On the northside of Minneapolis, in a modest office with open doors and refined hope, the Twin Cities Recovery Project is helping rewrite stories that were almost cut short by addiction.
In the heart of Hennepin County — where fentanyl-related deaths have surged by more than 1,000% in the last decade — this grassroots organization is doing what few others are: saving lives through Black-led, culturally grounded recovery work.
In 2023 alone, 373 opioid-related deaths were recorded in Hennepin County, with fentanyl involved in more than 95% of those deaths. And while overdose awareness dominates headlines and government task forces form overnight, one fact rarely makes the news: Black Minnesotans are dying at faster rates than ever but are receiving fewer of the resources needed to survive.
“There’s always been recovery spaces,” said Regina Smithna, a former peer recovery volunteer at the Twin Cities Recovery Project and one of its early participants. “But there weren’t any recovery spaces for us. For Black folks. For people who’ve been through prison, who’ve been on the street, who’ve lost everything and got told, ‘That’s your fault.’ This place told me I was still worth something.”
Founded in 2016 by the late Marc Johnigan — who battled addiction for more than 25 years before achieving long-term sobriety — TCRP was created as a place for people like him. The organization offers peer recovery coaching, grief and trauma workshops, Certified Peer Recovery Specialist (CPRS) training, and a new safe station housed at Fire Station 14 in Minneapolis.
But it’s the atmosphere, not just the programs, that many say makes the difference.
“I walked in here thinking I’d just get a list of detox centers,” said Tasha M., a 38-year-old mother of three from Brooklyn Center. “Instead, they gave me food. They called me the next day. They didn’t ask why I’d used again — they asked what I needed. I stayed clean for four months because of that first visit. That was the longest I’d been clean in 10 years.”
Tasha has since relapsed but continues to attend TCRP’s trauma circles and safe space bingo events.
“They never gave up on me. That’s the only reason I haven’t given up on myself.”
According to Hennepin County data, opioid overdose rates among Black residents are nearly triple those of white residents. Yet Black communities receive only a fraction of the prevention and treatment funding. The Minnesota Department of Health reports the overdose death rate for African Americans in Minnesota increased by more than 200% between 2019 and 2022.
“We keep hearing about Narcan in libraries and college campuses,” said Aaron L., a TCRP volunteer and former participant. “But we’re dying in encampments, in jail, in grandma’s basement — and no one is coming there with Narcan or a trauma counselor. It’s not just about getting clean. It’s about staying alive long enough to try.”
“People think the hardest part is quitting,” said Smithna. “But really, the hardest part is believing you deserve to.”
One of TCRP’s most in-demand offerings is its grief and trauma workshop, an eight-week, peer-led program that acknowledges what often fuels addiction in the first place.
“Black people in recovery don’t just need detox. We need healing,” said Kimberly Johnson, a licensed grief counselor who co-facilitates multiple grief and trauma workshops. “Some of our clients have lost three, four, five people in the last year — siblings, cousins, kids, all to the same thing. And then they’re expected to hold down jobs, navigate courts, raise children and stay clean without ever unpacking that pain. It’s inhumane.”
This lack of culturally attuned mental health support, Johnson said, is a missing pillar in most opioid strategies.
“You can throw Narcan at a problem all day long, but if you don’t give people the space to process what made them numb in the first place, they will find another way to forget.”
Another one of TCRP’s most powerful offerings is its Certified Peer Recovery Specialist training program, which prepares people in recovery to guide others. The ripple effect is both personal and systemic.
“I used to feel invisible,” said Johnson, who completed the CPRS program in 2022 and now works part time with TCRP. “Now I’m in rooms with people who trust me because they know I’ve been through it. I get to show folks that their story doesn’t end at addiction.”
Johnson now facilitates newcomer orientations and listener sessions about launching small initiatives that connect peer mentors with high school students who have lost family members to overdoses.
“That wouldn’t have happened if I was still using. But it also wouldn’t have happened if TCRP didn’t see me as more than my past.”
The organization is growing, but the challenges remain. The gap in funding, the political shifts threatening harm reduction policies, and the continued criminalization of substance use in Black and Indigenous communities all loom large.
“There’s a lot of pressure to sanitize this work for funders,” said Johnson. “But the truth is messy. People relapse. People die. But people also come back. And that’s what we hold space for.”
At TCRP, the doors stay open, the phones stay answered, and the people keep coming — one broken story at a time, stitched back together with compassion, dignity and the radical act of community care.care.
