Imagine losing a vibrant, talented 21-year-old who lit up every room she entered. Now imagine trying to explain that loss to a 4-year-old. This is the heartbreaking reality for Tricia Reagan and her family after the death of Sarah Saponara, a young woman who played 17 instruments, was voted class clown, and left an indelible mark on everyone she met. But Sarah’s story is also a stark reminder of the opioid crisis ravaging families across the nation. And this is the part most people miss: the ripple effect of grief, especially on siblings, and the impossible task of helping children understand a loss they’re too young to fully grasp.
Miles Lucier, Sarah’s half-brother, was just 4 when she died. He’d already experienced the loss of a goldfish and the family dog, Copper, but Sarah’s death was different. Tricia tried to explain that Sarah had taken medication not prescribed to her, laced with dangerous substances like fentanyl, which took her life. But how do you make sense of that to a child? Miles’s questions would come in waves—at the grocery store, the park, the zoo: “Tell me how Sarah died.” As he grew older, his curiosity deepened: Where did Sarah get the medicine? Could all medicines hurt you?
But here’s where it gets controversial: Sarah’s journey into addiction began at 17, after being prescribed opioids following a routine medical procedure. What started as a search for that same feeling escalated to weed, ketamine, and Xanax. She struggled with bipolar disorder and ADHD, and drugs seemed to balance her brain—at least temporarily. By college, she was addicted to the altered state itself, eventually dropping out after four semesters. Her addiction upended her family’s life. Tricia gave 96 out of 100 metaphorical marbles to Sarah, fearing for her safety and even sending her 13-year-old daughter, Liliana, to live with an uncle out of concern for her well-being.
Liliana, now 18, recalls the anger and confusion she felt: “How could Sarah afford drugs but not food? Why did she keep using?” It took years for her to understand how addiction had hijacked Sarah’s actions. “It was really heartbreaking to have to experience Sarah be so dismissive,” Liliana says. “There was a lot of anger when she died.”
And this is the part most people miss: the anticipatory grief families experience when a loved one is struggling with addiction. Tricia describes it as “something horrific”—a constant fear of the worst, compounded by the stigma of losing someone to substances. Sarah’s final year was a nightmare. In August 2020, she tried heroin for the first time. Hours later, her girlfriend overdosed and died. Despite knowing the heroin was lethal, Sarah used it again. Six months later, she was gone, killed by a counterfeit Percocet laced with fentanyl. Tricia barely slept that year, constantly checking Sarah’s location and social media, her heart racing every time hours passed without hearing from her.
Here’s the hard truth: Over 100,000 people die from drug overdoses annually in the U.S., with nearly 70% caused by synthetic opioids like fentanyl. Yet, parents often avoid talking about it. “The shunning I’ve felt… it’s because they don’t want to imagine that happening to them,” Tricia says. Liliana, now hyperaware of the risks, refused opioids after surgeries, despite pushback from doctors. “I wish more people knew opioids didn’t have to be the norm,” she says.
Grief, especially for a child, takes unexpected forms. Miles, now 8, doesn’t remember Sarah, but he’s found his own way to honor her. In a corner of their kitchen, he’s built “Sarah’s house,” filled with photos, toys, and even a tiny doll bed. “She needs a bed in her house,” he told Tricia. When asked if Sarah sleeps there, he shakes his head: “No, she’s in the stars.”
Tricia, Liliana, and Miles now attend support groups and grief camps, like the Comfort Zone Grief Camp, where Miles learned he could create new memories of Sarah by carrying her legacy forward. This year, he decorated a luminaire bag with lightning bolts—a nod to Sarah’s near-miss with lightning and the poem Tricia gave her: “Girls like you are made of lightning—hard to forget and remembered by all.”
Here’s the question that lingers: How do we better support families grappling with addiction and loss? And how do we break the stigma that isolates them? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s start a conversation that could save lives.
If you or someone you love is struggling with a substance use disorder, contact the SAMHSA National Helpline at 1-800-662-HELP (4357) for resources and support.
