We Love Them Until We Lose Them

There was a time when I worked in the non-profit sector.

I had just left radio after several years as a commercial writer. I'd written one too many hard-sell car commercials, and I knew it was time for something different.

That's how I found myself at an addiction recovery centre as the Communications and Development Manager.

I threw myself into that role the way a seagull chases a french fry across a McDonald's parking lot. I was in my late twenties, wildly eager to make a difference. I had no idea how deeply the work would change me.

Over the years, I watched the overdose crisis sweep through our community with heartbreaking force.

Although I wasn't in a direct client-care role, I made it my mission to know every person who walked through our doors. Thirty names at a time. I remembered them long after they graduated.

Or when they came back.

Or when they died.

Somewhere along the way, I became the unofficial funeral director of the organization, a role I never expected, but one I considered an honour. I designed memorial cards, helped plan services, and sat with coworkers whose hearts were breaking right alongside mine.

I also wore a dozen other hats. I became our COVID health officer, helping our organization navigate an unprecedented season. I helped lead our national accreditation process. I chaired our annual fundraising banquet that brought together nearly 800 people every year.

At the time, I thought I could carry it all.

Today, I'm a cooked goose.

But the funerals...

Those are what stayed with me.

I remember sitting in front of Canva, trying to design memorial cards through blurred vision because I couldn't stop crying. My office door was always open. For conversations, for silence, or for people who simply needed somewhere safe to fall apart.

Sometimes, that person was me.

I remember my first loss.

It was 2020, in the middle of COVID. Her name was Farrah. She was beautiful, complicated, and deeply tormented by addiction, FASD, and schizophrenia.

One afternoon she looked up at the empty sky and asked me,

"Do you see the angels?"

I looked up. Then back at her.

"No, Farrah," I said softly. "I don't."

She pulled her sweater over her head and began breathing faster. She was terrified.

And if I'm honest...so was I.

I had no idea how to respond to someone living with such profound mental illness. Truthfully, I still don't.

But I loved her.

She used to spin through the house singing worship songs at the top of her lungs. She had this childlike spirit that made you forget, even for a moment, how much pain she carried.

She left the program before finishing treatment. Not long afterward, she was found after overdosing on a lawn somewhere in the city.

I remember trying to breathe. I remember calling my younger sister.

"She died."

Those were the only words I could get out between sobs. Then another passed away.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

They always seemed to come in threes. And I loved every single one of them.

When you choose to love someone living with addiction, you quietly accept that your heart may be broken over and over again.

There are sleepless nights. Phone calls you pray never come. Questions that never receive answers.

After another string of losses, a coworker and I sat staring at one another with tears in our eyes. We were searching for meaning. For an explanation. For anything that would help us keep going. Burnout in this field is painfully common, and I was beginning to understand why.

Then, almost without thinking, the words spilled out of my mouth.

"We love them...

...until we lose them."

I remember surprising myself when I said it. Because it was true. There are no easy answers. No guaranteed recoveries. No perfect formula.

There are substances. Heroin, fentanyl, cocaine, methamphetamine, alcohol.

But before any of that...there is a person.

A person worthy of dignity.

A person worthy of compassion.

A person worthy of love, no matter how far gone they may seem.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in the Tim Hortons drive-thru in Calgary when I noticed a man standing nearby with a cardboard sign. Car after car rolled past him without so much as making eye contact.

I looked at him. I didn't have any cash, but I did have a cigarette. I know what addiction feels like. I know what it's like to crave something and not have it.

So I rolled down my window and handed it to him with a smile.

He smiled back.

"You've got a beautiful smile," he said.

Then he looked down.

"I don't."

He tried to hide the few teeth he had left.

Without thinking, I laughed and said, "I know a great denturist."

He gave me a crooked grin.

"Drugs will do that to ya."

"We all struggle with something, hey?"

His shoulders relaxed. Just a little.

Sometimes dignity is as simple as being seen.

I've met hundreds of people experiencing homelessness over the years. Every single one of them has a story.

Stories of survival.

Stories of unimaginable resilience.

Stories that remind me how little I actually know about another person's life.

One quote has stayed with me through all of it:

"Some people want to live within the sound of chapel bells. But I want to run a mission within a yard of the gates of hell."

Working near the gates of hell changes you.

But every so often, you have to come up for air. Mine came in the form of burnout. Not the kind where you're simply tired. The kind where your body refuses to cooperate. Where making dinner feels impossible. Where laundry piles up. Where the person you've always been disappears for a while.

After burning out year after year, my body finally made the decision for me. It forced me to stop.

Today, two years after leaving that career, I still carry those people with me.

Twenty-five people.

Twenty-five names.

Twenty-five lives I had the privilege of knowing, loving, and ultimately grieving. Twenty-five people who mattered. Greatly.

Loving people through addiction isn't easy. It will break your heart in ways you never imagined.

But if I had the choice...I would still choose to love them.

Because for every heartbreaking ending, there were also moments of impossible beauty.

Moments where someone believed in themselves again.

Moments where families were reunited.

Moments where hope returned after years of darkness.

Not every story ended in tragedy.

Some ended in healing.

And those stories mattered just as much.

Love never guarantees the outcome.

Sometimes all it guarantees is that when someone is gone, they won't have been forgotten.

I think that's worth carrying.