Photo: Alex Moliski
The nation just had its best year against opioids in decades. Across the country, overdose deaths dropped by roughly 14 percent, the most significant decline since the fentanyl crisis began tearing through communities. Families breathed easier. Public health officials allowed themselves cautious optimism. In cities and small towns from coast to coast, the numbers finally, mercifully, bent in the right direction.
Colorado went the other way.
In the twelve months ending October 2025, approximately 1,792 people died from overdoses in our state, up from 1,682 the year before. Colorado was one of only seven states where deaths climbed while the rest of the nation celebrated progress. If our state had simply matched the national decline, over 1,600 additional Coloradans might still be alive. That is not a statistic. That is a number made of people who had parents who loved them, children who needed them, friends who are now trying to figure out how to move through the world without them.
I have been writing about recovery and the outdoors for years now, and I have learned that grief does not care about trend lines or policy debates. But understanding why this is happening matters deeply, especially if you are in recovery yourself, if you love someone who is, or if you have already lost someone to this crisis. So let us look at this together, honestly, without preaching, and see what we can learn.
The reversal stings particularly because Colorado seemed to be turning a corner. In the 2023 to 2024 period, our state was trending in a hopeful direction. Harm reduction programs were expanding. Naloxone distribution was increasing. The overdose prevention community was growing stronger. We were, by many measures, a success story.
Then the numbers started climbing again.
A peer reviewed study published in JAMA Health Forum examined what happened. Researchers at the University of Colorado School of Medicine analyzed opioid related overdose deaths from January 2018 through November 2023 and found that deaths increased from 20.46 per 100,000 adults to 37.78 per 100,000 during that period. The crisis was accelerating, not abating, despite significant policy interventions.
Meanwhile, nationally, the picture looked dramatically different. Research from New York University documented that the monthly opioid overdose death rate across the country declined by 50 percent from its peak in summer 2023 through fall 2024. The researchers found that this decline was only modestly associated with reduced fentanyl in the drug supply, suggesting that other factors were driving the improvements.
This is a crucial point. If the national decline was not primarily about cutting off fentanyl at the source, then states have more control over outcomes than we might assume. Which raises an uncomfortable question: what is Colorado doing differently, and is it working?
In 2022, Colorado passed House Bill 22 1326, which made possession of small amounts of fentanyl a felony. The law was born from genuine desperation. Fentanyl had transformed the overdose landscape, and epidemiologists studying synthetic opioids had documented how the potency and prevalence of these drugs created new levels of risk. Lawmakers, families who had lost loved ones, and many in law enforcement argued that stricter penalties would deter use and push people toward treatment.
The theory seemed intuitive: make the consequences severe enough, and people will change their behavior. It is an approach rooted in a certain logic, and those who supported it were not acting from malice. They were trying, in many cases, to save lives.
"Increasing criminal penalties for fentanyl possession did not lower preexisting trends of opioid related overdose deaths in Colorado and may be associated with an increase among the Black population."
But according to the JAMA study, the law did not produce the intended results. The researchers used time series forecasting to compare expected and observed overdose death rates after the law went into effect. Their conclusion was stark: increasing criminal penalties for fentanyl possession did not lower preexisting trends of opioid related overdose deaths in Colorado.
This finding aligns with a broader body of research on punitive drug policy. When people are struggling with addiction, the threat of incarceration often does not register the way it might for someone making a calculated decision. Addiction rewires the brain's decision making architecture. Fear of a felony charge does not reliably override the compulsion to use, particularly when withdrawal feels unbearable and the drug is everywhere.
Supporters of the law argue that the analysis may be incomplete. They point out that enforcement takes time to build, that the law may be preventing deaths in ways that do not show up in mortality data, and that the alternative of decriminalization has its own risks. These are fair points to consider. Policy evaluation is complex, and a single study, however rigorous, does not settle every question.
But the overall picture is troubling. Colorado implemented a significant policy change based on the theory that punishment would reduce harm. The available evidence suggests the opposite may have occurred.
If the statewide numbers are painful, the numbers broken down by race are devastating.
According to the JAMA study, Colorado's Black population saw overdose rates climb from 9.3 per 100,000 in 2018 to 56.9 per 100,000 by November 2023. That is more than a 500 percent increase in five years, the sharpest disparity increase in state history. Hispanic Coloradans also experienced significant increases, though not as extreme.
