Jayla was a vibrant soul whose light touched everyone she met. Her creativity, passion for life, and love for the arts made her unforgettable. Though her journey was tragically cut short by fentanyl poisioning, her spirit lives on in the echoes of the memories she left behind. Jayla’s story reminds us of the beauty in individuality and the importance of embracing and supporting one another through life’s challenges.

Jayla is the oldest of 15 siblings, she attended the PineForest High School In Pensacola Florida where she was a 4 year member of NJROTC, Softball player, Volleyball Player, and Cheerleader.

Our "Princess" Jayla Michelle, transitioned to her palace in heaven on April 26, 2024. Jayla's story now serves as a light to those struggling silently in the dark. 

Forever ~ 21

You are not alone, you are not a burden, you are valued, you are worthy, and you are a conquer.

Gabrielle Grace Blakely was vibrant, intelligent, and full of promise. She graduated from Murphy High School with a 4.58 GPA, excelled in soccer and track, and earned a 28 on her ACT. Her determination led her to the University of Alabama, where she graduated magna cum laude on May 6, 2023.

But behind her achievements, Gabby carried a silent pain. After being assaulted at a fraternity party, she struggled with PTSD and turned to opioids to cope with the trauma and sleepless nights. Despite her strength and resilience, Gabby’s life was tragically cut short on November 14, 2023, just three days after completing a 47-day rehab program. The opioid she took was unknowingly laced with fentanyl.

Gabby wasn’t someone you’d expect to fall into addiction. She was smart, popular, and driven—but trauma can lead anyone down an unexpected path. Her mother now carries her voice, bravely sharing Gabby’s story to raise awareness about the dangers of fentanyl and the silent battles many face.

 Forever ~ 22

- Gabbys Mom

7 months, 31 weeks, 220 days, and 318,600 minutes.

That’s how long it’s been since the last time I spoke to you—without having any idea it would be the last. It was just a normal four-minute conversation that ended with, “I’ll see you in a half hour. I love you.” I never knew that the next time I would see the love of my life would be a moment burned into my mind forever.

He was on his knees, arms resting on the bathroom counter, his cheek pressed against the drawer handle. My baby’s skin was blue, his eyes open. I’ll never forget how cool he felt when I reached out to grab him.

I got him onto his back to begin mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions while the 911 operator stayed on the line. It felt like forever before they arrived—but it was only two minutes. In between compressions, I kept screaming: “Wake up!!” “Please, baby, wake up!”

When the paramedics and officers arrived, they told me to go downstairs and take a minute to breathe while they took over. So, I left him lying there.

At 2:55, standing in my kitchen, the paramedics and an officer came to me. They told me how sorry they were, that they had done everything they could, but it wasn’t enough. He was gone. In that moment, I felt a part of my soul leave my body with his.

I had just lost my other half. My best friend. My baby’s daddy. My soulmate.

They asked if there was someone they could call to be with me. One by one, the paramedics walked past me, saying how sorry they were.

I asked the officer if I could go see him. I lay down next to him on the floor, holding his hand, resting my head on his chest—the same way I had fallen asleep every single night for the past five and a half years. Even after seven months, I still can’t put into words what that felt like.

That moment, on July 14, 2024, changed me forever.

Ryan had the best sense of humor—I think he could make just about anyone laugh until their stomach hurt. He loved his job as a union crane operator and was an incredibly hard worker. He was good at just about everything—from hockey to bow hunting to always having the right answer to any question. If he wasn’t 100% confident in something, he was always willing to learn.

Being a dad was the highlight of his life, and watching him with his kids was the highlight of mine. He was so full of life, so excited for our future. We had so many plans.

From the moment we met, Ryan and I were inseparable. He made me feel like the only person in the world. The love I have for him is beyond anything I can express.

I watched him struggle every day to overcome his addiction. He fought so hard, but the pull it had on him was stronger. It always seemed to win.

It only took one second to tear our lives apart.

It only took one pill to leave my heart shattered beyond repair.

As I sit here in our home—the place where we made so many memories, shared so much laughter, and felt so much love—I can’t help but think about how I felt that day, lying next to his lifeless body in the middle of our living room.

That will forever be my last memory of the person who meant the absolute most to me.

Forever ~ 36

Gabriella Johnson Hill was my oldest daughter. She was a beautiful, intelligent, loving, and funny 23-year-old when she was taken from us.

On September 22, 2022, I received the call that no parent ever wants to get—my daughter was unresponsive.

Gabriella had Asperger’s syndrome, a form of autism. On September 23, 2022, at 4:02 AM, she lost her battle.

Later, we found out there was fentanyl in her system. Just days before, her bloodwork showed none of it was present.

