I’m Back: Recovery, Mental Health, New Music, and What’s Next

I’m still setting things up. Anytime I start something new, it takes a little wiggling and experimenting to figure out how it wants to roll at its best. That’s just how I work. Over the years, I’ve learned one important rule: always keep something on the burner.

Right now, that burner includes more than just music.

In the coming months, I’ll be launching a new YouTube channel focused on my personal story, specifically dealing with addiction recovery, mental health, and rebuilding life from the ground up. This won’t be a polished influencer highlight reel — it’s real life, real struggle, and real progress. If you care about recovery, mental health awareness, or what it actually looks like to keep going when things get dark, keep your eyes peeled. The channel should be live within the next month or so.

Merch has honestly been a pain in the ass — no sugarcoating that. Learning the systems, syncing platforms, pricing things correctly, and figuring out how I actually want to present it all has taken time. But I’m finally getting the hang of it, and more importantly, I’m shaping it in a way that feels authentic to who I am and what I stand for.

Looking ahead, 2026 is going to be a big year. You can expect more music than I’ve released in years, and I’ll be back on streaming services where the music belongs. This isn’t a comeback built on hype — it’s built on survival, clarity, and momentum.

I’m back, folks.
And this time, I’m building it the right way.

On the burner — some projects closer than others. It’s a never-ending process, the constant evolution of my craft.

The shop has been touch and go. Eventually it’ll be up and stay up. It took a minute to figure out where that kind of merch actually fits into the bigger picture, and how I want to sell it without it feeling forced or hollow. For now, I’ve been doing short sticker-bomb runs with the Strum Life logo — getting the name out on the streets the old-school way.

Soon, I’ll be more aggressive — both on the ground and online — about pushing the brand forward.

At the same time, I’ve been deep in recording future releases and writing a lot. A lot. About the stretch of time when life went off the rails with drugs and alcohol, and how it slowly found its way to where it is now. That space in between mattered more than I realized.

I’ve also been paying attention — watching creators who didn’t just fix their lives, but learned how to translate their scars into something real, something they could stand behind and build from.

So sit tight.
Keep checking back.

It’s going to get good.

Hey Guys,

I know I haven’t been super active lately, so here’s a quick update.

I’ve been grinding behind the scenes — tuning up my website and building out the Strum Life store. That’s why I’ve been quiet on social media these past couple weeks.

But that’s about to change. Working on turning music into a business has me thinking hard about where I stand as a musician. This brand I’m building isn’t some made-up hustle — it’s the result of years of living. Some good years. Some brutal ones. And through it, I’m learning a lot about myself, what my comfort zone really is, and how much I’ve had to grow.

As some of you know, I’m a born-again Christian now. I’ve been thinking about how that shows up in my life. I don’t want to preach. If anyone follows Christ because of me, I want it to be through my actions, not my words. But I’ll be real — the old Mike still pops up, and I get in my own way sometimes. That’s a fight I’m always in.

This isn’t me trying to be some fake entrepreneur. This is me sharing my world, my music, and my journey. My biggest enemy has always been myself, and the only way I can get free is by leaning on something greater than me — something I’ll never fully understand.

I’m excited about the merch ideas. Coffee mugs are just the start. The exposure isn’t even in the infant stage yet — right now it’s like the sperm just hit the egg. For those of you riding with me through this experiment called the human condition — thank you.

Appreciate everyone who sticks around through the quiet patches. More is coming soon.

— Mike

In today’s world, being “smart” is treated like the ultimate badge of honor. Good grades, big words, technical know-how — that’s what people think will carry them to success. But here’s the truth: being smart doesn’t make you clever. And if you want to thrive — in business, in trading, in life — clever will take you further than smart ever will.

The Difference Between Smart and Clever

Smart is about knowledge. You can crunch numbers, memorize facts, and cite statistics. Smart knows the book cover to cover.

Clever is about application. It’s knowing how to use that knowledge in the real world, especially when the rules aren’t written down. Clever sees the gaps, spots the tells, and turns situations to advantage.

Think of it like this: smart people know how the game should be played. Clever people know how the game is actually played.

