Recovery Day On the Hill

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Today was Recovery Day on the Hill.

I got to see some of my favorite people on this entire planet share about their work and their personal stories of what recovery means to them. I loved it.

Wendy from Minnesota Recovery Connection always shows up for our communities. Farhia Budul from MRC made me cry. For real. Tori from Doc’s House, Brendon from Twin Cities Recovery Project, and Mike and Margot from P.E.A.S.E. Academy provided a glimpse into our future if we invest in effective, recovery-oriented programming. I’d follow these folks anywhere.

There was another part of the event that felt a little different to me.

This part seemed like a reflection of what people in power in Minnesota believe recovery is, which is a very limited version of a very specific flavor of recovery. It seemed driven by the agenda of trade groups, politicians and service organizations more than the individuals, families and communities working toward recovery. It felt like looking through a hole in a fence and forgetting there might be other viewpoints. It felt like it was driven by fear of change and an attempt at preserving the status quo and the power structure that makes it possible.

It seems like lots of folks who work in our space can’t help but conflate clinical or professional services and recovery. Many of them seem like they aren’t familiar with — or hold animus toward — flavors of recovery outside of the 12-Step and abstinence-only varieties.

Most of them continue to insist that Minnesota is a national leader instead of being a cautionary tale about resting on one’s laurels (which I used to think meant ass, but actually means past accolades I guess. Who knew?). Props to Wendy for reminding us just how far we have to go in that regard.

Here’s the thing about Minnesota…

Yes, we have an entire model of care named after our state. Yes, we have a ton of specialty treatment. Yes, we have some wildly vibrant recovery communities. Yes, we have a lot of things to be proud of.

But…

We simply aren’t national leaders. Sorry.

Are we really proud of the status quo? Can we honestly push back on a governor’s budget that provides long-overdue accountability for our treatment system? Can we truly consider ourselves leaders in the entire nation when we have such poor outcomes among our non-white populations? Are we even aware of what is happening across the country?

Kentucky has 74 syringe access programs. Everyone in a jail in Vermont has access to all three FDA-approved medications for the treatment of opioid use disorder. Everyone in Reno gets access to TalkSpace. Companies like Workit Health, DynamiCare, Axial, Ophelia, Boulder, RecoveryLink, Healthify, and the list literally, can, go, on, and on, are making treatment and recovery supports more available and more convenient across entire populations. Georgia has 31 Recovery Community Organizations. Entire states are opening up their Medicaid 1115 waivers to rescind the inmate exclusion around SUD. States are rewriting their entire payment structures to better support effective treatment across the care continuum. Missouri is bridging the historical chasm between harm-reduction and recovery.

We will be incapable of such innovation if our dialogue does not persistently center the individuals and communities still suffering under our current approaches. The urgency will never be there if those in power remain disconnected from the unacceptable suffering that has occurred, is occurring, and will continue under complacent leadership. It simply won’t happen if we continue to insist that what we are doing is good enough — that our system of care us sufficient.

It isn’t.

And, this is what is so hard about our work. Holding this dialectic:

We are doing the best we can, and we are loved and rad just the way we are.

&

We need to do better for the people we serve. Period.

This is the work that I try to do on a daily (failing) basis. This is what I absolutely love about recovery and what makes us (me especially) such a massive pain in the ass. We don’t stop. We can’t. We can’t call this “good enough.”






Jordan Hansen