When Loss Becomes a Mission
Across every town, every neighborhood, and every family in America, the overdose crisis has left a mark that can’t be ignored. It has stolen lives, broken families, and left behind an echo of grief that never completely fades. I know that pain firsthand. My son, Logan, was taken by fentanyl poisoning. Losing him changed everything about how I see the world, how I love, and how I live.
I couldn’t save Logan, and that truth will always live deep inside me. But what I can do, what I choose to do, is speak his name and tell his story so that maybe someone else’s child will have a different ending. I became an advocate because silence is deadly. I became an advocate because awareness saves lives. And I became an advocate because even though I couldn’t save my son, I can still reach someone else’s.
Why I Speak Out
For me, being a recovery and awareness advocate is not a role I asked for. It’s a calling that grew out of heartbreak. When you lose a child, especially to something as misunderstood and stigmatized as substance use or fentanyl poisoning, you quickly realize how uncomfortable people are with grief and addiction. You feel the silence. You see how people look away, unsure what to say. But the truth is, silence is what allowed this crisis to grow. Silence is what keeps people using alone, ashamed, and afraid to ask for help.
That’s why advocacy matters so deeply. It’s not about politics or policy papers. It’s about people. It’s about giving a face and a voice to something that has been hiding in the shadows for too long. It’s about breaking stigma and building bridges, so that when someone needs help, they feel safe enough to reach out for it.
A recovery advocate is not defined by a title, degree, or paycheck. It’s anyone who chooses to speak up instead of staying quiet. It’s the mom who shares her child’s story at a high school assembly. It’s the dad who wears a T-shirt with his son’s name, ready to talk to anyone who asks about it. It’s the person in recovery who uses their experience to give hope to someone still struggling. And sometimes, it’s simply someone who listens without judgment when another person says, “I need help.”
That’s what advocacy looks like. It’s not always big or loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet and deeply personal. Sometimes, it’s sitting at a kitchen table with a friend who doesn’t think they can make it through another day. Other times, it’s speaking on a podcast, organizing an awareness walk, or testifying before lawmakers. Advocacy takes many forms, but at its heart, it’s always about connection.
A Message That Restored My Hope
Recently, I received a message that reminded me exactly why I do this work. A woman named Lindsay left a comment one one of my podcast that stopped me in my tracks. She wrote:
“I am so sorry that you got that call. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain. I put my parents through the same worry you were just describing. By the grace of God, I got clean four years ago. My father has since passed from cancer, but at least he saw me get sober. Thank you for telling your story and spreading the word. Again, I’m so sorry that this evil drug took your son.”
Her words hit me hard. They were full of empathy, honesty, and hope. Lindsay didn’t just offer condolences; she shared her truth. She opened her heart and reminded me of something important: recovery is possible.
Lindsay’s story is what hope looks like. She put her parents through years of worry and fear, the same kind of fear that I lived with when Logan was struggling. But she made it through. She found her way out. Her father may be gone now, but he got to see her clean, healthy, and free. That’s a gift I never got to experience with my own son, but it gives me comfort to know that other families still can.
When I read her words, I felt gratitude for her courage and pride for the strength it takes to stay sober. I also felt a deep reminder of why I speak out. Because every person who finds recovery is proof that this fight is not hopeless. Every life reclaimed from addiction is a victory worth celebrating.
That’s what advocacy is really about, love in action. It’s about standing in the middle of pain and still choosing hope. It’s about refusing to let fear or stigma have the final word. When I share Logan’s story, I’m not just talking about loss. I’m talking about love, about awareness, and about the belief that change is possible when we tell the truth and refuse to stay silent.
Why Every Voice Matters
The overdose crisis continues to take more than 100,000 lives each year, yet most people still don’t understand the depth of it. They see numbers on a screen, but not the faces behind those numbers. They don’t see the families sitting in grief circles, the parents who still set a plate at the table, the siblings who carry pictures in their wallets. Advocacy gives those numbers a heartbeat. It turns statistics into stories that touch hearts and open eyes.
