OVERDOSE AWARENESS
In the summer of 2010, I waited outside for the school bus to pick me up in the humid heat of North Texas.
My shirt clung to my chest, and I imagined a big bowl of ice cream before me. Cicadas screeched in the fields around me and I longed to be anywhere but there.
I was one of seven children summoned to the two words no kid wants to hear: summer school. I slouched over the curb and kicked a rock back and forth between my Converse-clad feet. I noticed that I had a missed call from my sister. We talked every day, so I wasn’t surprised. Our talks ranged from telling each other jokes to getting into the deeper stuff – the stuff I felt like only she could understand.
I tried to call her back, figuring I had at least a few minutes to talk before the bus would arrive. No answer. “Weird,” I thought, but I shrugged it off and assumed we could catch up later.
But when later came, I learned that while I sat there kicking that rock, imagining ice cream, my sister may have already been slipping away.
That call would be our last chance to speak; the day before was the last day I ever spoke to my best friend.
Her name was Elizabeth. People called her Lizzy. She was only seventeen. And none of us got to say goodbye.
This experience was devastating, and it felt, at the time, like the most unbearable thing that could ever happen in my world. But it wasn’t isolated. It happened again.
A Repeat of History
In March of 2023, I received a call from my brother, informing me of our older sister’s passing. At the time, her cause of death was thought to have been asthma.
However, later, we would discover that she, too, had experienced a drug overdose.
Brandy was our oldest sister, at 40 years old. Her death didn’t exist in a vacuum. It revealed a pattern we hadn’t fully recognized, written in a language we didn’t know how to read.
Though these instances were over a decade apart, they both brought up the same feelings of panic, dread, hopelessness, and grief for me and my entire family.
My mom had to bury two of her four daughters, and our pack felt two too small. Our sisters’ absences would linger in our hearts, and will, forever.
Stigma Surrounds Survivors
Comments about their deaths linger in my ears.
“She was a druggie”
“It’s not surprising, really”
“This kind of thing happens all the time”
It’s hard to explain the loss of a loved one to drug overdose.
It’s harder, still, to explain a relationship with them when they are battling their demons. Society makes you feel like you can’t talk about it.
Part of you wants to protect their memory, understanding the judgment that might follow.
What business is it of the world’s that my sisters had these inner struggles? Why not talk about the best parts of them?
But, knowing my sisters, and knowing how big this problem is, I believe it is my duty to tell their stories – not to shy away from the dark parts like they’re a dirty secret.
This was not on them.
They were dealt cards most of us wouldn’t know how to play. They were warriors.
They were both hilarious, kind, and compassionate. They were always willing to give the shirt off their back for a friend in need. So, I will continue to advocate for them, even long after they are gone.
And I will remind everyone who needs to hear it: addiction is not a moral failure; it’s a trauma response, and it is an unfortunate gap filler in a flawed, failing system.
What we had Missed
I knew my sisters well. They were my best friends. My protectors. My confidants.
And I know that there was so much life burning inside both of them – they had so much love to give the world.
I also know that, as a teenager, the loss of my first sister was not an anomaly. It was a warning.
A warning which, left unchecked, became a pattern.
We didn’t know how far Lizzy would go to cope with her feelings. When there were signs of her pulling away, the truth is that we didn’t know what help looked like, and the help systems around us weren’t easy to find or navigate.
Had there been earlier intervention – real, true help – I believe she could have found her way out of it.
We learned that we weren’t alone in our heartache. In fact, these losses are all too common.
The Bigger Picture
According to the Centers for Disease Control, approximately 105,000 people died from drug overdoses in 2023, and nearly 80,000 of those deaths involved opioids — roughly 76 percent.
That’s tens of thousands of people – fathers, daughters, cousins, neighbors, brothers, sisters – people who will be missed.
That’s thousands of families with a hole ripped in them. A hole that can never be completely filled.
At best, it will be covered in patchwork.
And while these numbers reflect a national crisis, our own community is no stranger to this swelling grief and its accompanying gravity. Thankfully, there are places here that offer help.
Alcohol and Drug Abuse Council for the Concho Valley (ADACCV)
- Offers prevention, intervention, and treatment services
MHMR Services of the Concho Valley
- Provides mental health and substance use support
West Texas Counseling and Guidance
- Trauma-informed therapy and addiction support
Momentous Home
- Sober living home for women in recovery
San Angelo Recovery Center
- Offers peer support, recovery coaching, and community-based healing
Concho Valley Turning Point
- Faith-based nonprofit offering recovery support and mentorship.
Looking at the Local Level
Despite the supportive services offered in our community, my experience makes me wonder: how many families are grieving in silence? How many others are doing this alone? How many are afraid to tell their stories?
My grief teaches me that healing isn’t linear, and it doesn’t have to be solitary. Indeed, the patchwork repairs on our hearts are often created by others.
The Village We Need
I think it’s easy for us to forget these events aren’t happening on an island, or in a vacuum.
Having now worked in serving those in need in our community as a part of my own healing journey, it is more obvious to me than ever that so many needs overlap.
Adversities like addiction, homelessness, trauma, poverty, hunger, domestic violence, chronic health issues and mental health struggles are all connected.
They are a part of a larger web to which we all contribute, whether we are in the work or not – whether we are experiencing it firsthand or not.
If you haven’t experienced any of these things firsthand, it is likely that you know and love someone who has.
When people say, “it takes a village,” I don’t think they mean just babysitting a child when a mother needs rest.
It means showing up – for everyone. Looking out for each other.
It means staying aware, keeping our biases in check, and opening doors for people who are used to having them slammed in their faces.
The hard truth is that many of us are one tragedy away from many of these experiences.
One missed paycheck away from facing homelessness. One car accident away from disability. One life-shattering trauma away from turning to substances we may not otherwise use.
Substance use becomes a method of survival. It makes people feel disconnected from themselves, especially when shame and stigma have already made them feel unworthy and undeserving of care.
There are places in our community that are helping, but it can’t stop at social services. If we want to live in a village, we must be willing to act as villagers.
So, how do we honor those we’ve lost beyond memory and into action?
Here a just a few ways you can be a part of the change:
- Narcan Training –Narcan (naloxone) training is available locally and online and can reverse opioid overdoses. It’s easy to learn and could lead to saving lives.
- Checking In – Study up on the signs of substance use and don’t be afraid to check in with your loved one if you feel like something is off.
- Advocacy and Education – Attend community meetings, challenge stigmas, and support harm reduction efforts.
- Refer to Services – If you see someone struggling, you may refer to one of the local resources listed above. It could lead to someone’s healing.
- Practice Self Care – Surviving this is hard for everyone involved. You matter too. Take care of yourself, don’t be afraid to lean on other services in the community, respect your own capacity, and be gentle with yourself. Know you are not alone.
Their Light Must Live On
That day at the bus stop could have been much different. It could have been ordinary, everyday, boring. Then I wouldn’t be sharing this with you. But it wasn’t.
I will never get to be in a room with all of my siblings again. That is the devastating truth.
But I know that, with compassionate work from those who seek to understand, neighbors who are willing to show up and speak up, and the strength that comes with true community, there is room for us once again to remember our loved ones, not for how they fell, but for how they lived.
We remember Lizzy, Brandy, and all the others lost to overdose, not for their darknesses, but for the light that they both drew in – and continue to draw in.
That light is still here. And we still carry it. And we carry it in their names.
Aug. 31 is recognized as International Overdose Awareness Day, the world’s largest annual campaign to end overdose deaths, remember those we have lost to an overdose and acknowledge the grief of the family and friends left behind.