Why Smart Alone Gets Trapped

Markets, jobs, relationships — they’re all full of traps. Just because you know the numbers doesn’t mean you know the hustle. A “smart” trader can read charts all day, but if they fall for every headline and panic tweet, they get washed out like anyone else.

Being clever is what keeps you alive in the gray areas. It’s what helps you spot the mismatched numbers, the shady intentions, the propaganda designed to push you one way so someone else can cash out the other.

The Power of Clever

Clever is watching what people do, not just what they say. It’s studying mannerisms, tones, timing. It’s noticing when the hype doesn’t match the math. Clever doesn’t get dazzled by “what everyone knows.” Clever walks the opposite way when the herd stampedes — and finds opportunities no one else sees.

The Balance

Now, don’t get it twisted. Being clever without smarts is just winging it — and that won’t take you far either. The real edge comes when you mix both:

Smart enough to understand the rules.

Clever enough to know when to bend or break them.

That’s how winners are made.

Money doesn’t save lives.
Compassion does.
Presence does.
Christ does.

"Wake up and get out," said the voice.

Of all the years I’ve done stupid shit, that one caught me off guard. I was surprised — but deep down, it still felt like another new low. “Give me a few minutes to get my shit,” I told him. What hurt the most, looking back, is that this guy and I were on good terms. That couldn’t have been easy for him to do.

I grabbed my guitar and three bags filled with whatever was left of my life.

I don’t remember leaving the hotel I was staying at. What I do remember is standing at the top of the brick staircase, losing my balance, and putting my hand out to catch myself. Instead, I broke my left wrist in three places.

My head hit the pavement. I blacked out. Then I came to.

There was a guy standing over me — thick accent, real presence. “You okay? I saw everything.” I rolled to my back. “Can you call for help?” I asked. “I did,” he said, “but they ain't coming.”

He stuck around anyway. We talked about a bunch of things I don’t even remember. He offered me a Vicodin. I gave him ten bucks and said, “Yeah, man. Thanks.” That’s where I was at.

Eventually, the ambulance showed up. I was wiggling to help them move me to the stretcher when one of the paramedics looked into my eyes and froze. “Don’t move,” he said. “Your pupils aren’t matching. Looks like you’ve got a concussion.”

Next thing I know, they’re in the ambulance telling me they need to cut my clothes off. I begged them not to — my favorite t-shirt, a thin hoodie that my close friends got me for Christmas. “We don’t have a choice,” one of them said. “We don’t know what else is wrong with you.”

They cut them off.

I woke up in Highland Hospital — Oakland’s battlefield ER. It's the kind of place that police and firefighters specify in their contracts: “If I get shot, take me to Highland.” These doctors know trauma. They’ve seen more bullet wounds than textbooks.

While I was there, a nurse came in to stick a needle in my hand. I begged her not to. I hate needles — especially in the top of my hand. She told me there was no other way. It brought back memories of childhood surgeries, of begging doctors not to poke me there.

They gave me fentanyl.

I didn’t enjoy it, but it was bizarre. Not what I expected. Just… strange.

Then Barbara came in.

“Hi, I’m Barbara, and I’m here to reset your arm.”

At that point, she could’ve shoved a gorilla up my ass and I wouldn’t have cared. I was so high. They hoisted my broken arm onto some contraption above my bed. “Okay,” Barbara and her assistant said, “here we go.”

They moved it three or four times. I screamed. Even on fentanyl, I was losing it. The pain was inhuman. When it was done, I felt a little better — physically.

The doctor came in. “You smashed your wrist in three places,” he said.

I wasn’t even thinking about guitar.

All I could think was: Where the fuck am I going to live now?

They didn’t operate. They stitched me up and sent me to a place in Oakland that used to be a hotel. Now it was low-income housing for people with medical conditions.

I stayed there three weeks. Then I went to rehab……………again.

A New Relationship with Recovery
by Mike Glendinning

I feel like I have a new relationship with recovery.

I’ve spent the last 20 years going in and out of rehab centers. I’ve had long stretches of sobriety, and I’ve had blackout moments that could fill a book. For a long time, when I wasn’t drinking, I missed it. I missed the parties. I missed the bar talk, the laughter, the chaos that felt like connection. But what I never remembered was the craving—the desperation that came before that first drink.

