By Coryn Mayer, Federal Policy Lead, United Against Fentanyl
I’m writing today with findings that demand our attention. The Walk For Lives (WFL) national awareness campaign wrapped up successfully, garnering coverage from local news outlets and drawing participation from law enforcement, health professionals, and public service members across the country. But beyond the headlines and the footsteps, there are stories that need to be heard.
I sat down with eight parents who participated in WFL, each having lost a child to fentanyl poisoning. Our conversations ranged from fifteen minutes to over an hour, flowing naturally as parents shared their experiences with remarkable honesty and courage. These weren’t rigid interviews with predetermined questions. They were human conversations about an inhuman crisis, conducted with the sensitivity that discussing the loss of a child demands.
The Treatment Gap
What emerged from these conversations was both illuminating and deeply troubling. Two of the eight young people who died had no substance use disorder (SUD) diagnosis. They died after experimenting with drugs, unaware that what they thought they were taking was contaminated with fentanyl. This is the insidious nature of the current crisis: it doesn’t discriminate between those struggling with addiction and those making a single, tragic choice.
Six of the eight had been engaged in SUD treatment or services at the time of their death, shortly before, or participated in ongoing care. Among those six families, five reported that their child’s substance use began before the age of eighteen. The quality and frequency of care varied dramatically from case to case.
Perhaps the most striking finding was universal. When I asked each parent whether health professionals had educated them about safety measures, every single one said no. Not one family had been taught about naloxone from a health care professional. Not one had received information about seizure precautions, substance use disorder treatment protocols, or the risks of fentanyl contamination in the drug supply.
Think about that for a moment. These families were interfacing with the healthcare system, sometimes extensively, and yet they were sent home without the most basic tools to prevent death.
Parents described watching their children suffer through unmanaged withdrawal symptoms: severe cravings, relapses, psychosis, seizures. The system that should have supported them was, at best, incomplete.
The Medication-Assisted Treatment Story
Only two of the families had experience with medication-assisted treatment, specifically buprenorphine for opioid use disorder. Their stories reveal critical gaps in how we deliver this life-saving intervention.
One family’s journey began with their child accessing buprenorphine from street sources before eventually connecting with a formal healthcare program. Tragically, their child died following the discontinuation of buprenorphine and a subsequent relapse. The other family struggled with practical barriers: limited clinic hours, restricted quantities of medication dispensed at a time. Both families told me they had no idea that long-acting injectable options existed.
These deaths occurred before the federal government expanded buprenorphine telehealth policies, and before we had longitudinal studies on optimal prescription durations. But here are the questions that remain: Have clinical policies caught up with federal law? Are adolescents and young adults being adequately included in treatment populations? We need investigative studies to find out.
The Bigger Picture
The contexts surrounding these deaths were complex. At least one young person bought drugs on a social media platform. At least two had experienced homelessness. One had a chronic pain condition. Another had been through youth detention and alternative high school programs. At least three had experienced developmental trauma.
These details matter because they remind us that there’s no single profile of a victim in the fentanyl crisis. The only common thread is that they were young people with their whole lives ahead of them.
Legal Questions and Battles
The question of consent came up repeatedly in our conversations. Age-of-consent laws for medical care vary widely from state to state, including for substance use disorder services, prescription medications, and mental health care. These laws govern whether young people (ages younger than 18) can accept or refuse treatment. In at least two of the cases I studied, adolescents refused care. This raises profound questions about involuntary treatment, patient autonomy, and how we balance protection with rights, particularly considering the fact that quality of care and services vary.
Three families are currently pursuing or have concluded legal cases against individuals who supplied the drugs that killed their children. One case couldn’t even present fentanyl toxicology evidence in court because the hospital failed to complete the test in the emergency department. That failure led to a new state law requiring forensic testing at suspected overdoses.
Another family is advocating for a law requiring people to call for emergency help at overdose events, similar to hit-and-run laws. This family member also supports bystander intervention protection laws. The logic is simple: if we make it expected to call 911, we might save lives.
What All Eight Families Agree On
Despite their different experiences and the varied circumstances of their losses, all eight families aligned on two fundamental points. First, they support expanded funding and action for prevention, treatment, recovery, and harm reduction within a health justice framework. Second, they support increased opportunities for legal justice.
These parents aren’t choosing between compassion and accountability. They’re insisting we need both.
Moving Forward
These eight interviews cannot tell us everything about the fentanyl crisis. The sample size is small, and the outreach was specifically targeted toward families who lost adolescents or young adults. But what these conversations can tell us is where the system is failing the people it’s supposed to protect.
We’re failing to educate families about safety precautions when it could be the difference between life and death. We’re failing to provide adequate medication-assisted treatment and support during withdrawal across all drug classes. We’re failing to communicate about treatment options that already exist. We’re failing to create consistent, accessible care.
And most importantly, we’re failing to listen to the people who have lived through this crisis and lost everything.
Thank you to the eight families who trusted me with their stories. Your willingness to revisit the most painful moments of your lives in service of helping others is an act of profound courage.
Note: Coryn Mayer is practicing nurse. She holds a Master of Science in Addiction Policy and Practice from Georgetown University and a Bachelor of Science in Nursing from the University of Virginia, graduating with Highest Distinction
