A Shaken Snow Globe: Reflections on August and Overdose Awareness Month
August is Overdose Awareness Month. For me, it's also the month — the one that split my life in two: before and after John.
It’s strange how a single page on the calendar can carry so much weight. August is drenched in grief, layered with heartbreak, guilt, numbness, and the echo of a love that couldn’t outrun addiction. It’s the month I lost my fiancé — and in many ways, a piece of myself.
When people talk about overdose, they often focus on the statistics or the warning signs. But those numbers don’t capture what it’s like to live through the unraveling. To watch someone you love disappear one lie at a time. To search the streets, driven by panic and hope, only to be met with silence. To feel your life bending under the weight of fear, and still keep trying to believe that love might be enough.
It wasn't.
August brought chaos.
It brought the moment I knew — really knew — that I had to cancel our wedding. That was the day I realized love wasn’t going to fix this. That something darker and more powerful had taken root inside John. The addiction had already walked him out the door so many times, had already stolen from our home, from our peace, from our future. Still, when he came back that month — said “I’m sorry,” admitted to struggling — I let myself believe in redemption. We danced at a wedding, held each other, and he whispered promises of healing. That was our last dance. Our last moment of fragile hope.
Then came the day I’ll never forget. The knock at the door. The officer’s face. The bottom falling out.
And then, the after.
People like to talk about grief as a single feeling, but it's not. It’s a collage of emotions you never asked for. Mine includes sadness, yes, but also anger. Rage, even. Resentment at the stolen time, the broken trust, the wreckage that addiction left in its wake. I hate that my wedding rings are in a pawn shop. I hate that my credit card is still a graveyard of charges I didn't consent to. I hate that I have no wisdom to offer someone else trying to save a person who doesn’t want to be saved.
And yet—
Even in all that hate, I’ve found pride.
I am proud of how I’ve clawed my way back from the edge. Proud that I chose not to drown in my sorrow. Proud that I forced myself to live, to travel, to connect, to build something meaningful from the wreckage.
I created tools to survive — journaling, community, grief support, advocacy. I found strength in telling my story and hearing others say, “Me too.” I allowed myself to fall in love again, without guilt, because I deserve to live a full life, even with a broken heart.
Grief, I’ve come to understand, is like living inside a snow globe. Sometimes the world is calm. Sometimes it’s chaos. August is a shaken snow globe kind of month. But I’m no longer afraid of the storm.
This August, I will not run. I will sit in it. I will feel it. I will honor it. I will continue to speak up about addiction, about grief, and about what it means to be the one left behind.
Because someone needs to know they’re not alone in this.
Because someone else is trying to cancel a wedding they never imagined wouldn’t happen.
Because someone else is still holding onto a final dance.
If that someone is you — I see you.
We survive this together.
In loving memory of John.
Forever part of my story. Forever part of me.
If you or someone you love is struggling with addiction, please know help exists. Call the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) Helpline at 1-800-662-HELP.