This has been a devastating loss for all of us. Her siblings and I miss her deeply, and we are determined to get justice for Gabriella.

Forever ~ 23

 Forever 24

My son Taylor died in April of 2021. He was with his youngest brother that night. They had both used drugs—drugs they bought from a high school friend. Taylor injected heroin, and my youngest son smoked it. When North—my youngest—came to, Taylor was already gone. He was lying lifeless on the kitchen floor.

It took nearly two years to prosecute the person who sold them the drugs. In the end, he denied responsibility. But I consider myself fortunate that the detectives treated it as a crime scene from the beginning. They collected the baggies the drugs came in and were able to lift his DNA from them. That evidence connected him directly to Taylor’s death. He is now serving an eight-year sentence in Wisconsin.

My oldest son, Christopher, was nothing like what people stereotype when they think of drug use. He never used drugs. He worked as a school bus driver here in Duluth, Minnesota, for 12 years. But he had been struggling with anxiety. One day, someone gave him a pill—I believe he thought it was a Percocet.

That night, we watched movies together. He said goodnight and told me he loved me. The next morning, he didn’t get up. I went to check on him… and he was already gone. He had been dead for hours. He was purple. There was nothing I could do.

Fentanyl took both of their lives—from me, from everyone who loved them.

So now, I’ve dedicated my life to saturating this community with education. These kids don’t know what they’re taking. They trust the person giving it to them—and often, that person doesn’t know what’s in it either. I can’t stay silent. We’re losing our children every five minutes in this country to this poison.

I’m still fighting for my youngest son. He’s out in the world, still using, still lost. I believe he’s trying to be with his brothers. I’ve done everything I possibly can to help him, but I’ve realized—I’m powerless until he wants help. Every time the phone rings late at night or there’s a knock at the door, I brace myself for the worst. I wait for that last, horrible call that he’s gone too—and then I’ll be alone.

This drug doesn’t care about my dreams of weddings, daughter-in-laws, or grandchildren—dreams that will never come true. But what it can’t take from me is my voice. I will fight this poison, and I will scream until my last breath.

My sons did not die in vain. I will not be quiet. If this can happen to me—a hardworking single mom—it can happen to anyone. The dealers and the drugs don’t care how deeply I loved my boys.

They took two of the three greatest gifts God gave me.

Thank you for letting me share my story. It’s not over—I promise you that.

Tenika was born on May 13, 1979—a tiny fireball with a loud voice and an unforgettable spirit.

I remember the little girl we lovingly called “Dropout” after she came home from kindergarten one day and boldly announced she was never going back.

I remember the funny dancer who loved music, cooking, and being surrounded by family. The girl so flexible she could scale walls and squeeze into the smallest hiding places whenever she knew she was in trouble.

I remember the 14-year-old who crept out of the house one night—and the very different 16-year-old who came back.

I imagine my sister was carrying a pain so deep and secret that it drove her to search desperately for peace. That search led her to alcohol, pills, and anything else that could help her numb it all away.

Addiction stripped her of her dignity and convinced her she had no worth. She wore a mask just to get through each day. And on November 28, 2020, Tenika entered eternal rest—and finally found the peace she had been searching for her entire life.

We may never know when or why she first picked up. But what we do know is that there isn’t enough glue, tape, staples, or bandages to cover the cracks, slits, bruises, and holes her absence left behind.

Substances took her life and turned her into a statistic.

But I refuse to let that be the end of her story.

I will make sure her name becomes a sound in the earth.

My son, Logan, passed from fentanyl poisoning on December 14, 2023. He was turning 26 on December 30th.

Logan was diagnosed with bipolar when he was 17. He suffered for years with mental health and depression. He self-medicated. He got prescription drugs from his doctor, from the internet, and from the streets. He had fentanyl test strips.

Logan was the most caring, compassionate friend, brother, uncle, and son. Logan and I had an incredible bond. He was wired differently, too special for this world. He had a broken wing. He would take drugs to escape his world. I wish he could have imagined his life sober. He thought his life was not worth living without the drugs. But he was so wrong.

I am so helpless in my sorrow as he was helpless in his battle. My life was consumed with helping him and keeping him safe. Now that he is gone, I don’t know who I am or what to do. No more beautiful boy trying to make his way in this world.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story of my beloved son, Logan.”

~Lori

This is my son, Paul Martinez. He passed away on April 16, 2024, from fentanyl poisoning. He was only 28 years old and lived in Riverside, California.

Paul was the middle child—he had two brothers and a sister. His smile could light up a room, and his laugh is something I will never forget.

He was a talented tattoo artist. That was his dream from a young age. I remember him telling me and his dad that he was going to be a tattoo artist when he grew up—and he made that dream come true.

