When a Crisis Becomes the Background Noise

When a Crisis Becomes the Background Noise

I watched a video today from Dr. Jill in Vancouver, and the anger in her voice stayed with me.

Not just anger—grief.

She was speaking about something that should never be normalized: people filming and laughing at human beings caught in what many now call the “fentanyl bend.” Bodies folded, spirits dimmed, lives paused somewhere between survival and disappearance.

And I felt that.

Because I’ve seen it too.

In Vancouver. In Surrey. At bus stops. On sidewalks. Outside shops. Not hidden—just… there. As if suffering has become part of the streetscape.

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There was a time when seeing someone overdose would stop everything.

People would rush. Call for help. Panic. Cry.

Now?

One person walks by.
Then another.
Then another.

And something shifts.

It becomes background noise.

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I’ve been away for a few months now, and I realize something uncomfortable: my nervous system has softened. I haven’t had to brace myself walking down the street. I haven’t had that split-second scan—Is that person breathing? Do I need to help? Am I safe?

And the thought of going back… it’s heavy.

Not because I don’t love home.

But because I don’t recognize what it’s becoming.

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This isn’t about blame. Not really.

Yes, there are layers—housing, poverty, policy failures, the long shadow of COVID, overwhelmed systems, and cities growing faster than they can care for people. There are newcomers trying to survive, long-time residents being pushed out, and a widening gap between those who are okay and those who are falling through.

But standing on the street, looking at someone bent over in that silent posture… none of those explanations feel like enough.

Because in that moment, it’s simple:

A human being needs help.

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So why aren’t they getting it?

Why are we debating whether someone should be taken to a hospital, to treatment, to safety—when they are clearly not okay?

Why has compassion become complicated?

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And maybe the hardest question:

What does it do to us to see this every day?

To step over it.
To film it.
To normalize it.

It changes us.

Quietly.

We become a little more numb. A little more distant. A little less shocked. And that might be the most dangerous shift of all.

Because once something like this feels “normal,” it becomes harder to fight.

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I don’t have the answers.

But I know this isn’t it.

We are not meant to live in a world where people collapse in public and the response is indifference—or worse, entertainment.

We are not meant to carry on as if this is just part of city life.

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I’m sitting far away as I write this, trying to stay cool, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all.

And I find myself asking:

What would it look like if we treated this like the emergency it actually is?

Not tomorrow.
Not in another report.
Not after another committee.

Now.

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Because every person in that “bend” is still here.

Still someone.

Still worth stopping for.

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And maybe the first step is this:

Refusing to accept that this is normal.