And once I started drinking again?

I missed being sober.

It took me all these years to realize I don’t drink like a normal person. I’ve seen normal people have half a beer, put it down, and not touch another one for two years. Me? I get one sip, and I’m already on the edge of the next run.

Some people waste a weekend. I’ll waste a whole damn month… if I’m lucky.

Alcohol to me is like being in a relationship with a crazy ex you know is bad for you. Yeah, you remember the wild nights, the good laughs, the stories. But you also start to remember the screaming, the manipulation, the blackout calls that had nothing to do with you but made you feel like shit anyway. That’s alcohol. It seduces, then destroys.

And when I really think about it—drinking never gave me anything good. Not a thing.
Sober? I’ve got music. Connection. Sanity. Faith. Purpose.
There’s no contest.

Right now, I’m in a room in Oakland, in a sober living house. The window’s open. Outside, people are partying—or at least trying to. Smoking weed, meth, drinking all day like it’s freedom. From up here, it looks like they’re having the time of their lives. But I know what that illusion really costs.

I look down and see the Store Club—a place I used to play. A place I have memories in. Oakland is full of those for me. The fake beauty of addiction, and the hard truth of where it always ends up.

And still… I love this city.
Because this is where I found out who I really fucking am.

Looking back, I don’t think I wasted my life.
I think this was all part of God’s plan.
The drinking. The losing. The trying.
The falling again.
The praying.
The surrender.

Will I drink again?

I sure the fuck hope not.

The dim room swam into focus, a stark canvas of concrete floors and sterile white walls. Then, the jarring reality: a man just feet away, convulsing, his body slamming against the unforgiving glass. The scene unfolded like a nightmare, a chaotic dance of desperation and fear. I screamed for help, and a flurry of figures rushed in, their voices a frantic chorus against the backdrop of a life in peril.
As paramedics arrived, a chilling realization washed over me. I was back. Back in the cold, unforgiving grip of detox. Cherry Hill. The name echoed in my mind, a stark reminder of my own shattered control.
The fragments of memory surfaced: the blur of a late-night drive, the terror etched on my friend's face as headlights sliced through the darkness. Then, nothing. A blank space where check-in and phone calls should have been. Just an empty void, a testament to the devastating power of addiction.
"He would have died if you hadn't called," a fellow patient's voice cut through the haze. I simply stared, the weight of my own situation pressing down. This was my second descent into this stark, clinical hell.
The room, a grim testament to human vulnerability, held eight threadbare beds. The concrete walls, the stainless-steel toilet—a grotesque blend of functionality and despair—all spoke to the harsh reality of withdrawal. The entire facility was a place that could be cleaned with a pressure washer. I walked to the lobby and saw more of the same.
Stripped of my phone, devoid of books, I was left with only the echoes of my own despair and the faces of fellow sufferers. Seeking a human connection, I attempted conversation in the smoking area, but the weight of shared trauma hung heavy in the air.
Twenty-four hours. That's all the reprieve I was granted. Still shaking, still battling the acute throes of alcohol withdrawal, I was told to leave. The fear was real: the risk of stroke, a constant, looming threat.
The Urgent Reality of Alcohol Withdrawal
For those battling chronic alcohol dependence, a week is often the minimum time needed to reach a semblance of safety. This experience was a brutal reminder of the potentially fatal consequences of sudden alcohol cessation.

 * Alcohol Withdrawal Symptoms: Understand the severity of alcohol withdrawal symptoms, including seizures, tremors, and the risk of stroke.

 * Detox Centers: Information about detox centers, and what to expect.

 * Seeking Professional Help: The crucial importance of seeking medical advice before quitting alcohol, even if you believe you drink moderately.

 * Alcohol Addiction: A raw look at the realities of alcohol addiction and the struggle for recovery.

 * Mental Health: The connection between addiction and mental health, including depression.

 * Recovery Journey: The start of a recovery journey, and the importance of support.

If you or someone you know is struggling with alcohol addiction, please seek professional help immediately. Don't let fear or shame prevent you from taking the first step towards recovery. Your life is worth fighting for.