This pattern has historical precedent in national data, but Colorado's numbers are accelerating the trend in alarming ways. Researchers attribute part of this disparity to the fact that criminalization policies tend to be enforced unevenly, with communities of color bearing disproportionate consequences. When possession becomes a felony, those communities are more likely to face arrest, prosecution, and the cascading consequences that make recovery harder: job loss, housing instability, severed family connections.
At Sober Outdoors, we talk often about how recovery happens in community. It happens through connection, through feeling like you belong somewhere, through having people who believe in you even when you struggle to believe in yourself. Anything that isolates people from those supports makes recovery harder. Criminal records do exactly that.
So if criminalization is not producing the results Colorado hoped for, what is driving the improvements we see nationally?
The research points to several factors. Community naloxone distribution programs have been shown to reverse overdoses and save lives. When bystanders have access to naloxone and know how to use it, people survive situations that would otherwise kill them. States that have expanded naloxone access aggressively have generally seen better outcomes.
Medication for opioid use disorder is another critical piece. Research has documented that people who receive medication assisted treatment after a nonfatal overdose have a 59 percent reduction in mortality compared to those who do not. These medications are not a crutch or a substitute for real recovery. They are evidence based treatments that give people the stability to build a life worth living.
Harm reduction is sometimes controversial. Critics worry that it enables continued use rather than pushing people toward abstinence. This concern is understandable, especially for families who have watched addiction destroy someone they love. But the data consistently shows that meeting people where they are, rather than demanding they meet conditions before receiving help, saves lives. People cannot recover if they are dead.
Colorado has harm reduction programs, including naloxone distribution and some syringe access services. But the emphasis on criminalization may be undermining these efforts. When people fear arrest, they use alone rather than with someone who could call for help. They avoid seeking treatment because they worry about legal consequences. The very policies intended to protect them push them further into danger.
If you are reading this and you are in recovery, I want to speak directly to you for a moment.
These numbers are heavy. They might bring up memories of people you have lost, or fears about your own journey, or anger at a system that seems to be failing. All of that is valid. You are allowed to feel whatever you feel.
But I also want you to know that recovery is possible even when the policy environment is not optimal. It is harder, yes. The deck is stacked in ways that are unjust. But people are finding their way to sobriety every single day in Colorado, building lives of meaning and connection despite everything working against them.
Part of what helps is finding community. That is why we do what we do at Sober Outdoors. Getting outside, moving your body, connecting with other people who understand the journey, these things matter. They do not replace treatment, but they create the conditions where healing becomes more possible.
And if you have lost someone to this crisis, I am so sorry. There are no words that make that kind of loss easier. But your grief is not something to carry alone. The recovery community in Denver and across Colorado includes many people who understand that particular heartbreak. Reaching out is not weakness. It is wisdom.
Colorado is at a crossroads. The data suggests that the current approach is not working, and that continuing on this path may cost more lives. But policy change is slow, and the political dynamics around drug laws are complicated. Some lawmakers genuinely believe that the felony law needs more time to show results. Others are starting to question whether a different approach might be more effective.
What seems clear is that supply side interventions alone are not enough. The national data shows that even as fentanyl remained prevalent in the drug supply, deaths dropped dramatically in states that invested in treatment access, naloxone distribution, and other harm reduction strategies. Colorado could follow that path, but it would require acknowledging that the felony law may have been a mistake, and that is politically difficult.
For now, those of us in the recovery community can focus on what we can control. We can support each other. We can carry naloxone and learn how to use it. We can advocate for treatment access and against policies that isolate people from the help they need. We can tell our stories, because stories have a way of changing minds that statistics alone cannot.
The mountains are still there. The trails are still open. The community is still here. Whatever happens in the Capitol, whatever the numbers do next year, those things remain true. And sometimes, when everything else feels uncertain, that is enough to hold onto.
If you are looking for connection, for a place where you belong, for people who will walk beside you on this journey, I hope you will consider joining us. We meet outside, we move our bodies, we breathe mountain air, and we remind each other that recovery is not something you do alone. It is something you build together, one step at a time, one day at a time, surrounded by people who understand.
That is what keeps me going when the numbers are hard to look at. The people. The community. The stubborn insistence that another way is possible.
I hope to see you on the trail.
Warmly, Maya Torres