'You Mean Something to Someone': This San Francisco Woman Overcame Homelessness and Addiction. Now She Helps Others Heal

About 2.9 million Californians struggle with a substance use disorder, and nearly 11,000 people die annually of an overdose. Yet only around 10% have access to treatment for alcohol or drug abuse, according to the California Health Care Foundation.

Despite the grim numbers, researchers and drug policy experts point to a crucial, often overlooked truth: most residents who struggle with alcohol and drug addiction not only survive but also recover.

A 2020 study published by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the National Institute on Drug Abuse found that three out of four people who experience addiction eventually recover. Many go on to lead rich, fulfilling lives in good health.

The overdose crisis remains a top concern for San Franciscans as they prepare to vote in a close race for mayor. Aaron Peskin, president of the Board of Supervisors, is using his alcohol recovery story as a cornerstone of his election platform in an attempt to replace Mayor London Breed. He hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol in three years, he said.

“I also just wake up much more grateful now,” Peskin said in an interview with KQED’s Political Breakdown. “That whole ‘doom and gloom loop’ that people like to harp on is not how I’m feeling. I know we have real challenges, but I want to make things better, and that’s the experience that I’m living now.”

He said he can easily empathize with others who have struggled with addiction — like resident Chantel Hernandez-Coleman.

“I was literally sleeping in bus stops. With one shoe on, screaming at the sky,” she said.

The once fast-moving advertising executive, who spent her days in corporate meetings and sipped martinis at lunch, spiraled into homelessness. Her middle-class upbringing, filled with horseback riding and family barbecues, seemed a distant memory as Hernandez-Coleman’s drinking intensified in her 40s, fueled by depression, anxiety, and the stress of raising four boys.

Then, her youngest son was diagnosed with a chronic illness. Hernandez-Coleman sought solace in the bottle and dabbled in cocaine to escape the mounting pressure.

“I remember waking up one morning with the shakes, feeling like crap, thinking: ‘I need a drink,’” she said.

Her family tried to intervene, sending her to a high-end rehab facility in Sonoma. But the 28-day stint wasn’t enough. Soon, she was back to drinking, even at her son’s high school football games.

Desperate, her family enrolled her in a holistic program in Oakland, complete with yoga, acupuncture, and even hypnosis. But it wasn’t long before she relapsed again. Her husband filed for divorce, and Hernandez-Coleman found herself bouncing between treatment centers across the East Bay.

“My parents, my sister, my kids — they didn’t want anything to do with me,” she remembered. As her family withdrew, Hernandez-Coleman’s life unraveled. At 59, she found herself unhoused and losing hope.

“I was just begging God just let me die out here because I can’t take this anymore,” she recalled.

Then, one day, while in San Francisco, out of booze and shaking from withdrawal, she saw the city’s red crisis van. A member of the street overdose response team, Britt Rubin, leaned out the window, waving her tattoo-covered arms at Hernandez-Coleman.

“She was looking really unwell,” Rubin said. “In crisis, more or less.”

They took Hernandez-Coleman to a sobering center, where she spent a few days detoxing. A flier on the wall caught her eye, advertising a 90-day rehab program called Friendship House.

“It was a big change for me,” she said. “It’s a rehab primarily for Native Americans. But they accepted me. It was very spiritual. Changed my life.”

That was over two years ago, and Hernandez-Coleman hasn’t had a drink since. In that time, she has reconnected with her children, remarried, and even reconnected with Rubin. Impressed with Hernandez-Coleman’s transformation, Rubin helped her land a job as a peer support specialist, working for the very same crisis team that helped save her.

The street response team may be part of the reason why the number of fatal overdoses in San Francisco has declined to 15% below where it was this time last year. City officials say they are “heartened” to see the downward trend — but it’s too early to know if it will continue.

Recently, on a bustling San Francisco corner at Sixth and Mission streets, Hernandez-Coleman stepped out of the red van alongside a paramedic.

“Hey, buddies,” she said softly, approaching two men who were passed out on the sidewalk. She gently touched their shoulders. One stirred, startled, as she reassured him.

“It looked like you might have overdosed,” she said, her voice kind but firm. The man’s hands were swollen and dirty, and there were shards of glass in his hair. She handed him water, chips and fruit snacks, an attempt to offer both compassion and the possibility of treatment.

“You’re worth it. You mean something to someone,” Hernandez-Coleman said she often tells people she meets on the street. And every day, she reminds herself the same.