Tulsa Channels Opioid Settlement Funds Into Housing-First Recovery Community

Michael Coatney's path to recovery began with a sprained ankle. Two decades ago, a workplace injury led to a prescription for opioid pain medication—the same pills that would eventually cost him his home, his freedom, and nearly his life. Today, Coatney works as a support specialist at Eden Village, a tiny home community in west Tulsa that opened in December 2024 to provide permanent supportive housing for people who have been chronically homeless.

The irony of his position isn't lost on him. The pharmaceutical companies that manufactured the drugs that hooked him now help pay his salary through settlement funds from class-action litigation.

"It sounds cheesy, but it's coming full circle," Coatney said. "What else could I be doing? If that settlement money was going to go somewhere, this is where it was supposed to go."

From Settlement Dollars to Recovery Beds

Eden Village received a two-year, $140,000 grant from Tulsa County's opioid settlement fund allocation. The money pays for case workers, equips residents with naloxone—the overdose-reversal medication—and funds referrals for behavioral health services. The goal is nothing less than 100% participation in treatment connections.

The community, located at 1153 S. 61st W. Ave., consists of small, permanent homes where residents—referred to as "neighbors"—pay no more than 30% of their income in rent. Daily support comes from social workers, therapists, and peer counselors like Coatney who have walked the same difficult road.

For Coatney, that road included years of escalating addiction following that initial prescription, followed by homelessness and prison time. Now sober for a decade, he started in street outreach at Family & Children's Services before joining Eden Village three months ago.

"This is the only thing I was ever meant to do," he said. "There's just no other therapeutic value for the peer-care level that works quite the same. In this position, I can act as a bridge to therapy, to medical adherence, to housing and to everything else we do."

The Human Cost of Overprescription

Leann Greer's story echoes Coatney's in ways that have become tragically familiar across America. Forty years ago, a doctor wrote her a 90-day prescription for Lortab following a C-section. The refills kept coming. When the prescriptions stopped, she found pills through other channels.

"I got addicted right off the bat," Greer recalled. "It made me feel better."

The escalating usage led to family alienation and life on the streets. At her lowest point, Greer weighed just 89 pounds. She found her way to the 12 and 12 treatment center and achieved sobriety, but the gap between treatment completion and stable housing nearly pulled her back into the cycle.

"I've been through everything, and God gifted me this place," Greer said of Eden Village. "I'm going to be here forever, and I'm going to help out however I can."

Her friend Angela Moore shares both the housing and the history. Moore's addiction began with morphine treatments as a teenager following a ruptured appendix. She believes genetics played a role—her father also struggled with substance abuse. Both women now take medication for opioid use disorder and say it has nearly eliminated their cravings. Case managers ensure they keep medical appointments and stay connected to care.

A National Model for Settlement Spending

Tulsa's approach to opioid settlement funds represents a growing recognition that housing stability is a prerequisite for recovery stability. The national opioid litigation has generated more than $50 billion in settlements from manufacturers, distributors, and pharmacies accused of fueling the addiction crisis through deceptive marketing and reckless distribution.

How those funds get spent varies dramatically by jurisdiction. Some counties have directed money toward law enforcement or existing programs with tenuous connections to addiction treatment. Others have struggled to spend allocated dollars at all—South Dakota counties reportedly spent less than half of their first $9.6 million disbursement.

Tulsa County's decision to fund Eden Village reflects a different philosophy: direct investment in the individuals and communities most harmed by the epidemic. The housing-first model recognizes that people cannot effectively engage with treatment while sleeping in shelters or on the streets. By providing permanent housing with embedded services, programs like Eden Village address the root instability that so often derails recovery.

Peer Support as Clinical Intervention

What distinguishes Eden Village from traditional housing programs is the emphasis on peer recovery support. Coatney and other staff members bring lived experience that creates immediate credibility with residents. They understand the practical challenges of early recovery—the fears that prevent people from seeking help, the ways institutional systems can feel hostile or incomprehensible to those navigating them for the first time.

Research consistently shows that peer support improves treatment engagement, retention, and satisfaction. For individuals who have experienced trauma, incarceration, or repeated treatment failures, the presence of someone who has survived similar experiences can mean the difference between continued isolation and sustained connection to care.

Coatney's daily rounds take him through the community, checking in with neighbors, facilitating connections to services, and modeling what long-term recovery looks like. When he speaks with residents about their struggles, he isn't drawing from clinical training alone—he's speaking from memory.

The Road Ahead

Eden Village's two-year grant represents a beginning, not a solution. The opioid settlement funds flowing to Oklahoma will continue for 15 to 18 years, creating opportunities for sustained investment—or temptations to divert money elsewhere as political and budgetary pressures shift.

For now, the program demonstrates what settlement funds can accomplish when directed toward evidence-based interventions. The neighbors at Eden Village have spent decades trapped in addiction and years on the streets. The $140,000 grant doesn't just provide housing—it provides a plausible path forward for people who have exhausted most other options.

Coatney, walking the community on a recent afternoon, encountered Greer and Moore with their small terrier, Wookie. The women finished each other's sentences and laughed at inside jokes. Two years ago, all three were statistics—homeless, addicted, written off. Today they are neighbors, colleagues, and evidence that recovery is possible when the right resources meet the right moment.

"If that settlement money was going to go somewhere," Coatney said, reflecting on his unlikely journey from patient to peer counselor, "this is where it was supposed to go."

The pharmaceutical companies that manufactured the crisis may never fully atone for the damage done. But in a small community of tiny homes in west Tulsa, some of the money they were forced to pay is doing exactly what it should: helping the people they harmed find their way home.