September Is More Than an Awareness Month to Me

On remembering, recovering, and taking steps toward the people we want to become.

On August 31, I had the privilege of speaking at an International Overdose Awareness Day gathering.

There is a lot to hold on a night like that. Grief. Love. Anger. Hope. The reality that the people we are remembering should have had more time.

And alongside that remembrance are the people who are still here. People struggling quietly. Families trying to understand. People rebuilding their lives. People who want help but are afraid of what might happen if they tell someone how much they need it.

The words attached to the night stayed with me: “25 Years On. Still Needed.”

Twenty-five years. And we still have to remind people that people in active addiction, people living with substance use disorders, are human beings.

That hit me hard.

We are not asking everyone to understand every part of addiction. We are asking people to recognize the person in front of them. Someone with a name, a history, people they love, and a life that matters—even when they are struggling.

Their humanity does not begin when they stop using. They do not become worthy of compassion when they enter treatment, reach a sobriety milestone, or have a recovery story that makes people feel good.

They are worthy now.

I am approaching six years in recovery, and I am grateful for the encouragement I receive. But the person I was before September 14, 2020, needed compassion too. I was no less human then than I am standing in front of a room today.

We can celebrate recovery and still stand beside people who are not there yet, who are unsure what they want, or whose path looks different from ours. We do not have to choose between believing in change and caring about someone where they are.

A line from Chris Alderman captures something else I carry into this work:

“I do not want people to die—and more than anything, I do not want anyone to die alone.”

To me, that reaches beyond being physically alone.

You can go to work, attend class, answer messages, take care of your family, and still feel completely disconnected. You can look like you are doing fine while privately wondering how much longer you can keep going this way.

I want us to make more room for that truth. For people to say they are struggling without feeling like they have disappointed everyone. For someone to ask for help without first having to prove they deserve it.

That is what I carry from Overdose Awareness Day into September.

Why this month means so much

September is Recovery Month and Suicide Prevention Month. Among the many causes asking for our attention, these two are especially close to my heart.

They are not the same issue, and not every overdose is a suicide. But the work shares something important: people deserve support, connection, and the opportunity to keep living.

For me, September also holds a date that changed my life.

On Monday, September 14, 2026, I will mark six years without alcohol or illegal drugs.

Six years. Honestly, that still feels a little crazy to write.

I am proud of that time. I am grateful for it. But I do not share the number because it makes me better than anyone else, or because recovery is a competition.

I share it because there was a time when I could not see this life.

Teaching college students. Working toward a doctorate. Speaking in communities. Building The Re.Center. Having opportunities to use my experiences in ways that might help somebody else.

Those things mean a great deal to me. But so does being present for the people I love. Being able to follow through. Being able to sit with a difficult feeling and recognize that I have choices, even when I do not immediately know which one to make.

Recovery has not made me a finished product. I still get overwhelmed. I still have doubts. I still need support.

It has given me the opportunity to keep growing.

Recovery can be for anyone

My story includes alcohol and substance use. Yours might not.

Maybe you are finding your way through grief. Rebuilding after a relationship ended. Living with mental health challenges. Trying to change a pattern that keeps hurting you. Or realizing that the way you have been living is not how you want to keep living.

Our experiences are different. So are the resources, treatment, and support we may need. I do not want to flatten those differences or suggest that everything can be solved by deciding to do better.

But you do not need to have my story to find something meaningful in recovery.

When I bring my experience down to its simplest form, I started taking steps toward becoming a better person.

Not because I was a bad person before. Because I wanted to live differently. I wanted to be more honest, more present, and more able to show up for myself and the people I love.

I know others have done that same work, whether they call it recovery, healing, growth, or simply trying again.

For me, stopping drinking was part of it. Learning how to live was the bigger part.

Learning to ask for help. Taking responsibility without tearing myself apart. Setting boundaries. Listening. Making amends where I could. Learning that taking care of myself was not something I had to earn after taking care of everybody else.

