Some people don’t just live life; they fill it—with laughter, with love, with small acts of kindness that linger long after they’re gone. Dustin was one of them.

He had a quiet way of making the world better for the people he loved. Not with grand gestures, but with the kind of thoughtfulness that meant everything—the kind you don’t even realize you’ll miss until it’s gone. Like the way he warmed up clothes in the morning, just so the woman he loved wouldn’t have to face the cold. It was second nature to him, noticing what people needed before they even had to ask. That was Dustin. Steady. Kind. Someone whose love wasn’t just spoken—it was felt.

And he fought. Fought so hard. He clawed his way back from addiction, piece by piece, day by day, until he stood on the other side of it. One year sober. One whole year. He held that one-year coin in his hands like a promise—proof that he had done what so many said he couldn’t. That he had chosen life. That he had won.

But addiction is cruel, and fentanyl does not bargain. One pill. Half of one. Given to him by someone who had no idea that what they handed him was laced with death. It wasn’t fair. It isn’t fair. Because Dustin had already fought his battle. He had already earned his second chance. And yet, it was stolen from him anyway.

"He was more than an addict."

That is what needs to be remembered. Not the way he died, but the way he lived. The way he could make people laugh without even trying. The way he saw the good in others, even when he struggled to see it in himself. The way he cared—deeply, unshakably, in a world that so often forgets to be gentle.

He should still be here. He deserved to be here. And while fentanyl may have taken his body, it will never take the love he left behind. That stays. That lingers. That matters.

Dustin, you were so much more than your struggle. And nothing—not time, not loss, not even death—can take that away.