I’ve met so many advocates over the past few years, and what we all share is this: none of us started this journey by choice. We were thrown into it by loss, by survival, or by the realization that the world wasn’t going to change unless we spoke up. Some of us advocate from recovery, others from grief, and some from both. But together, we create a chorus of voices that can’t be ignored.
There are people like Lindsay, living proof that recovery is real and worth fighting for. There are mothers who’ve lost their children but still show up to schools and community events, warning young people about the dangers of counterfeit pills. There are fathers who stand beside them, determined to make sure no other parent has to answer that knock on the door. There are professionals who teach, pastors who hold naloxone trainings in church basements, and community leaders who open their spaces to anyone who needs help. These are all recovery advocates. Each one of them is making a difference in their own way.
Finding Healing Through Helping
What I’ve learned through this journey is that advocacy is as much about healing as it is about helping. When I talk about Logan, I’m not just keeping his memory alive, I’m giving my grief somewhere to go. I’m turning pain into purpose. It doesn’t make the loss easier, but it gives it meaning. Every time I see someone take a step toward recovery, every time a parent reaches out for support, every time I hand someone naloxone and explain how to use it, I feel like Logan’s life is still creating ripples of hope.
There’s a saying I come back to often: one voice can start a ripple, but many voices together can make a wave. That’s the power of collective advocacy. When we speak together, when we share our stories and support each other, we become impossible to ignore. We change the conversation from one of judgment to one of compassion.
The Hard Days and the Hopeful Ones
Advocacy isn’t always easy. There are days when it’s emotionally heavy, when the statistics rise again, or when another parent messages me to say their child is gone. There are moments when the system feels too big, too broken, and too slow to change. But then I think of people like Lindsay, people who have found their way back, and I remember why I keep going. Her story, and so many others like it, prove that what we do matters.
Being a recovery advocate means believing in the power of hope, even when it hurts. It means looking at the broken pieces and choosing to build something out of them. It means using your voice to open a door for someone who still feels trapped. It’s about education, compassion, and most of all, love.
When I first started speaking out, I wasn’t sure if anyone would listen. But over time, I’ve learned that people are hungry for truth. They’re tired of pretending this crisis doesn’t affect them. Addiction doesn’t care about your zip code, income, or background. It finds its way into every kind of family. The more we talk about it, the more we remind others that this isn’t a moral failing or a lack of willpower; it’s a disease, one that can be treated and managed with compassion and support.
Love in Action
My advocacy is my way of keeping Logan’s light shining. It’s how I stay connected to him and how I fight for the world I wish he’d had, A world where people could ask for help without fear, where recovery is celebrated, and where no parent has to bury their child because of a poisoned drug supply.
I may not have been able to save my son, but through Logan’s story, I can reach others. I can speak to students, to parents, to anyone who will listen, and tell them the truth about what’s happening. I can encourage families to talk openly, to carry naloxone, and to learn the signs of overdose. I can remind people that stigma kills, but compassion saves.
And I can celebrate every person who wakes up and chooses recovery again today. Because recovery isn’t easy. It’s not a straight line. It’s a daily commitment, a decision to keep fighting even when life gets hard. Those who walk that path deserve recognition, respect, and support. They are living proof that healing is possible.
At the end of the day, being a recovery advocate is not about recognition. It’s about love. Love for those still struggling. Love for the families left behind. Love for the communities that refuse to give up. It’s love in action. It’s standing up and saying, “Enough,” not with anger, but with compassion.
I an Logan’s Voice, I am Logan’s Dad, and I will not be silent. My advocacy is how I keep his voice alive and how I honor all those still fighting. Whether you’re in recovery, grieving someone you love, or just beginning to understand this crisis, know that your story matters.
Together, we can change hearts, save lives, and prove that recovery is real.
Because this work, this love, is how we heal.
If you or someone you love is struggling, visit our resources page for tools, helplines, and support networks that can make a difference.
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