I woke up early on November 11, 2016, to learn that my only child, my 22-year-old daughter Cassidy, was dead. A fentanyl overdose had ripped her body from us on her bathroom floor just after midnight. A month later, through a shroud of grief, I felt a tug. It began as one thought that grew into words strung together in my head, which was fueled by the constant pull from somewhere I couldn't see: Write, write, write. Like a child pulling at my sleeve, asking for attention . . . Mom, Mom, Mommy, MOM! WRITE YOUR STORY! You are about to witness what it was like for me to survive the first year of this devastating LOSS as I navigate through the pain, tears, and even laughter when I have had no choice but to laugh or cry. This is my new normal. My daughter is one of the far too many that are dying from this epidemic. I miss her deeply and I know I can never have her back.