None of that belongs exclusively to people recovering from addiction.

You do not have to identify as “a person in recovery” to belong in this conversation. And you do not have to wait until everything falls apart to decide you deserve something different.

My date is September 14. You may have a date, or you may not.

There is room for you here either way.

Sometimes the next step is getting a little steadier

Something I care deeply about in my work is helping people notice what is happening within them.

I think of this as regulation literacy: learning to recognize when we are overwhelmed, disconnected, or on edge, and exploring what helps us feel a little more present.

It is part of why I teach the Community Resiliency Model. I want people to have practical ways to get to know their own responses, not just another person telling them to “calm down.”

Regulation is not pretending everything is okay. It is not forcing yourself to feel peaceful when life is genuinely hard.

Sometimes it is noticing the support of the chair beneath you. Looking around and finding something pleasant or neutral. Remembering a person, place, or animal that brings some comfort. Stepping outside. Reaching out to someone who can listen.

If you want, take a small pause here. Notice something around you that you do not mind looking at. You do not have to change anything or make yourself feel a certain way.

These moments are not replacements for treatment, housing, financial support, or other real needs. They are small practices we can explore alongside that support.

For me, learning to pause has been part of learning to choose. Sometimes I need that pause before responding to a message, taking on another commitment, or deciding what I need next.

That is recovery work too.

We have to make it safer to be honest

Overdose prevention and suicide prevention ask us to do more than share an awareness graphic.

Can someone tell us, “I returned to use,” without being treated like all their progress disappeared?

Can someone say, “I am having thoughts that scare me,” and be met with care and help?

Can someone admit they are not okay without immediately receiving a lecture?

We do not need to have every answer. We do need to take people seriously and help them connect with appropriate support.

That can mean learning about naloxone and how to respond to an overdose. Helping someone find treatment or peer support. Checking in after a difficult appointment. Following up when the immediate crisis has passed and everyone else has returned to their routines.

It also means recognizing that connection is not a substitute for professional care—and professional care does not make everyday connection unnecessary.

People need more than one kind of support.

The awareness months matter. They give us a reason to start these conversations. I want us to keep having them in October, in February, and on an ordinary Tuesday when somebody finally works up the courage to say, “Can we talk?”

Reclaim. Rebuild. Reconnect.

As I approach six years, those three words feel especially personal.

I have reclaimed parts of myself. Rebuilt relationships and a sense of purpose. Reconnected with my community and with the person I want to keep becoming.

That is why those words belong at the heart of The Re.Center.

I want this work to make room for people taking steps toward a healthier, more connected life—not just people whose struggles look like mine.

And nobody should have to turn their pain into an inspiring story before they are worthy of care. You do not need a degree, a business, a public platform, or a milestone to make your recovery meaningful. Your life matters without any of those things.

This September, I am celebrating. I am also remembering the people who did not get more time, and thinking about the families carrying their absence.

I can be grateful for my life and wish, deeply, that more people had the chance to keep building theirs.

If you are reading this and struggling, I will not pretend a blog can make everything okay. But I hope it can remind you that you do not have to wait until you have the right words to reach out.

If you are growing, changing, starting over, or trying again, that matters—even when nobody else sees the work.

And if you have been part of my journey, thank you. For the conversations, the opportunities, the patience, and the ways you have helped me keep moving.

Six years means a lot to me. So does what I get to do with the next day.

Keep learning. Keep showing up. Keep taking steps toward the person I want to be—and help make it a little easier for someone else to do the same.

We don’t just talk recovery—we build it.

Reclaim. Rebuild. Reconnect.

— Jon Dance

Founder, The Re.Center NRV

If you or someone you care about needs emotional support, call or text 988 in the United States, or visit the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Support is free, confidential, and available 24/7. You do not have to be suicidal to reach out. For an immediate life-threatening emergency or suspected overdose, call 911.