As far back as I can remember, my life was filled with chaos. My mom struggled with alcoholism, and I spent most of my childhood bouncing between her and my dad. I never stayed in the same school for more than a year. I witnessed things no child should ever see, the kind of things that come with heavy substance abuse. Yet, I still carry love for both of my parents.
They did the best they could with what they knew, and they tried to teach me respect, responsibility, and the value of hard work. My dad had me working in the fields by the age of eight, and while I didn’t like it then, today I can see that it gave me the drive I still carry.
My mom, though, was often drunk and out of control. I remember waking up at one of her friend’s houses to find her clutching me, crying, while we were being kicked out for her behavior. When she remarried, we moved to the middle of nowhere in Oklahoma, and both she and my stepdad spiraled into meth use. Things got so bad that we had to flee the state to save ourselves. Living in constant fear became normal for me, though deep down I envied kids who had stability, who had dads that patiently taught them to kick a ball or moms who were always sober.
I was told to grow up fast, and I didn’t fully understand what that meant until much later.
I swore I would never touch drugs, but eventually I gave in. The first time I drank, I got sick, but I wanted more. Alcohol led to weed, weed led to new friends, and soon I was experimenting with cough syrup to trip for days at a time. By then, my parents had gotten back together, and we lived in a big house.
But that house became a party hub where prescription pills and dozens of kids filled the rooms. At just eighth grade, after a bad acid trip, I dropped out of school. The doctor gave me Xanax, and for the first time, I felt relief from the anxiety that haunted me. That little pill became my escape, and soon I was addicted.
From there, my life spun into a culture of pills, parties, and dealing. Percocet, cocaine, Xanax—it all blended together into nights of chaos, laughter, and destruction. The upstairs of my house was wrecked from endless parties. Friends came and went, but it all seemed normal to us back then. Eventually, the bank took our house, and we ended up living in trailers. By then, pills were harder to get, and heroin and meth crept into our circle. Friends started dying. Fentanyl showed up, and loss became routine. I tried to avoid the drugs I thought were most dangerous, but death was everywhere.
I started selling drugs at festivals, posing as a carefree hippy while staying lost in acid, molly, and ketamine. Eventually, a deal went wrong, and I was caught in Michigan. Facing years in prison, I was shipped off to jail, still high and not even realizing the weight of it all. Withdrawal hit me hard inside those walls. For the first time in a decade, I had no Xanax, and the fear I had been running from consumed me. Somehow, I survived prison and boot camp, but my life had changed forever.
During this time, my mom was also sentenced to six years for manufacturing meth. And I had a daughter of my own. At first, I wasn’t present in her life. But after I got sober, I realized I needed to step up and be a father. Slowly, I rebuilt my life, paying bills, holding a job, and spending time with her on weekends. My old friend Richie, who once used with me, had started a recovery group. He welcomed me, and I found purpose there.
But my struggle wasn’t over. I found new ways to manipulate doctors and fell into cycles with prescriptions and kratom. I destroyed a relationship with someone I loved deeply, and it left scars that remain to this day. I begged Richie to get me into rehab, and soon I was in Florida, facing brutal withdrawals. I hated myself for the pain I caused others, but that time became a turning point.
I started writing music, rap songs about my life and struggles and people listened. Some went viral, and I even got invited to perform at my mom’s prison. For the first time, I stood before others, completely sober, sharing my story. Music became my therapy, my way of reaching people.
Life wasn’t smooth from there. I stumbled, relapsed, and went back into rehab again. But this time I found a sponsor who held me accountable and wouldn’t let me lie to myself. That honesty changed me. I kept writing songs, and they touched thousands. Around that time, my daughter’s mother, Kayla, passed away from an overdose. We weren’t close then, but her death hit me hard. My daughter and I grew even closer through that loss, and I dedicated myself to being there for her.
Today, I live with gratitude. I mentor others in recovery, help connect people to treatment, and raise my daughter. I still write music, sharing the lessons I’ve learned along the way. I think back to the times when I was sick, alone, lying on a dirty mattress, begging God for better days. Those days did come, but they came with hard work, pain, and faith.
I’ve learned that nothing changes without persistence. I’ve learned that even when you feel broken, you can rebuild. And I’ve learned that life, no matter how messy, is worth fighting for.
