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.

Hi Blog,
I haven’t forgotten about you. Honestly, it’s been getting under my skin that we don’t talk like we used to. Come to think of it, I don’t talk to a lot of people like I used to.

Life’s been heavy — but in a good way. Jesus has brought me through some dark times, and lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how to show my love for Him and His Father. That’s been the center of everything.

I’ve been playing a lot of guitar, recording more than usual, trying to capture every spark while I can. Content is the new currency, and I’m stacking up what I’ve got — not out of fear, but out of faith that it’s all building toward something real.

I’m heading back to work at the airport soon. I kind of missed it, even while I was taking care of things. It feels like another piece of life is falling back into place.

Anyhow, things are looking up.
What have you been up to?
Yeah, you — I’m still listening.

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

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.”

— Hebrews 12:11 (NIV)

I have to relearn a lot of things.

I’ve taken my anger out on the wrong people and mistaken foolish behavior as how the world works.

I’ve seen generosity used as manipulation.

I’ve seen good deeds with strings attached.

I have to re-learn how to be an adult and how I think of others.

I didn’t know compassion could replace anger.

I’m having a hard time processing that you can feel sadness for those who harm you — not because you’re weak, but because God is trying to teach them something through your endurance. That’s heavy.

I’m getting used to the fact that you don’t have to prove yourself to people who believe lies about you.

You don’t have to explain your heart to someone who’s already made up their mind.

When your life is full of deception and the Lord comes in to turn darkness into His righteousness — it hurts.

A part of you is dying.

Not the part that people admired — but the part that kept you numb.

That brought you comfort and familiarity.

But that part’s got to go if God is going to take over.

And He will take over — if you let Him.

If your mind isn’t calm when thinking about something, it’s hard for God to work with you.

When you have to over-explain or over-extend yourself to be accepted, something is seriously wrong.

You’re not being your authentic self.

When God works through you, very few words are needed.

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.

Some People Say They’re Musicians. I Had to Bleed for It.

Some people say they’re musicians.

They picked up a guitar last summer. Took a few lessons. Learned a few chords. Posted a video of themselves strumming in good lighting. Called it passion.

Cool.

But for me? Music wasn’t a cute phase. It wasn’t a background prop for my social feed. It wasn’t something I did after my real job.

Music was the only thing that kept me breathing.

When everything else felt like hell, I had six strings and a busted amp that gave me more therapy than any human ever did.

I wasn’t told I had talent. I wasn’t cheered on. I was told to be quiet. Told I wasn’t good. Told to do something else. Told my dreams were selfish. Told to grow up.

But I kept playing. In garages, alleyways, halfway houses, churches, street corners.

I kept playing when I couldn’t afford new strings. I kept playing when nobody listened. I kept playing when my own blood didn’t believe in me.

So yeah—when someone says they’re a musician, and I see no scars, no sweat, no obsession, no heartbreak in the music… it hits me.

Not because I think I’m better. But because I had to bleed for this. I had to survive for this. I am this.

This isn’t ego. This is identity.

Some people say they’re musicians.

I had to be one. Or I wouldn't have made it out alive.

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. 

Technically, I am poor. I have next to nothing. But I don’t feel poor. I feel wealthy. I feel like I have more than I’ve ever had in my entire life. Even when I had money, I never felt this fulfilled.

I know why.

Ever since I fully gave myself to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, things have only gotten better. I’ve always believed in God—even in the times I didn’t want to believe. Even when people told me it was bullshit or just my imagination, God made His presence clear in my life. I always felt something. There was always something weird happening.

One of those things: I was always told, when you’re having a hard time, go make someone else’s day a little bit better.

One day, I was in the store waiting in line. I saw a magazine on the ground. I thought, I’m gonna make someone’s job a little bit easier today. It was just a small gesture—just putting the magazine back on the shelf. But when I picked it up, a one-dollar bill fell out.

Just like that. A tiny reminder.

The Gear Lights That Came to Life

I once had a car where the gear lights didn’t work. They went out almost immediately after we bought it. For years, they stayed dark.

One night, I was talking to some people and God came up. It was a heavy conversation. I felt the Holy Spirit. I can’t fully explain it—it was just one of those moments where you know.

When I got back in my car that night and turned it on, the gear lights lit up for the first time in years. They worked—just like that. After a short time, they stopped working again.

You can call me crazy if you want. But I know what I saw. And I know what I felt.

A Window in West Oakland

Last year, I hit one of the darkest moments of my life. I was drunk, alone in my room in West Oakland. The window was dimmed and the curtains were closed tight. It was a cloudy, overcast day—barely any light in the room.

I sat there, feeling lower and lower, until I finally broke.

I begged God to help me.

Please, God. I’m tired of being like this. I’ll do anything. I’ll be your servant. I just need your help. Please. I’m done living this way.

Within minutes, the clouds broke.

The sunlight came in so bright it blasted through the curtains I had tried so hard to keep the sun out of. My room filled with light, and I felt a peace I rarely feel.

I picked up my guitar and started singing praise. I thanked God through that song. I recorded it on my phone.

The next day, I went to work. It was overcast again. When I got off work, I looked up at the sky and said, God, thank you for what you’ve done for me.

Right when I said that, the clouds separated again and sunlight hit me.

I wanted to hear that song I made the day before. I looked for the recording on my phone. It was gone. I had played that song at least three or four times the day before. I know it was there. But I couldn’t find it.

Was that a sign? I don’t know. All I know is what I saw. All I know is what I felt.

Faith, Doubt, and Critical Thinking

I know there are therapists and skeptics who would hear this and say, That’s just this bias or that bias. And that’s fine. Honestly, I like hearing that kind of stuff. It makes me think. It challenges me. It even makes me wonder if God exists sometimes. I think that’s healthy.

I think God wants us to think. He doesn’t want us to blindly nod along. That’s why He gave us brains. He wants us to wrestle with this stuff.

Of all the atheists I’ve met, I know one who actually has a convincing theory that maybe God isn’t real. But even if he’s right for a million years, I would still have faith in Jesus Christ.

Because after what I’ve seen in my life, after what I’ve felt, after fully giving myself to Jesus—
There’s no other way.

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.