As a mother, I want to say this: parents, please talk to your children about fentanyl. It’s being laced into everything.

I miss my son so much, but I will always keep his memory alive.

Forever 28. 💜💜

This is my only sibling and younger brother, Jason Richard Paquin. He is forever 35.

Jason was a professional poker player and a proud member of SAG-AFTRA. He was all heart—kind to everyone, always helping the homeless and those less fortunate.

He was battling addiction when his life was tragically cut short seven years ago today. Jason was murdered by his dealer, who sold him a lethal mix of morphine and fentanyl instead of the heroin he had ordered. He died within seconds of smoking the poisonous powder.

He was alone in Koreatown, Los Angeles, with no one around to call 911, perform CPR, or save him with Narcan.

Though the police investigated his death as a homicide, no justice has come of it. The coroner told us he died from an incredibly tiny amount of fentanyl. We were devastated. Our hearts are forever broken.

Fentanyl stole our brother. Our son. Our friend.

Please, God—take care of Jason in Heaven.

And to the world: F*ck fentanyl.

💜 

On February 6, 2024, my heart was completely shattered. What started as a normal day ended with me finding my 25-year-old son, Jordan, face down, dead on his bed—an image that will forever haunt me. My husband was working in Alaska at the time, and having to tell him that our son was gone was beyond awful. It was so unbearable that I couldn’t even say the words; a close friend had to tell him for me. We later learned that Jordan’s death was an accidental overdose. What he thought was oxycodone was actually pure fentanyl.

A few months before, we discovered Jordan was using pills. The moment we found out, I was on the phone making calls because I knew this was bigger than us. Within hours, he was in detox for five days, then moved to a rehab clinic for about six weeks. He was doing well, but when he felt that program wasn’t a good fit, he decided to come home. The first day back, he scheduled outpatient counseling for himself and found local NA meetings. I believe strongly in the connection between mental health and addiction, and he was taking steps to address both.

For about two weeks, he seemed to be doing well, but then I started noticing changes. Signs I missed before became clear. I confronted him, and though he denied it, I knew he was using again. His brother and I saw the constricted pupils, sweating, late-night hallucinations, and suspicious texting. I begged him to return to rehab, telling him we would take him anywhere he wanted and keep trying until we found the right fit. When he refused, I gave him an ultimatum: get help, or he could not stay in our home. I had to protect not only him but also his 17-year-old brother, and I couldn’t enable him by letting him use under our roof. On New Year’s Day 2024, Jordan moved in with his aunt two hours away.

Jordan still came home once or twice a week for dinner. Although he was initially upset with me for calling him out, we remained close and on speaking terms. On February 6, he took off work and came to town to watch his brother’s soccer game. Sadly, his brother was sick and couldn’t play, but as a soccer family, we still planned to go support the team. We never made it to that game.

As a mother, I always felt it was my job to protect my children, but the one thing I couldn’t protect Jordan from was addiction. We learned while he was in detox that he had been using pills for about eight years, buying oxycodone on the street. On February 6, he bought what would be his last pill. Toxicology later revealed it wasn’t laced with fentanyl—it was pure fentanyl. It is believed his death was immediate.

Addiction is an ugly disease that impacts not only the person struggling but everyone who loves them. Addiction doesn’t discriminate. Jordan was a straight-A student, athletic, well-rounded, and graduated 7th in his class with early acceptance to UGA. He was the captain of his high school soccer team and one of the most brilliant people I have ever known. He wasn’t raised around drugs or alcohol. His dad and I were present in his and his brother’s lives, attending every event and providing a safe, open home for their friends. We gave the lectures and shared the warnings, trying to do everything right. But sometimes, even when you do everything you can, they still slip—and this slip cost Jordan his life.

Now, I don’t know how to exist with this part of my heart ripped out. This pain takes my breath away, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

I couldn’t save Jordan, but my hope and prayer are that his story can save others. If you need help, please know there are resources, many of them free, and you don’t have to walk this journey alone. If you think you’re too far gone, that is a lie. It’s never too late to get help. It won’t be easy, but it will be worth it, and people will walk with you. If you’ve tried before and relapsed, please try again. And if you think you can handle it on your own or that you won’t get something “bad,” please know that Jordan thought the same. But it happened to him, and it can happen to anyone. I know if he were here, he would beg you to get help. I am begging you now—please get help. I never want another family to feel this unimaginable pain.

And if you are on the other side, selling or dealing drugs, I am begging you to stop. It is destroying families, and the pain we are feeling is unbearable, especially knowing this could have been prevented.

Jordan, I promise you we will forever keep your memory alive and keep fighting to bring awareness to the fentanyl crisis. You brought so much light to the world in your short 25 years. You will forever be missed, my sweet boy. ~Christy Davis

#Forever25