Imagine losing your sibling to a drug overdose at just 21. Now, imagine trying to explain that loss to a 4-year-old. This is the heartbreaking reality for Tricia Reagan and her family, who are still grappling with the death of Sarah Saponara, a vibrant young woman voted class clown and a talented musician who played 17 instruments. But here’s where it gets even more devastating: Sarah’s death wasn’t just a tragedy—it was a stark reminder of the opioid crisis ravaging families across the nation. And this is the part most people miss: the ripple effect of such a loss, especially on the youngest members of the family, who struggle to comprehend the irreversible absence of a loved one.
Miles Lucier, Sarah’s half-brother, was just 4 when she died. He’d already experienced loss—his goldfish and their dog, Copper, had passed away—but Sarah’s death was different. Copper had lived a full life, equivalent to 105 in dog years. Sarah was only 21. Tricia tried to explain that Sarah had taken medication not prescribed to her, laced with dangerous substances like fentanyl, which ultimately took her life. But for Miles, the concept of death remained abstract. ‘Tell me how Sarah died,’ he’d ask randomly—at the grocery store, the park, the zoo. It wasn’t until years later that they could begin to have deeper conversations about her death and the circumstances surrounding it.
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 legitimate prescription spiraled into a quest for other drugs—weed, ketamine, Xanax—as she sought to balance her bipolar disorder and ADHD. By college, she was addicted not to a specific drug, but to the altered state itself. This raises a troubling question: How do we address the over-prescription of opioids to young people, and the lack of support for those struggling with mental health issues? Sarah’s story isn’t unique, but it’s one that many families are reluctant to discuss, fearing judgment or stigma.
Sarah’s addiction upended her family’s life. Tricia, her mother, gave 96 out of 100 metaphorical ‘marbles’ of her attention to Sarah, leaving her other children, like Liliana, feeling the strain. At one point, Tricia even sent Liliana, then 13, to live with an uncle out of fear that Sarah’s drug connections might endanger them. Liliana’s anger and confusion were palpable: ‘How could Sarah afford drugs but not food? Why did she keep using?’ It took years for Liliana to understand how addiction had hijacked Sarah’s decision-making.
And this is the part most people miss: The grief experienced by siblings like Liliana and Miles is often overlooked. They grapple with anticipatory grief—the pain of knowing a loss is inevitable—long before their sibling passes. For Liliana, now 18, there was anger and heartbreak. For Miles, now 8, there’s the challenge of grieving someone he barely knew. Tricia has worked tirelessly to help them process their loss, taking them to support groups like the Full Circle Grief Center and Comfort Zone Grief Camp, where Miles learned he could honor Sarah’s memory in new ways, like decorating a luminaire bag with lightning bolts—a symbol of Sarah’s resilience.
Sarah’s death was the result of a counterfeit Percocet laced with fentanyl, a fate all too common in today’s drug landscape. According to the Drug Enforcement Administration, six out of every 10 fake prescription pills contain a potentially lethal dose of fentanyl. Yet, here’s the controversial truth: Parents often avoid discussing this reality, fearing it could happen to their own children. Tricia has felt this shunning firsthand, but she refuses to stay silent. Her family’s story is a call to action, a reminder that addiction and overdose are not moral failings but public health crises.
Liliana, now hyper-aware of the dangers, has refused opioids after surgeries, despite pushback from doctors. ‘I wish more people knew opioids didn’t have to be the norm,’ she says. Her room holds a neon lightning bolt lamp, once Sarah’s, symbolizing her sister’s indomitable spirit. Sarah had survived a near-lightning strike, and Tricia once gifted her a bracelet with a poem: ‘Girls like you are made of lightning—hard to forget and remembered by all.’
But here’s the question that lingers: How do we, as a society, better support families like Tricia’s? How do we address the stigma surrounding overdose deaths and ensure that grief resources are accessible to all? And most importantly, how do we prevent more young lives from being cut short by the opioid epidemic? Sarah’s story is a tragedy, but it’s also a call for compassion, understanding, and change. What’s your take? Do you think we’re doing enough to combat this crisis, or is there more we could—and should—be doing? Let’s start the conversation.
