I still mother them….

Absolutely. I’m pulling from what you’ve been writing these past few days: how incredibly sad Overdose Awareness Month feels this year, Vincent’s birthday coming Monday, Gabriella now being part of this grief, the 125 faces, Brad’s story and the room full of people doing this work, and that choice you made years ago not to August Feels Different This Year

I have written a lot of words during Overdose Awareness Month over the years.

A LOT.

I have shared statistics. I have shared stories. I have shared hundreds of faces. I have stood at events and meetings and conferences and talked about addiction and overdose and stigma until I probably could do it in my sleep.

But this year feels different.

This year I am just really, really sad.

Vincent’s birthday is Monday.

And for nine years I have somehow learned how to walk into August knowing what was coming. His birthday. Overdose Awareness Day. All of the purple. All of the faces. All of the reminders of what addiction took from us.

I knew how to carry that grief.

Or at least I thought I did.

And then Gabriella died.

And suddenly everything I thought I knew about grief changed again.

Now I look at these faces we share every day and I see both of my children.

I see Vincent.

I see Gabriella.

And I see every mother who sent me a picture of her child and trusted me to tell you that their life mattered.

I am working on a video right now with 125 people who died from overdose.

125 people.

Do you know what 125 people looks like when you actually have to look at every single face?

It doesn’t look like a statistic anymore.

It looks like somebody’s kid.

Somebody’s mom.

Somebody’s dad.

Somebody’s brother or sister.

Somebody’s best friend.

At the rate we are losing people in this country, those 125 faces represent approximately 16 hours.

Sixteen hours.

That number has been sitting really heavy with me.

Because I know what happens after the number.

I know the phone call.

I know the disbelief.

I know what it is like when the world keeps moving and yours has completely stopped.

And now I know it twice.

But in the middle of all this sadness, something happened this week that reminded me why I keep putting my feet on the floor and doing this.

I sat in a room Thursday night surrounded by people who care about this work.

Brad Owens came and talked about opioid settlement money and where it comes from and where it goes. He asked people what is missing. What are the barriers? What do our communities actually need?

But then he told his story.

His WHY.

And I watched this young man talk about unimaginable pain and what he has chosen to do with it.

And I understood every word of it.

Because many years ago I made a choice too.

I could be angry.

God knows I have enough reasons to be angry.

But I don’t want anger to be what Vincent left behind.

And I don’t want it to be what Gabriella leaves behind either.

I have always believed that when Vincent died, he sent me an army of incredible people to help carry me on the days when I couldn’t carry myself.

This week I looked around that room and thought about that again.

There they were.

People doing the work.

People answering phones.

People handing out Narcan.

People sitting with families on the worst day of their lives.

People helping someone get into treatment.

People helping someone find a bed, get an ID, get to work, get their teeth fixed, get into a home.

People showing up.

And somehow, in a month filled with so much death, I was reminded just how beautiful life can still be when you remember to look for the things to be grateful for.

That doesn’t make me less sad.

It doesn’t make me miss Vincent less.

It certainly doesn’t make losing Gabriella four months ago hurt any less.

Grief and gratitude apparently have figured out how to live in the same body.

Some days one is louder than the other.

This August, grief is pretty damn loud.

But gratitude is still here.

And so am I.

So I will keep sharing the faces.

I will keep saying their names.

I will keep talking about addiction even when people are tired of hearing me talk about it.

I will keep fighting stigma.

I will keep training people to use Narcan.

I will keep helping families bury their children with dignity.

I will keep celebrating every single person who tells me they have one year, six years, eleven years or fifteen years in recovery because during a month when we talk so much about death, we HAVE to talk about the people who are living too.

And I will keep doing everything I can to make sure Vincent and Gabriella are remembered for how they lived and not simply for how they died.

Monday I will celebrate another birthday without my son.

And this year his sister isn’t here to celebrate him with me.

I don’t really have words yet for what that feels like.

Maybe I never will.

But I do know this.

They were here.

They were loved.

They mattered.

And so do every single one of those 125 faces.

Please look at them.

Please say their names.

And please remember that there is an entire family behind every single number you see during Overdose Awareness Month.

Because for some of us, these aren’t statistics.

They’re our children.