Across Georgia, our rural communities are carrying a burden. Hospital staff are stretched thin and resources are scarce. Yet it is here that substance misuse is on the rise. 

According to the CDC, overdose deaths in rural areas have now surpassed those in urban areas, along with reports that people living in rural communities are far less likely to receive care for alcohol-related concerns compared to those in urban communities. At the same time, stigma runs deep. Asking for help often feels like admitting defeat, especially in tight-knit communities where self-reliance is a way of life.

This is the reality Brandi Merritt walks into every day as a life care specialist (LCS) at Coffee Regional Medical Center in Douglas, Georgia. This summer, EMS brought in a middle-aged male patient who had relapsed after many years of sobriety. Alcohol had taken over his life. He told the ER doctor as much, and the very next morning, the doctor asked Brandi to meet with the patient.

When Brandi walked into his room, she saw that he had been given a list of rehab recommendations thoughtfully provided by the case management team. She knew it would be up to him to find the right place to get the help he so desperately needed once he left the hospital. So, Brandi sat down with him and vowed to help him take this important next step. She listened to the stories of what had led him back to this place, and he admitted he was terrified of going home because he knew he would start drinking again.

Brandi got to work. She contacted three different facilities, trying to find the best fit for him. She told him she would not let him fall through the cracks. And he believed her because she showed up in ways most patients never get to experience. After he was discharged, he had a dangerous relapse at home. Brandi was notified and went to his home with EMS, then got approval to ride with him in the ambulance to make sure he made it back to the hospital safely. She stayed late into the night to advocate for him. She returned at dawn the next morning to make sure his transition into the rehab facility went smoothly. At one point, he told her, “In my life, I’ve never had someone care for me like this.”

Because of Brandi’s persistence, he did not fall back into the cycle of drinking. He went to rehab and called her days later to say the first week of detox had been brutal, but it was what he needed. Two weeks into his sobriety journey, he was already noticing changes both in his health and his spirit. He told her he would not have made it this far without her. Without Brandi stepping in, his outcome could have been much different. He remains sober to this day and even recommended his best friend to Brandi to help him get sober, too.

Stories like this are why I created the LCS role in the first place. My own son, Christopher, lost his life after a 14-year struggle with opioid misuse that began with a prescription following a routine surgery. He was only 32 years old. Christopher did not fall through the cracks because we weren’t paying attention. He fell because there were no bridges in place when he needed them most. No one was there to walk us through our options or to make sure he had the resources he needed after leaving the hospital. That loss is what drives me every day. I wanted to create a role inside the hospital that would fill the very same gaps that failed my family.

In 2019, we launched the first LCS program at Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta. Since then, the role has expanded into eight hospitals across Georgia and Arkansas, many in rural communities. LCSs build bridges between hospitals and treatment facilities. They provide emotional support in ways that overworked and exhausted doctors and nurses often do not have the time to. They connect patients to community resources that go beyond prevention, including domestic violence shelters, stable housing services, food assistance programs, and more. As Brandi puts it, “I’m not a doctor, I’m not a nurse; I’m here to be what you need during this time.”

In rural hospitals, that means becoming a trusted partner to ER doctors, nurses, EMS, and paramedics. At first, some providers are skeptical, but over time, they see the difference. Because once a patient is stabilized, there is very little a hospital can do for long-term substance abuse. The ER is not built for that. What Brandi and other LCSs provide is the bridge between short-term hospital care and long-term recovery.

Why does this matter so much for rural communities? Because the challenges here are unlike anywhere else. In many small towns across Georgia, there are no nearby rehab facilities. Families may have to travel hours just to find a program that will take a loved one. That distance alone can be enough to stop someone from seeking help. On top of that, privacy is a huge concern for close-knit communities. People worry about being judged or becoming the subject of small-town talk if they admit to struggling with alcohol or drug misuse.

Doctors and nurses are doing all they can, but the reality is they are working with very limited resources. An LCS is a community-based solution built to work alongside them. By advocating for patients when they are at their most vulnerable and connecting them to the right resources, the LCS brings hope into situations that might otherwise feel hopeless. Education, empathy, and a simple conversation can totally rewrite a patient’s trajectory. An LCS is a prescription for prevention. They are proof that even in a small-town hospital, with limited services, recovery can and is happening in communities just like Douglas.

Learn more about CWC Alliance at cwc.ngo.

CAMMIE WOLF RICE is the founder and CEO of CWC Alliance.