Let me tell you about the ghosts that follow me.
They’re not the kind you see in horror flicks, no chains rattling or creepy moans in the dark. Nah, these ghosts are different. They’re the memories, the faces, the pain that never really leaves. They’re the voices in the back of my head telling me I’ll never be enough. They’re the scars I can’t shake, no matter how far I run or how many times I pour another drink.
We all have ghosts. Mine? They started when I was two. The moment my biological parents handed me over, I was haunted. I wasn’t even old enough to understand the gravity of what was happening, but the feeling stuck with me—the cold, empty realization that I wasn’t worth keeping. From that day, I became the kind of ghost no one wanted. The system tossed me around like I was nothing, and those foster homes? They weren’t homes; they were hells, filled with people who saw kids like me as a paycheck, not a person. That’s the kind of shit that leaves a mark on you.
But the thing about ghosts—they don’t stay in one place. They follow you, whispering in your ear, reminding you of everything you’ve lost, everything that’s been taken from you. And I carried those ghosts with me into adulthood. Hell, I drank with them, tried to drown them in whiskey and cheap beer, hoping maybe I could bury them for good. Spoiler alert: ghosts don’t drown, and the more you run from them, the louder they get.
I thought I could escape when I got married, thought maybe love could chase them away. But the thing about love—when it’s built on shaky ground, it crumbles faster than you can blink. My ex-wife? She became just another ghost, another reminder of how quickly things fall apart. And then came the worst ghost of them all—the one that still haunts me more than any other. Caleb, my son. They took him from me when he was two, just like I was two when I was taken from my parents. It was like the universe was pulling some sick joke, repeating the same nightmare on loop, except this time, I was the one left powerless.
There’s nothing quite like having your child ripped from your arms. It leaves a hole so big, nothing can fill it—not booze, not anger, not even music. And trust me, I tried all three. But the thing is, that pain, it stays with you. Caleb’s ghost? He’s the one I talk to when I’m writing, when I’m pouring my heart into a track. He’s the reason I’m still here, still fighting, still refusing to fade.
My ghosts aren’t going anywhere, but I’ve learned something. You can’t run from them, but you can face them. You can take that pain, that betrayal, that fucking gut-wrenching loss, and you can turn it into power. That’s what I did. That’s what my song “Ghosts Don’t Fade” is all about. It’s about owning the shit you’ve been through, letting it fuel you instead of burying you. Because here’s the thing: as much as my ghosts haunt me, they don’t control me. Not anymore.
I’m telling you this because I know you’ve got your own ghosts. We all do. Maybe they look different than mine, but they’re there, lingering in the shadows. And if you’re reading this, maybe you’re trying to figure out how to deal with them. Maybe you’re tired of running. Maybe you’re ready to stop being haunted and start fighting back.
I’m not here to tell you it’s easy, because it sure as hell isn’t. But I’m proof that it’s possible. You can take those ghosts and turn them into something else—something that makes you stronger. That’s what my book I Won’t Break is about. It’s my story, but it’s also about survival—about facing down the shit that’s trying to destroy you and saying, “Not today.”
So if you’re ready, if you’re sick of being chased by your past, if you’re ready to stop running and start rising, then maybe my story can help. Maybe we can fight these ghosts together.
