The coffee had already gone lukewarm by the time I noticed it. I was sitting in my office, phone unusually quiet for once, the steady hum of the corridor outside softer than usual. In between waiting for the next referral to come through, I glanced at this prompt and thought I’d skim it quickly. A simple question, I assumed. Something abstract. Hypothetical.

Then—almost annoyingly—it stayed with me.

If I had the power to change one law, what would it be?

Poof. Just like that, the answer surfaced before I could overthink it.

I would change the law so that mental health care becomes universally accessible, properly funded, and treated with the same urgency and respect as physical health. Not as an afterthought. Not as a stretched service with disclaimers and waiting lists that quietly stretch for months. But as a protected right.

Maybe it’s the nature of the work I’m surrounded by. You learn very quickly that not all emergencies arrive dramatically. Some walk in slowly. Some whisper. Some look composed. Some speak clearly but carry something fractured underneath. There are people who function at work, reply to emails, smile in meetings, attend family gatherings—while internally negotiating exhaustion, grief, trauma, anxiety, or despair.

And too often, help is conditional.

It depends on where you live.
It depends on what you earn.
It depends on how severe your symptoms are—how “bad enough” you appear.

There’s something unsettling about a system that responds fastest when someone is already at the edge.

If I could change one law, I would remove that edge.

I would make preventive mental health care as normal as a GP appointment. Funded therapy sessions without bureaucratic acrobatics. Shorter waiting times by properly staffing services instead of stretching professionals thin. Mental health education embedded early in schools—not just “be kind” posters, but real emotional literacy. Teaching children how to name their feelings, how to regulate, how to ask for help without shame.

I would require workplaces to go beyond performative wellness weeks. Psychological safety would not be optional. Burnout would not be worn like a badge of honor. Compassionate leadership would not be a personality trait—it would be policy.

Because here’s the truth that lingers in rooms people rarely talk about: untreated mental health struggles ripple outward. They affect relationships. Productivity. Physical health. Parenting. Decision-making. Entire communities.

And prevention is always quieter than crisis. Less dramatic. Less headline-worthy. But far more powerful.

As I sit here, waiting for that phone to ring again, I realize this law wouldn’t be about idealism. It would be about practicality. It would reduce long-term costs. It would reduce avoidable suffering. It would support professionals who are currently trying to hold too much with too little.

Most of all, it would send a message.

The phone hasn’t rung yet. The corridor is still steady. My coffee is now completely cold.

That your mind matters as much as your body.
That asking for help is not weakness.
That you do not need to collapse before you are considered worthy of support.

But the answer feels clear.

If I could change one law, I would build a system that doesn’t wait for people to break before it decides to care.