People saw me and saw a functioning mother. A tough girl. A survivor. No one asked what I needed. Not even when I started showing up in hospitals with trembling hands and cracked smiles, begging without words to be seen. I was met with charts. With cold stares. With questions that never led to answers. I was hurting out loud and they kept diagnosing my silence. 

So, when I read the Compassionate Intervention Act, I feel sick. I feel terrified for the people still out there surviving however they can, because this law is a death sentence in disguise. There’s no clear threshold of harm. No oversight. No due process. No aftercare. No plan. And way too much police involvement. And who’s going to get targeted? Houseless folks. Racialized folks. Indigenous folks who are already over-surveilled, over-policed, over-incarcerated, and over-represented in intervention programs. This isn’t care. This is carceral logic dressed up in a new uniform.