Last month, on a quiet work-from-home morning in South Philly, I ended up using the Narcan I’ve carried for years but never expected to need. It happened right on my block, in broad daylight, and it changed the way I think about what it means to be prepared.
I had stepped outside to grab something from my car when I saw a woman and a man arguing on the sidewalk. At first I worried he was upsetting her. Within seconds it became clear he was trying to help. She was injured, disoriented, and then suddenly she collapsed. A neighbor mentioned she’d lived nearby for years and struggled with addiction. It all shifted at once: she was overdosing.
I sprinted home, grabbed the Narcan I keep in a drawer, and ran back. One dose later, she was sitting up, conscious again. It was that quick. That simple. And honestly, a little surreal.
I had only a few minutes before my next meeting, and I wasn’t sure what to do next. I didn’t want to call the police, but I also couldn’t just walk away. So I called my boss, Grant, for guidance. I apologized for bothering him, but he immediately said, “I’m really glad you called me.”
That moment of support meant more than I can explain. Grant and his wife lost their son, Morgan, to fentanyl poisoning. Their experience is a reminder that overdose doesn’t fit a stereotype. It touches families everywhere. It affects people you’d never expect.
This whole experience made one thing painfully clear: carrying Narcan isn’t for “other people.” It’s for all of us. It’s free, simple to use, and sometimes it’s the only thing standing between someone and the end of their life. Friends, coworkers, neighbors, strangers at a bar or a concert — anyone could need it.
Making Narcan part of your everyday carry is one small action that can change everything.
Carrying Narcan is easy. It’s free. It saves lives.
KM – South Philly, PA
