1. Alexandria Hunt-García

Posted July 3, 2025

 

I’ve buried more people than I can count. That includes my best friend, who died of a fentanyl overdose after years of doing everything “right.” She followed the rules. She even worked in treatment. But when she relapsed, there was no room for error — and no one to catch her.

 

I know what that freefall feels like. I was 16 when my life splintered. After surviving a violent sexual assault without access to mental health support, I turned to the only thing that made the pain stop — even for a little while. I started using heroin because it numbed it all away.

 

What followed was years of chaotic substance use, homelessness, incarceration, and more overdoses than I can count. I was released from prison at 20 and overdosed in a Wendy’s bathroom less than 30 minutes later. I survived, but I was never the same. Oxygen loss scrambled something in my brain. My memory. My focus. Everything got harder after that.

 

And still, that wasn’t the lowest point.

 

These bills don’t stop fentanyl from spreading. They just make people too scared to call for help when someone’s overdosing.

 

The lowest came on the floor of my kitchen. I couldn’t find a vein. I was sick, alone and out of options. I screamed until my voice cracked. Then I tried to die — three times my usual dose. I survived again. That survival felt like a clear message: Find another way.

 

That’s when I called a local harm reduction group.

 

Not a hospital. Not a treatment center. A peer-led group that didn’t ask me to quit but rather asked how they could help me stay alive. That’s what harm reduction is: keeping people alive long enough to heal. And it works. Studies show that medications for opioid use disorder — like methadone and buprenorphine — can cut overdose deaths in half. Naloxone saves lives every day.

 

These aren’t experiments. These are evidence-based tools backed by decades of data.

 

In fiscal year 2022, Arizona — through AHCCCS-administered grants — supported the distribution of 163,470 doses of naloxone, commonly known as Narcan, to community-based programs around the state.

 

Harm reduction is how I got on methadone. It’s how I started clawing my way toward something better. Harm reduction didn’t solve everything, but it gave me the first real shot I’d ever had.

 

And yet, here in Arizona, we still treat survival like a crime.

 

In recent years, some lawmakers have pushed legislation that ramps up criminal penalties for people who provide or share drugs — so-called “drug-induced homicide” laws that ignore how many of us are just trying to survive.

 

These bills don’t stop fentanyl from spreading. They just make people too scared to call for help when someone’s overdosing.

 

Until a few years ago, fentanyl test strips were illegal in Arizona — lumped into the same category as pipes and syringes. While strips are now legal and naloxone is technically available over the counter across the state, access isn’t equal.

 

In Phoenix, you might find free Narcan at a public library. In more rural parts of the state, good luck. If you don’t already know where to look, you probably won’t find it, because rural Arizona counties continue to report major shortages in harm-reduction services and naloxone availability.

 

And if you’re Black in Arizona, the risk is even higher. In 2022, the overdose death rate for Black residents reached 32.4 per 100,000, compared to 24.9 for white residents, according to the state health department. These gaps reflect more than geography — they reflect how stigma and structural racism shape who gets to survive.

 

To challenge the stigma and misinformation around harm reduction and substance use, Dream.Org is hosting “Public Health is Public Safety,” an addiction simulation and resource fair on June 28 at First Church UCC, in Phoenix. Alongside our partners, we’ve created an immersive experience that walks people through the impossible choices faced by those living with substance use disorder.

 

Do I hide my use and hope I don’t die?

 

Do I ask for help and risk arrest — or, worse, losing my kids?

 

Do I try to get into treatment and wait weeks for an appointment I might not survive to make?

 

If you’ve never faced those questions, I hope you’ll join us and see what it’s like.

 

And I hope you’ll understand this: harm reduction isn’t about giving up. It’s about meeting people where they are. It’s about giving someone the chance to live long enough to choose something different.

 

We say we care about saving lives. If that’s true, then it’s time to act like it.

 

Let’s stop pretending the war on drugs did anything but harm. Let’s stop making policy from a place of fear. Let’s choose compassion. Let’s choose facts.

 

Let’s choose to keep people alive.

 

1. Alexandria Hunt-Garcia is the digital community organizer at the advocacy group Dream.org. This commentary is republished from Arizona Mirror under a Creative Commons license.