Conversations on Addiction: When Pain Has No Safe Place to Go
Black History Month is about more than celebration — it's about understanding the systems that have shaped Black life in America and working together to build something better. Few systems have been more destructive than the War on Drugs, which criminalized addiction in Black communities while other communities received treatment and compassion. In week three of this year's programming, Prisoner’s Moms of Faith and First Presbyterian Church hosted Conversations on Addiction — a candid, necessary dialogue about what addiction actually is, how we support the people around us, and why the response to addiction has looked so different depending on who's struggling.
Last year, a speaker shared how a relative’s addiction impacted their life. This year, the goal was to expand on that—to give people tangible tools and open up a real dialogue about what support looks like, starting with a fundamental question: what do we actually mean when we say “addiction”?
We’re All Struggling With Something
The evening started with a reframe that changed the tone of the entire conversation: addiction is what happens when pain has no safe place to go.
That’s a statement everyone can relate to. We’ve all experienced pain. We’ve all experienced trauma. And how we cope with that—if not done in a healthy way—can turn into patterns that hurt us. The conversation asked the room to sit with that honestly, and to let go of the “us versus them” model that keeps us from seeing people who struggle with addiction as people who are struggling the same way we all do.
As one participant put it: “It’s not them struggling and we’re not—we’re all struggling with something.”
It's Easy to Judge — Until We Look at Our Own Habits
A question was posed to the audience: what kills the most people in the United States? The first answers were what you’d expect—alcohol abuse, drug overdose. And those numbers are staggering: over 100,000 people die every year from drug overdoses, and another 178,000 from alcohol abuse.
But the actual leading cause is heart disease—680,000 deaths a year, much of it preventable and tied directly to lifestyle and eating choices. Over 50,000 people die annually in auto accidents, many from distracted driving. Most of us have texted behind the wheel. Most of us have made food choices we know aren’t good for us.
The point landed: it’s easier to see faults in people who struggle with drugs or alcohol than to recognize our own harmful patterns. When we expand the lens, we have to say it’s not just them—it’s all of us. And we all can benefit from supporting one another, understanding one another, offering empathy—friendship, not enabling.
The Stigma of Asking for Help
The conversation went deeper into the reasons people don’t seek help—and they’re not all about willpower or choice. Stigma plays a significant role. The way many of us were raised, our culture, our religion—all of it can reinforce the idea that asking for help is a sign of weakness, that we should handle things internally, that personal business stays in the house.
People in the room talked openly about their own coping mechanisms: food, shutting down, retreating into a bubble, a drink here and there, gambling. None of them are positive. All of them are common. And that honesty—being willing to say “some days it’s easier to see the thorn in other people’s eyes than the thorn in our own”—is where empathy starts.
Before You Share That Post
One of the most important parts of the evening was a conversation about how we treat people’s struggles publicly—especially on social media. When someone is at their lowest, we live in a world where the instinct is to share it, comment on it, screenshot it. The room was asked to pause before doing that: “Be very careful before we share some of the most painful and traumatic moments of somebody’s life.”
That person is somebody’s brother, sister, father, daughter, son. We have a need to know all the information—even at the expense of bringing pain to other people. Empathy means recognizing that someone’s worst moment doesn’t belong to us just because we can access it.
Why This Conversation Belongs in Black History Month
Drug addiction impacts all races in this country. Full stop. But the treatment and response for people who struggle has been significantly different depending on who they are.
During the crack epidemic of the 1980s, the response was punishment. The War on Drugs funneled Black men—disproportionately—into the criminal justice system. Fathers were removed from homes. Families were left in poverty. Long criminal sentences became the standard recourse for addiction. The policy wasn’t treatment—it was incarceration.
Then came the opioid epidemic, which largely affected white communities. The response was different. Addiction was framed as a mental health problem requiring treatment. There was a push for rehabilitation, not prison. People were met with sympathy. And while opioid-related overdoses have overwhelmingly impacted rural and suburban white, non-Hispanic communities, there has been a surge in overdose deaths among Black and Hispanic communities in recent years. Yet the media narrative continues to frame this as a white, rural crisis—and as a result, intervention strategies and policies have largely failed to address the severity of the problem in minority communities or offer culturally sensitive prevention and treatment.
That contrast matters. When one community's addiction is met with punishment and another's with compassion—and when the crisis spreading into Black and Hispanic communities is rendered invisible by that same narrative—it shapes who feels safe asking for help and who doesn't. Black people historically have had reason to fear that seeking help would lead to criminalization—so many have suffered in silence or self-medicated rather than reaching out.
Understanding that history is essential. When we say addiction has disproportionately impacted African Americans, we’re not saying it doesn’t affect everyone. We’re saying the response has been different, and that difference has caused lasting harm. The War on Drugs wasn’t a natural disaster. It was a set of specific policy decisions that targeted specific communities. Those policies were designed, and they can be redesigned—but only if we understand how they worked and who they hurt.
Several people in the room were less familiar with the War on Drugs but were generally familiar with the opioid crisis. Being able to put those side by side—to show how the same problem received completely different responses based on who was affected—gave people context they hadn’t had before. And context is what moves us from judgment to empathy, from assumptions to understanding.
Moving Forward Together
The main takeaway from the evening is one worth carrying with us: addiction is what happens when pain has no safe place to go. That can happen to any of us. It could be us tomorrow. And so we all play a part in helping our friends, our neighbors, our brothers and sisters—because we are each other.
This is what Black History Month programming is for—creating space for conversations that teach us something, challenge us, and bring us closer to one another. Understanding how systems like the War on Drugs shaped who gets help and who gets punished is the first step toward building a community where everyone has access to support, compassion, and care. That work requires all of us.
Thank you to Prisoner’s Moms of Faith and First Presbyterian Church for hosting this event and for expanding on last year’s conversation with honesty, care, and tangible dialogue.
About Black History Month Columbus: Black History Month Columbus is about celebrating Black culture, telling the true stories of Black history, and honoring the legacy and accomplishments of the Black community. Join us as we are creating a momentum for community healing through inspiring and educational experiences, and we warmly invite our neighbors from all walks of life to participate ♥
