I still mother them….

Every year people come to Overdose Awareness Day and spend about four hours with us.

Four hours.

What they don’t see is the other 8,700 or so hours that went into making those four hours happen.

The planning for this year’s event started almost the minute last year’s event ended. We don’t take a break for long because there is always another family that will need this day. There is always another person in recovery who needs to know they’re not alone. There is always another parent who will walk through our memorial area looking for a face they know.

For the next year, our board meets. Committees meet. We have conference calls. We text each other at all hours. We send emails that turn into more emails. We make lists. Then we make lists for the lists. Every time we think we’ve covered everything, someone remembers one more detail.

And those details matter.

We talk about exhibitors. Sponsors. Volunteers. Parking. Bathrooms. Electricity. The stage. The sound system. The food. The kids’ activities. Narcan training. Resource tables. The flow of the day. We walk the park over and over, trying to see it through the eyes of someone coming for the very first time.

Then come the memorial signs.

Hundreds of photos.

Hundreds of names.

Families send us pictures. We crop them. Resize them. Double-check every spelling. Then someone else checks them again. Those aren’t just signs. Those are somebody’s whole world hanging on a piece of corrugated plastic.

One of the conversations that never gets easier is deciding whose names will be read during the dove release. Every single person deserves to be remembered. Every single life mattered. There isn’t a perfect way to make those decisions, and I don’t think there ever will be. We just do our best to honor people with the dignity they deserve.

As the months go by, more people join in. Volunteers sign up. Organizations commit to being there. Businesses sponsor. People donate. Someone offers to help with registration. Someone else loads tables into a trailer. Someone says, “What else do you need?” Before you know it, this incredible village begins to take shape.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it a thousand more times. Face the Facts Delaware has never been about one person. It’s never even been about our board. It’s about a community that refuses to let people be forgotten. It’s about people who believe that dead people don’t recover, that recovery deserves to be celebrated, and that every family deserves compassion instead of judgment.

So if you come to Overdose Awareness Day this September, I hope you enjoy the music, visit the exhibitors, hug some old friends, meet some new ones, and take a Narcan training.

But I also hope you know you’re standing in the middle of a year’s worth of love.

Thousands of hours.

Hundreds of volunteers.

Countless conversations.

All because every single life matters.

And every single one is worth remembering.