The fentanyl crisis is ravaging communities around the country, touching lives across every socioeconomic, racial and geographic line. Yet too often, our conversations about fentanyl overdoses are clouded by stigma, misinformation and judgment.
It’s time to change that.
Fentanyl, a synthetic opioid up to 50 times stronger than heroin, is now the leading cause of overdose deaths in many parts of the world, especially in North America.
Most of these deaths are accidental. People aren’t seeking out fentanyl—they’re unknowingly consuming it, often in counterfeit pills or street drugs laced with trace amounts too small to see but potent enough to kill.
Fentanyl is sneaky. You can’t see, taste or smell it. Fentanyl makes illicit drugs even more dangerous than they’ve ever been.
We’ve seen it in so-called “party drugs” like MDMA and cocaine, “study drugs” like fake Adderall, and everything in between—yes, even counterfeit pills that look like legitimate prescription drugs, including Xanax and Oxycontin.
Unless it’s prescribed by a clinician and administered by a pharmacist, don’t trust it.
Despite this grim reality, the public narrative still leans heavily on shame. Those who die from overdoses are often portrayed as reckless or irresponsible.
Families left behind face not only grief but also judgment. This stigma silences conversations, prevents people from seeking help and drives the crisis further underground.
Increasing public awareness is also critical. Many people still don’t know what fentanyl is, how prevalent it has become or how little of it is needed to cause a fatal overdose. Harm reduction tools—such as fentanyl test strips, naloxone (Narcan) and supervised use sites—save lives. But they only work when people know they exist and feel empowered to use them.
Three South Valley mothers, Geralyn Vasquez, Lisa Marquez, and Stephanie Carrasco, have turned their grief into advocacy after losing their teenage sons to fentanyl-laced counterfeit pills. They have transformed their grief into a mission to save other families from the drug that claimed their sons’ lives.
All three emphasize that their sons don’t fit the stereotype many people have of drug users. They said they have encountered significant challenges in their advocacy efforts, particularly regarding the stigma surrounding drug use and overdose deaths.
And yet, their mission remains consistent: fentanyl deaths can happen to any family, regardless of socioeconomic status, race or parenting approach.
Education must begin early and reach beyond traditional “just say no” messaging. Schools, healthcare providers, community groups and the media all play a role.
We need honest conversations about the risks, practical training on overdose response, and a broader cultural shift that treats people who use drugs as human beings—not as cautionary tales.
Ending the stigma won’t stop fentanyl overnight. But it will make it easier for people to get help, for families to speak out, and for communities to adopt life-saving policies. It will bring this crisis out of the shadows and into the light, where it belongs.
Every overdose is a tragedy. But with empathy, education and action, we can prevent the next one.
