There is a support group in the States called The Addict’s Mom. I suppose I meet the criteria for membership - my daughter is one of thousands who have died of fentanyl poisoning during the current opioid crisis - but I would never feel comfortable joining an organisation with this name.

My daughter dealt with addiction at times. Her drug use (illegal and prescribed) was enmeshed with her debilitating mental illness. I would never call her The Addict, nor would I identify myself as The Addict’s Mom. Would we disparagingly call someone The Diabetic? The Epileptic? The Lyme Diseased?

How about we do away with definite articles altogether and come up with language more nuanced than nouns that tend to stick to people like a scarlet letter? Borrowing from French sentence structure is helpful: "a person who uses drugs" already sounds kinder than "a drug user" because it emphasises a behaviour. One behaviour does not define a person.

My daughter did call herself an addict when she attended a 12-step program as part of her recovery journey. I found the word jarring when I attended meetings with her. The term "clean" made me uncomfortable too, mostly because it is the opposite of "dirty." But I respected her choice and celebrated her medallions. I also respected her decision to move towards a more holistic approach to her health and leave Narcotics Anonymous when she had gained what she needed from it in the first couple of years following her diagnoses of PTSD, depression, anxiety and concurrent addiction. Abstinence is one of many valid approaches but applying a hierarchy to treatment options is extremely unhelpful.

My own vocabulary has changed many times over in the years immediately preceding and following my daughter’s death. Perhaps the most important distinction I have learned is this: she didn’t die of a drug overdose, but rather a drug dose. Any dose of many of the tainted street drugs our loved ones turn to can be fatal. They may think they are taking one substance but it’s mixed with another. When there is no quality or quantity control, using illegal drugs is an entirely different proposition than it was back in the days of sex, drugs and rock'n'roll… or even five years ago.

Some of our children were not addicted to anything when they died. They were unlucky or desperate. Some were at the mercy of drugs designed by companies like Purdue to ensure customer loyalty at any cost. Opioids are so addictive, it is virtually impossible to stop taking them without prolonged and compassionate medical intervention. Which is rarely the kind the public healthcare system is equipped to offer.

I once had a troll comment online that my daughter was a "junkie" and I was her "enabler" after I published an essay about her death. An asshole like that, who would pick on a grieving mother, is probably irredeemable, but most of the population is just misinformed. It’s not easy to keep up when the research is changing so quickly. Our job - for those of us who can and want to channel our grief into advocacy - is to gently but firmly provide up-to-date information as it becomes available. Within Moms Stop the Harm, a group I belong to, admire and support, the language in our outreach materials and even on our t-shirts is constantly evolving, which only makes sense.

Some of us talk about drug misuse or simply use, or refer to substances more broadly. There are no rules when you’re talking about the person you loved with all your heart. There are no rules when you’re talking about yourself, either, but vocabulary is worth thinking about and discussing with others who have been there. Mostly, we all need to be thoughtful about what we call other people. Labels can hurt, whether they describe an illness, sexuality, race, religion, education or anything else that makes us human.

Language can be insidiously, even unconsciously, dehumanising.

Let's use it with intent.