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.

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

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

Healing sounds beautiful in theory. But in reality, it can feel like betrayal.

Not because you're doing something wrong. But because you're finally doing something true.

When you grow up in dysfunction, there’s an unspoken rule: Don’t talk about it. Don’t question it. Don’t make waves. Smile. Be grateful. Keep the peace.

So when you finally start to tell your story—even just to yourself—something happens: That old guilt creeps in. That voice whispers, "You’re being dramatic." Or "You’re throwing people under the bus."

But that voice isn’t your conscience. That’s the conditioning talking.

Because for years, silence was the price of belonging. And speaking the truth feels like you're breaking the contract.

But here’s what no one tells you: The contract was killing you.

You were taught to protect other people’s reputations over your own healing. You were expected to shrink your truth so others didn’t have to face theirs.

That’s not love. That’s manipulation dressed up as loyalty.

And healing? Healing is choosing to be loyal to the younger version of yourself instead. The one who needed someone to say: "That wasn’t okay. You didn’t deserve that. And it wasn’t your fault."

So no, you’re not a traitor. You’re not being cruel. You’re not rewriting history.

You’re just finally telling the truth. And the truth will always feel like betrayal in a family where lies were the glue.

But here’s the good news: You’re not betraying anyone by healing. You’re setting yourself free. And maybe—just maybe—you’re opening the door for someone else to do the same.

People say, "They put a roof over your head." Or, "You never went without."

And for a long time, that made me feel guilty. Like I didn’t have a right to be hurting. Like the presence of material things canceled out the absence of emotional safety.

But now I know the truth: Love isn’t just gifts.

It’s not birthday parties. Or food on the table. Or a ride to school. Those things matter—of course they do. But they don’t replace being seen. Or heard. Or safe.

A child can have all the "things" and still grow up feeling broken inside. Because it wasn’t just about what they gave you. It was about how they treated you while doing it.

Were you mocked when you opened your mouth? Were you compared to others? Were you allowed to feel? Were you safe to mess up? Were you loved even when you weren't impressive?

Or did you learn to smile through shame? To stay silent to keep the peace? To accept just enough affection to survive, while pretending it was love?

This is what many of us carry. We feel guilty because we were "provided for," even though we were never really protected.

And that guilt? It keeps us quiet. It keeps us small.

But here's the truth that finally set me free: You can be thankful for what you were given and still grieve what you never got.

You can honor the roof and still mourn the rain that came through the cracks. You can hold both at the same time: Gratitude for the effort. And honesty about the damage.

Because love—real love—doesn’t come with strings attached. It doesn’t demand silence. It doesn’t shame you for needing more.

It sits with you. Listens to you. And makes you feel safe, even when you're messy.

If no one ever told you that before, let this be the first time: You were always worthy of more than just being provided for.

You were worthy of being protected. Of being heard. Of being loved without conditions.

And you still are.

Opening: Back in 1995, I picked up two John Coltrane albums that would end up changing my entire approach to music: Giant Steps and A Love Supreme: Live. I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but these albums would awaken something deeper than musical inspiration. They introduced me to the idea that music wasn’t just sound. It could be spirit.

The Shift: I had always been drawn to intense, heavy music. But the moment A Love Supreme started, I felt something entirely different. Coltrane’s tone wasn’t just articulate—it was sacred. Patient. It felt like he was saying a prayer with every breath he blew into that sax. It didn’t hit me in the head or the ears first. It hit me straight in the soul.

And that was just Part I.

The Breakthrough: By the time Part II kicked in, I was floored. McCoy Tyner, Elvin Jones, and Jimmy Garrison created this space that felt completely outside of time. I remember literally crying the first time I heard it. And not just once. That piece has brought tears many times since.

What they played wasn’t just jazz. It was testimony. It was worship. It was divine.

Coltrane’s Journey: Coltrane wasn’t just composing music. He was healing. According to his wife, Alice, he spent as much time meditating and writing spiritual reflections as he did composing. After years of addiction and struggle, Coltrane had found something bigger than himself. And through that discovery, he created a body of work that still ripples through people’s lives today.

He didn’t just recover. He transcended. And he brought others along for the ride.

What It Taught Me: Coltrane taught me that music could carry spirit. That you could worship with a melody. That you could praise without words. That recovery, surrender, and divine connection could all be captured in tone, in rhythm, in silence between notes.

A Love Supreme wasn’t just a jazz record. It was an altar.

Closing: You don’t need to be religious to understand what Coltrane did. You just need to listen with your soul open. Because when someone plays with that kind of depth, it calls something out of you. 

"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.

 Lessons from a Musical Titan and the Climb Back
I recently watched a fascinating video about Prince, a true icon whose creative wellspring seemed utterly inexhaustible. The stories shared by the musicians who worked alongside him were nothing short of astounding. Tales of crafting an entire album in a single week, of four-hour soundchecks preceding three-hour electrifying performances, only to be followed by late-night studio sessions. It painted a vivid picture of a man completely consumed by his art.
Witnessing this level of dedication serves as a powerful reminder for any creator. It shatters the illusion that greatness is effortless or stumbled upon by chance. The truth, often hidden behind the polished final product, is one of relentless work, unwavering focus, and an almost obsessive commitment to one's craft. The billionaires and groundbreaking innovators of our time didn't reach those heights through casual dabbling. Their success is rooted in an intense passion and an unyielding drive to bring their visions to life.
For me, this understanding resonates deeply, albeit through a different lens. The past three years have been a profound journey of confronting addiction and rebuilding my life. This process, while essential for my well-being, has unfortunately created a significant distance between myself and the things I hold dear: my music, my family, and my spiritual connection. The need to prioritize recovery has meant navigating life on a drastically reduced income, moving between modest living situations in low-income neighborhoods.
The challenge has been multifaceted: to nurture my creativity and safeguard my mental health while simultaneously striving to improve my economic circumstances. It's a delicate balancing act, demanding immense resilience and a constant recalibration of priorities. There are days when the weight of these converging struggles feels immense, making the act of creation seem like an insurmountable hurdle.
However, in these moments, I often return to the stories of artists like Prince. Not to compare my journey to his stratospheric success, but to glean inspiration from his unwavering dedication. It reinforces the idea that passion, even when temporarily dimmed, can be rekindled through consistent effort and an unshakeable belief in the power of one's creative voice.
And in today's world, the barriers to sharing that voice have never been lower. The advancements in technology mean that the ability to record a song and release it to the world within a matter of days is now within almost everyone's reach. This accessibility is both empowering and a call to action. It underscores the idea that while the path to mastery requires dedication, the initial steps of creation and sharing are more attainable than ever before.
My current journey is one of rebuilding, of piecing together the fragments of my life and rediscovering the creative spark within. The example of those who have achieved greatness through relentless pursuit serves as a guiding light, a reminder that even amidst significant challenges, the passion for creation can endure and ultimately lead the way back to the things that truly matter.

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.