The Day That Changed Everything

Sweet Mya

I spend hours replaying that day, searching for a different ending, a different outcome in my mind.

Sometimes, it starts as a flash; an image of Mya’s face, the sound of her voice, her laugh echoing through the halls of my memory. Other times, it hits like a tidal wave, unexpected and all-consuming, dragging me under a sea of “what ifs” and “if onlys.”

The day my daughter died is tattooed on my soul. July 24, 2022, The day I couldn’t save her.

As a paramedic, I’ve responded to countless emergencies. I’ve knelt beside strangers, administering CPR. I’ve cried in the back of ambulances. I’ve held the hands of people taking their final breaths. But nothing prepared me for the moment I was on the other side of the call, the moment I wasn’t the one showing up to save the life, but the one whose child needed saving.

That day started like so many others. Just another summer day. If I could go back, I’d memorize every second… every breath, every blink, every heartbeat. I’d hold on tighter. I’d say everything I didn’t know I needed to say. I’d beg her to stay home. I’d do anything to rewrite the ending.

But the truth is, I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known.

Fentanyl didn’t knock on the door like a monster. It slipped in quietly, dressed as a counterfeit pill, wearing the disguise of safety. That’s what makes this poison so dangerous….it hides in plain sight. One pill. One decision. One breath. And it stole my daughter from me in an instant.

I spend hours trying to undo it all in my mind. I rewind the tape. I change the script. I picture myself calling her sooner, telling her not to go, rushing to her side before it was too late. I imagine a different scene — one where I save her, where she lives, where she walks into the kitchen and grabs a soda like nothing happened.

I know I can’t change it. I know she’s gone. But my heart? My heart refuses to let go of the hope that somehow, some way, I’ll wake up and find her there. That this is all just a nightmare I can shake off.

People tell me I’m strong. They say, “You’re doing amazing things with Mya’s Mission,” and they’re right….the foundation is my lifeline. It’s the way I keep breathing. It’s the way I honor Mya’s beautiful, giving heart. But strength isn’t the absence of pain. It’s the decision to keep going, even when the pain is unbearable.

There are moments I crumble. I sit in her room, surrounded by the silence she left behind, and I let the tears fall. I beg God for just one more moment. I ask Him why. I yell. I scream into the void that now exists where her laughter used to be.

And yet, every time I fall apart, I get back up. Not because I’m strong;  but because I have to. Because Mya’s story can’t end with a period. It deserves a purpose. And that purpose is to save lives.

That’s what Mya’s Mission is. It’s not just a nonprofit. It’s a heartbeat. It’s her heartbeat. Every Narcan box placed, every person we reach, every family we support…that’s Mya living on. That’s her spirit whispering, “Keep going, Mom.”

Sometimes people ask, “Does it get easier?”

I wish I could say yes. I wish I could tell grieving parents that the ache fades, that time heals. But that’s not how this works. Time doesn’t heal. It changes you. It reshapes your world, your priorities, your faith. It builds scar tissue over the wound, but it never erases it.

What I’ve learned is that grief is love that has nowhere to go. And so, I pour that love into others. Into the boy who just walked through the doors of treatment for the first time. Into the mother who calls me, terrified for her child. Into the community that is slowly waking up to the reality that fentanyl is killing our kids, one pill at a time. If I can spare even one family from standing where I stand, then Mya’s death won’t be in vain.

I’ll never stop replaying that day. But I’ve started using those hours differently now. Instead of just reimagining a different outcome, I create one. I work toward a world where families don’t have to experience this kind of pain. Where Narcan is as common as a first aid kit. Where addiction isn’t whispered about in shame but talked about with compassion. Where first responders see the person, not just the overdose.

I want the world to know who Mya was. She wasn’t just “another overdose.” She was light and laughter. She was witty and wild. She had the kind of smile that made you feel like everything was going to be okay. She was love in its purest form. And she deserved more time.

Every day I carry her with me. In the work, in the heartbreak, in the mission. She is in every story I tell, every family I help, every life we reach. Her voice echoes through mine, guiding me when I feel lost, lifting me when I feel too weak to keep going.

I spend hours replaying that day, yes. But I’ve learned that even though I can’t change the ending, I can change the legacy.

And I will — for her.