Nearly two years ago, I lost my 17-year-old son, Bryce, to a drug overdose. Now, I search for other mothers who have lost their children. Talking helps relieve the hollowness left by this loss. But it’s difficult to find other Black mothers willing to acknowledge and share their grief. Frequently, we – Black women – are celebrated for our resilience, strength, and ability to overcome adversity. But this has been a lonely journey.
Losing Bryce to a drug overdose created a profound and unimaginable grief, a permanent ache, and a gaping hole in my heart. It’s compounded by guilt, regret, and so many unanswered questions. The pain extends beyond Bryce being gone to the dreams and future that will never be. His memories are bittersweet, always tinged with envisioning what could have been for my son. I struggle to make sense of how and why this happened while grappling with the societal stigma. Internalizing the blame is too isolating, which is why I am constantly seeking to draw strength from other Black mothers confronting this horrible ordeal.
I grew up in a middle-class family in a Maryland suburb of DC. My mother was an executive assistant at Pepco, and my dad was a dental technician. Our parents gave my sister and me a nurturing upbringing. Dance classes. Gymnastics, cheerleading. At their urging, I went to college, earning a bachelor’s degree in mass communications and later a master’s in organizational communication. I have worked for various organizations, including 17 years as senior director of finance and operations at the non-profit Democracy Alliance. I raised Bryce and his older sister as a single mother, and we were a close-knit family. Bryce remained close to his childhood friends, but he had a girlfriend in high school that led him to a different group. That’s when he started experimenting with drugs. I tried to get him counseling and treatment, but it was never quite enough. He overdosed in his room with naloxone, which could have saved him, in his pocket.
In the aftermath, it’s clear that Black families are not comfortable addressing substance use and mental health because of the stigmas. Our instincts are to sweep it under the rug like they never happened. But it must stop. We need to open up. And Black women need to talk to each other to help each other. Our voices are powerful, and our narratives can impact others if shared. Let’s break the silence together. Please visit www.triceedneywire.com to read more.
