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This is the fourth article in the Building Hope series about the poisoned drug crisis and its impacts on Gabriola Island. Part 1 of the series can be found here.
For a list of resources and supports in relation to these subjects please visit https://ghwcollaborative.ca/poison-drug-action-table.
The landscape of treatment options for alcohol and drug addiction is broad and includes public and private supports that include short-term and long-term programs. Some programs address co-occurring disorders such as mental health diagnoses, others may incorporate wraparound supports such as housing and employment services. Research has analyzed the efficacy of various models built to accommodate the diversity of individual circumstances.
In its 2025 budget, the B.C. government committed $500 million over three years for addictions treatment and recovery programs that are underway. Service providers say access to care is part of the challenge for people seeking treatment.
“We know that people are not getting the help they need when they ask for it…,” a 2024 advocacy report on substance use and mental health from the Canadian Mental Health Association of British Columbia says. Even with significant investment in mental health and substance use, the report argues B.C. lacks a “coherent system of care.”
In this fourth instalment of the Building Hope series, we hear from two women with ties to Gabriola who are in recovery from drug addiction. They speak about access to timely, appropriate care as well as the people in their lives that form their networks of support.
The first narrative follows Sang whose journey includes falling into substance use from a young age as well as struggling to find affordable treatment options. Per her request, Sang’s last name has not been published.
The second narrative follows Shannon D. whose addiction journey began with medication prescribed for an injury. Per her request, Shannon’s full last name has not been published.
Both narratives were written by Dyan Dunsmoor-Farley, based on transcripts of interviews with Sang and Shannon conducted by Trisha Matson in June 2025. The narratives were approved by Sang and Shannon prior to publication.
Coming Home: Sang’s journey through addiction to recovery
Sang was born and raised on Gabriola Island. Now 48, she runs Gabriola Outreach and a labour collective, providing support and purpose to those living with addiction. Her story, shaped by years of struggle and hard-won insight, is a testament to resilience, community, and the power of reconnection.
“I grew up an overachiever,” she begins. “I had a loving family, good grades, strong relationships. But I was addicted before I even understood addiction—addicted to being intoxicated, to instant gratification.”
Sang challenges the notion that addiction follows a single trajectory. “People think everyone with addiction must have been abused or abandoned. That wasn’t my story. There are many paths into addiction, and many of them are quiet and subtle.”
Her descent was gradual, beginning in her teens and accelerating through her twenties and thirties. “At first, it was just about feeling good, managing everyday pain. I didn’t see the danger. But with each step, addiction took more from me—my health, my mind, my relationships.”
For years, she cycled through treatment programs, often finding the systems more punitive than supportive. “One rehab kicked me out for a kiss. We were just thrown out onto the street. There were no safety nets. And it’s so expensive—$10,000 or more. My family gave everything to help me.”
At the height of her addiction, Sang lived in Victoria for six years. She lost all sense of self. “I weighed 80 pounds. I didn’t recognize my face. I didn’t speak for over a year. My mind was gone. Addiction, to me, was like a parasite. It uses everything you have—your fears, your survival instinct, your trauma.”
What finally shifted was not a grand moment of clarity, but a growing fear. “I realized that it was never going to get better—only worse. And I started to worry I might hurt someone unintentionally. I couldn’t trust my perception of reality.”
Her first steps toward recovery were rooted in empathy, not for herself, but for others. “People say you have to do it for yourself, but for me, it was about protecting others—from the risk I posed, from the pain I might cause.”
The true turning point came when Sang met her partner and the idea of motherhood resurfaced. “I always knew I was supposed to have a daughter. Even the idea of becoming a mom gave me a reason to fight.”
Returning to Gabriola was both a lifeline and a homecoming. “It was different here. The people I had once used with respected my decision to stay clean. They supported it. My mom looked at me and said, ‘Something is different this time – come home. Stay.’ That was huge.”
It was community, Sang says, that made recovery real. “Addiction isolates you from everything—yourself, your values, your people. Recovery is the opposite. It starts with connection. One person who trusts you with something small. One moment where you feel like you matter.”
