When the System Kills: The Grief and Fury of Watching People Die for No Good Reason
It’s always just a name until it isn’t.
When I found out a past client of mine died, it took me a minute to put the name with the face. You know how it is—we see so many people come and go. But I’m a crazy Facebook stalker, so I did what everyone does: I plugged the name in, started scrolling, and then—boom. There it was. This face staring back at me. Not just a face, but a person surrounded by kids, smiling, alive. Suddenly, all the memories come pouring in. The moments of optimism, the strengths, the qualities that made this person more than a client. And then the ugly, brutal reality hits: this is someone who is no longer here. Someone with loved ones, now just a hole in their lives where a person used to be.
Before you read: This post is raw. It’s a rant. I’m writing straight from the gut, and I’m not holding back. If you’re here for polished optimism, you won’t find it today. I’m frustrated, I’m grieving, and I’m sick of pretending these issues aren’t tearing our communities apart. If you work in this field, if you’re a patient, a client, or just someone who cares—read on, but know this comes from a place of deep caring and deep exhaustion.
I Am So Fucking Tired of This System
I wish I could say this gets easier. It doesn’t. The pain just stacks up, year after year, funeral after funeral. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who feels it this sharply, or if everyone else has just gotten really fucking good at pretending.
What makes it even worse is the frustration—watching the same disaster play out on repeat. HR, legal, the C-suite, all getting involved in “client care” and turning it into a checklist hell. The people who need help get lost in the shuffle, buried under policies and profit margins. How many times do we have to see this before someone with power gives a damn about something other than their own ass?
It’s not just my clients. It’s my family, too. I watched someone I love get jerked around by their doctor after two years of stability—because a new provider decided the THC she’s used for pain is suddenly a problem. No issues before, no mixing meds—just a new set of arbitrary rules. Now she’s scrambling, making plans for plans, feeling punished for something she can’t even understand. Treated like an addict, because that’s the easiest label to slap on anyone when the system wants to stop dealing with them as a person.
Maybe we’re all being treated like addicts these days. Valued one minute, discarded the next. People are tired, angry, confused. And the system just keeps churning.
But the thing that keeps me up at night? The death. Dead people, everywhere. Dead people with kids, with parents, with partners, with whole communities left raw and bleeding. And what are we doing about it? What the fuck are we actually doing?
I talk to providers who say their clinics are emptying out. People with lived experience are finally getting a seat at the table, and the old guard is scared. Good. They should be. Because we know what’s at stake. We know what it means to actually show up, to meet people where they are, to care about more than ticking boxes.
I started my own practice because I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted to build something that honored the messiness, the humanity, the lived experience of addiction and recovery. I wanted to do it ethically, legally, but most of all—honestly. No more hiding behind policies or pretending that empty calendar slots are the enemy when the real problem is a system that’s lost its soul.
If you’re reading this and feeling the same frustration, grief, exhaustion—just know you’re not alone. We might not be able to change the whole world overnight, but we can damn sure change the way we show up in it. And sometimes, that’s the only kind of progress that matters.
Progress is progress, even when it’s fucking hard.
Let me put my clinical counselor hat back on for a minute.
Burnout and pain in our field are real, but we don’t have to just sit in it. We can start talking—really talking—about what needs to change, and how we can actually show up differently for the people who need us most. If you’re a provider, a client, a family member, or someone who’s been through the system yourself, I want to hear from you. What’s working? What’s broken? What’s the one thing you wish people understood about this work, or about your experience?
So here’s my question for you:What’s the ONE thing you wish people in power actually understood about addiction, recovery, and mental health care?
Drop your thoughts in the comments, shoot me a message, or share this post with someone who needs to see it. The only way we start to fix any of this is by breaking the silence and having real conversations. If you have questions or ideas—or if you just need to vent—I’m here for that, too.
Let’s talk about what comes next. Because we all deserve better than what we’re getting right now.
You are not alone. And you don’t have to fight this system alone, either.
Progress is progress. Even when it’s hard, even when it hurts, even when the system keeps grinding us down. I’m still here. Let’s keep fighting.
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When the System Kills: The Grief and Fury of Watching People Die for No Good Reason
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