Chiliwack – NOTE – The author wishes to remain anonymous and FVN respects that decision.
We are about to lose something that many people never wanted to think about in the first place.
The wellness drop-in centre. The OPS site. Spaces that some see as inconvenient,
uncomfortable, or too close to home. Spaces that others know, very plainly, are the difference
between life and death.
It is easy to say “not here.” It is easy to believe that if these services disappear, so will the
problems that come with them. But that is not how this works. People do not disappear when
services do. They often don’t even relocate. They scatter. They hide where it’s familiar, and
when people hide, they die.
Overdose Prevention Sites exist for a reason. They are about acknowledging reality. Substance
use is already happening in our communities, whether we approve of it or not. The question is
not whether people will use it. The question is where, and whether they will survive it.
Inside an OPS site, someone is there to respond. Someone is there with oxygen, with naloxone,
with a trained eye that can recognize the moment something goes wrong. Outside, behind a
bush, in an alley, in a public bathroom, there is no one. There is only silence.
If you are worried about what these spaces have brought into your neighbourhood, consider
what happens when one very large space is gone. The same people will still be here and will
have nowhere to go. Not because they want this, but because there is no other option,
Chilliwack has ensured that.
This is the reality many people say they do not want on their doorstep. Yet removing these
services guarantees exactly that outcome.
For those concerned about strain on emergency services, this decision should raise a serious
alarm. When people use alone and overdoses go unwitnessed, emergency calls increase.
Hospital admissions rise. Emergency rooms become even more overwhelmed. OPS sites
reduce that burden. They intervene early. They prevent deaths before they become
emergencies.
You think ER numbers are high now. Imagine what happens when those preventable overdoses
once cared for by staff become a new 911 call or a fatality.
Without these spaces, people are pushed back onto the street immediately after a crisis. No
follow-up. No support. No place to land. That instability does not stay contained. It ripples
outward into the entire community. These decisions are often made quietly, in rooms far
removed from the people most affected. But the consequences are not quiet. They show up in
rising death rates, in increased public drug use, in more visible suffering, and in the growing
strain on families and systems alike.
Because this is not about “those people.”
It is about the son who once slept on your couch and now sleeps behind a building. It is about
the daughter who is struggling in ways you never imagined. It is about neighbours, seniors,
coworkers, classmates. It is about the people we love, even when we do not recognize them
anymore.
When we remove the spaces designed to keep them safe, we are not taking a stand against
addiction. We are stepping back from responsibility. We are making it more likely that
someone’s loved one does not come home.
We cannot claim to value life while removing the very services that preserve it. We need
recovery spaces for people who are ready to take that step, and we need harm reduction
spaces for people who are not there yet or may never get there in a straight line. This should not
be an either or conversation. Right now, we are failing in both directions. There are not enough
accessible, timely recovery options, and now we are removing the very spaces that keep people
alive in the meantime. The absence of choice is not compassion. It is not treatment. It is not
humanity. Recovery cannot happen if someone is dead.
Chilliwack is not protecting its community by closing these spaces. It is an increasing risk,
pushing problems into the shadows, and ensuring that more people suffer and die out of sight.
And when that happens, we are all part of it. Whether we meant to be or not.
