September is a season of new beginnings. Families settle into school routines, college students move into dorms and apartments, and communities across the country observe National Recovery Month, a time to recognize that recovery is possible and to celebrate the individuals whose stories inspire hope for others.
We believe prevention and recovery go hand in hand. Every conversation about fentanyl awareness, every safely stored medication, every shared story, and every act of support helps build a stronger Monroe County.
This month, we’re honored to share the story of Emma Foster, a Monroe County resident who is celebrating 10 years in recovery after surviving an overdose caused by fentanyl-laced heroin. Her experience is a powerful reminder that recovery is possible, even when it feels out of reach.
In Emma’s own words…
I used heroin from nineteen to twenty-four.
The first time I used a needle, something in my life closed. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… final.
After that, everything got smaller.
My whole life became one question:
How do I not get sick today?
Not how do I get better.
Not how do I fix anything.
Just how do I not feel like I’m dying for the next few hours.
People tried. They really did. They talked to me, worried about me, waited for me to come back.
But I was already gone.
By the end, I wasn’t living anywhere. I was just wherever I could be. I did things I said I would never do, just to not be sick. There’s no better way to say it than that.
It wasn’t about getting high anymore.
It was about survival.
The last time I used, I died.
It was laced. I didn’t know.
I don’t remember it, but I was told they brought me back more than once. What I do know is I didn’t come back the same. I live with it now — the brain fog, the memory loss, losing my thoughts in the middle of them.
It’s frustrating.
But I woke up.
And I never used again after that.
I ended up in Delray Beach at Beachway. Same as before — I didn’t go because I believed anything would work. I went because I had nothing left.
Day three of withdrawal, I remember trying to sit there like I was okay. Like I had it together. I had my best poker face on.
But inside, I realized something that scared me more than anything else ever had.
I didn’t know how to live anymore.
Drugs had turned me into a shell. I didn’t know how to talk to people. I didn’t know how to get out of bed. I didn’t know how to just be.
And I remember this girl who worked there looking at me.
Really looking at me.
And I couldn’t hold it together anymore. I broke. Just tears, nonstop. No hiding it.
I told her,
“I can’t do this. Life is just not for me. I don’t belong anywhere.”
She didn’t try to fix it. She didn’t give some long speech.
She just took my hands, squeezed them, and said,
“Just be strong.”
That was it.
And at the time, I wasn’t strong. Not even close.
But I held onto that.
And I had to relearn it every single day — just enough strength to not put a needle in my arm that day. That was it. That was the win.
Some days it was hour by hour.
Sometimes it was just making it to the next meeting.
If it wasn’t for the staff there, and the people in those rooms who kept telling me to just hold on, I don’t know if I would’ve made it.
Probably not.
But something started to change.
Not all at once.
Little things.
One day, I noticed I could see colors again.
Not in some poetic way — I mean actually see them. The world didn’t look flat anymore. It didn’t feel far away.
And then one day, I laughed.
A real laugh.
A full, from-your-stomach, can’t-stop kind of laugh.
And it caught me off guard because I realized… I had forgotten what that felt like.
So I held onto that too.
That feeling became something I could chase instead of nothing.
And somewhere along the way, all those “just be strong for today” moments added up.
Until one day, I actually felt strong.
Not pretending. Not forcing it.
Real.
I’m celebrating ten years clean this month.
Ten.
And I don’t say that like I figured something out that other people can’t. I say it because I remember sitting there thinking this kind of life was impossible for me.
That it worked for other people. Not me.
So if you’re the person sitting there right now thinking this is out of reach — it’s not.
I hear people say programs like NA or AA are brainwashing.
And honestly?
I don’t care if they are.
Because we say “keep coming back” over and over for a reason — it works.
Maybe we need to hear that we’re worth it over and over until we finally believe it.
That doesn’t make it wrong.
We spent so long convincing ourselves of the opposite.
We have to put at least that much effort into staying alive.
Even if that just means making it to the next meeting.
I used to live my life meeting to meeting.
And eventually, it got easier.
And eventually, it became a life.
Everything I went through — all of it — it’s ugly. There’s no way around that.
But it gave me something.
A path.
I know what it feels like to have nothing left.
I know what it feels like to not belong anywhere.
And I know what it feels like to come back from that.
That’s why I’m here.
To help the next person hold on long enough to feel it too.
Because it is worth it.
Emma’s story reminds us that recovery isn’t a single moment, it’s a decision made one day at a time. It also reminds us that every life has value, every recovery journey looks different, and hope can begin when someone simply feels seen, heard, and supported.
That’s what National Recovery Month is all about: recognizing the resilience of people in recovery, reducing stigma, and reminding anyone who may be struggling that they are not alone.
By sharing stories like Emma’s through our Community Heroes initiative, we hope more people find the encouragement to ask for help, support someone they love, or simply believe that recovery is possible.
As high school and college students begin a new school year, September is also an important time to think about medication safety.
For many college students, this is the first time living away from home, in dorm rooms, apartments, or shared housing with roommates. Prescription medications that are left unsecured can be misplaced, taken by someone else, or misused, often without the owner’s knowledge.
A medication lockbox isn’t just for your medicine cabinet at home. It’s also a simple way to help protect medications in dorm rooms, apartments, and shared living spaces where multiple people may have access.
Whether your student is moving into a residence hall or off-campus housing, encourage them to:
Need a medication lockbox? We Fight Fentanyl offers free medication lockboxes to help individuals and families safely store prescription medications.
Order Your Free Medication Lockbox Here
Recovery Month is an opportunity to celebrate every milestone, whether it’s one day, one year, or ten years.
It’s also a reminder that prevention and recovery are part of the same conversation. When we educate young people, safely secure medications, support treatment and recovery resources, and share real stories from our community, we help create a Monroe County where more people have the opportunity to write their own next chapter.
This September, take a moment to share Emma’s story, talk with your family about medication safety, and continue building a community where hope has room to grow.