Through Gabriola Outreach and her labour collective, Sang helps others find those moments. The programs focus on dignity, practical support, and mutual respect. “We don’t ask, ‘Are you clean?’ We ask, ‘Are you okay? Do you need food, work, someone to talk to?’”
She believes harm reduction is about more than preventing overdose. “It reduces harm to the whole community—families, friends, neighbours. The ripple effects of addiction are huge. So the support needs to ripple out, too.”
Today, Sang is a mother, a worker, a community leader. “Recovery gave me back my future. In addiction, there was no next week. No tomorrow. Now I have a five-year plan. A ten-year plan. I can see the future again.”
Her message to the Gabriola community is clear: “We are all closer to addiction than we think. It touches everyone. But connection, compassion, and respect—that’s what brings people home.”
Shannon’s Story: from the gift of despair to a life reclaimed
“I went from owning a home and working as a paramedic to living on the streets, using IV drugs. It only took two years. It happens so fast.”
Shannon never imagined addiction would take over her life. For two decades, she served as a paramedic, including on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. She had a home, a family, and a solid career. But a serious injury in 2009 led to a prescription for OxyContin—and soon, a descent into opioid addiction.
“You never think it’ll happen to you. I used to look at people using and think, ‘Why?’ I didn’t get it. Then I got hurt, got prescribed pain meds, and when the doctor cut me off, I started buying on the street,” Shannon says.
Her life unraveled. She lost her children. Her home. Her freedom. “It’s not partying. It’s about not being sick. Dope sickness is unbearable. And still, thinking about my kids every day wasn’t enough to stop me.”
In 2021, Shannon experienced psychosis so severe she jumped from a rooftop, breaking her back, pelvis, and leg. Doctors didn’t expect her to survive. But she did. “Lying there, I had this strange spiritual moment. I felt love, like I was being looked after,” she says. “But even that wasn’t enough to get clean. It was just the beginning.”
After a period of healing, Shannon found herself once again alone and ill, living in a small room at the Globe Hotel in downtown Nanaimo. “That’s where I hit what I call the gift of despair. I was hearing my children’s voices constantly. I missed them so much. I didn’t want to do drugs anymore, but I couldn’t stop crying. I realized I had to get clean—or I was going to jump off that roof too.”
She made one final call to her mother. “I told her I needed help. I thought she’d hang up, but she said, ‘What can I do?’ Within two days, she had me in treatment.”
Shannon had been to rehab four times before. But this time, she approached it differently. “I didn’t get clean for my kids or my mom. I did it for me. That’s the difference. I wanted to live.”
She completed 57 days of treatment and entered second-stage sober housing for a year. “I had to start over at 52. I changed one thing—everything. I deleted every contact in my phone. I knew I couldn’t go back to that life.”
Today, Shannon is clean and rebuilding. She lives with one of her adult children and is in the process of regaining custody of her youngest daughter—something she says happens for only 7% of mothers in her situation. She’s finishing her practicum as a support worker for people dealing with mental illness and addiction and hopes to graduate this August.
“I never thought I’d get my kids back. Or sleep in a bed again. Or hug my mom. But I did. I do. I’m here.”
She says recovery isn’t easy. “It’s still one day at a time. Sometimes, it’s five minutes at a time. But I feel things now. I cry. I laugh. I connect.”
Shannon believes compassion is at the heart of community change. “When I feel judgmental, it feels awful. But compassion—it feels good. It’s good for the person struggling, and it’s good for your own soul.”
She urges people to resist assumptions. “This can happen to anyone. It happened to me. And when someone’s in addiction, they already hate themselves. You can’t make them feel worse. But kindness? Kindness might be the thing that keeps them going one more day.”
Next in the Building Hope series, two narratives will present perspectives from service providers: one about paramedics and the experience of responding to drug poisoning events, and one about a legal aid lawyer who has represented individuals with addiction and mental heath struggles who have been caught in a cycle of drug and other charges.
Community input is an integral part of this series. Please share your thoughts or questions by emailing gabriolapdat@gmail.com
All responses will be treated as confidential and will help us gauge the impact of the series.
This series is made possible by funding from the Community Action Initiative.
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