think of the accident as an abstract event. I returned to my original social media comment and changed it, wanting to express something more fitting in the face of another person’s suffering.

What struck me most was how easily my attention had initially settled on my own disappointment. I do not think this makes me particularly insensitive; rather, it reminded me of how easily any of us can become absorbed in our own concerns, allowing indifference to creep in and another person’s suffering to remain just another piece of news, distant from our own lives.

At Dio, we describe ourselves as a learning community that educates and forms compassionate, courageous, and creative leaders. I find myself returning to that word, compassion, and what it asks of us: recognising the dignity of people we may never meet, remaining attentive to suffering beyond our immediate circles, and allowing the experiences of others to challenge our assumptions and priorities.

We cannot carry the weight of every tragedy in the world, nor can we know every person’s story. But we can ask God to make us more attentive, more compassionate, and less confined by the boundaries of our own experience. In a world where suffering can become just another headline, may we learn to see one another not as strangers or inconveniences, but as neighbours worthy of our love.