I Won’t Break I Won’t Break is the unapologetic, raw memoir of Derrick Solano, an alternative rock artist whose life was shaped by abandonment, abuse, and addiction. This book tells the story of a man who refused to be broken by a world that tried to crush him. From the depths of trauma to the power of music and love, I Won’t Break is a testament to survival against all odds. Whether you’ve faced your own battles or simply want to experience the rawness of one man's journey, this memoir will pull you in and leave you with a deeper understanding of resilience. Paperback Kindle Vexture Vexture is a powerful, unfiltered self-help book designed for those ready to face life’s hardest moments and come out stronger. In this transformative guide, Derrick Solano takes readers on a journey through resilience, showing how to find strength in the scars, purpose in the pain, and beauty in even the darkest times. With raw honesty and practical tools, Vexture challenges you to confront your past, embrace healing, and build a life that feels whole—even if it’s still in the process of mending. This book is more than survival; it’s a blueprint for living unbreakable. Perfect for anyone seeking lasting change and real, unapologetic growth, Vexture is the companion for creating a legacy of inner strength and purpose. Paperback Kindle All About Me I’m Derrick Solano, and I don’t sugarcoat my story. I’ve been through hell and back, and every scar I carry is a reminder that I survived. Born as Joe Monroe Robinson, I was abandoned at two years old, thrown into the foster care system, and eventually adopted by a family that stripped me of my identity. Life broke me down over and over, from the trauma of my childhood to losing my son, Caleb. I fell hard—into addiction, anger, and pain—but I never let it destroy me. ​ Music became my lifeline, the way I screamed back at a world that tried to erase me. Every song I write is a piece of my battle. My first book, I Won’t Break, is a declaration of resilience, a reminder that no matter how much life takes from me, I’ll never fucking give in. But I didn’t stop there. In Vexture, my second book, I dive deeper, showing how to layer your pain into something solid, like armor, to become unbreakable. ​ Now, I’ve built a life with my husband, Anthony, and our dogs. It’s not perfect, and it’s not easy, but it’s real—just like me. I don’t write or sing for fame. I do it for those who’ve been told they aren’t enough, for those who’ve had to claw their way out of the dark. My story isn’t pretty, but it’s mine, and if you’ve been through your own wars, maybe it’s yours too. ​ This is who I am—unfiltered, unapologetic, and unbreakable.

Welcome... ... to the Soundtrack of Survival ​ Every note, every lyric, and every riff on this page is a piece of my story. Music saved me when nothing else could, and through these tracks, I’m sharing my battle scars, my triumphs, and everything in between. If you’ve ever felt broken, abandoned, or told you’re not enough, these songs are for you. ​ Each track on this page is more than just a song—it’s a declaration. I’ve poured my soul into every beat, channeling years of pain, addiction, and resilience into the music you’re about to hear. This isn’t for the mainstream; it’s for the fighters, the survivors, and anyone who refuses to let life break them. Download the tracks, feel the raw emotion, and join me on this journey of defiance and survival. Paperback Kindle Paperback Kindle

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I think about that birthday more often than I’d like to admit. The year I was eight or nine, Teresa decided to throw a birthday party for me. She put up decorations, invited kids from church, and arranged games and food. It seemed like, for once, maybe I’d get a real celebration—a normal moment like other kids had. And I’ll admit, for a fleeting second, I believed it. I thought, maybe, just maybe, Teresa would let me have this. But with Teresa, there was always a catch. As the party day came closer, I found out what it was: a massive pile of homework she dumped on me. I was homeschooled, so she controlled every page I read, every task I completed, every answer I wrote down. And on this particular day, she decided that my entrance ticket to my own birthday party would be finishing all of it. She knew it was more than I could get through in time—she always knew. But I sat down, furiously scribbling answers, racing against the sounds of kids arriving and the smell of cake wafting through the house. While I sat in that room, feeling like a prisoner in a home that was supposed to be mine, I could hear everyone else having fun. Kids laughing, running around, the sound of my favorite game on repeat. It was my birthday, but I wasn’t invited. My Grandma Richins stopped by that day, too. I can still remember her gentle, worn voice as she hugged me in the doorway of that room. She whispered, “It’s wrong what she’s doing to you.” I didn’t need to ask who “she” was—I knew. Grandma saw the truth that no one else wanted to admit. She saw the side of Teresa that the church didn’t see, the bitterness Teresa reserved just for me. But Grandma left, unable to change anything, and the party raged on without me. I finished the work hours later, after the last slice of cake was gone, after the guests had left. Alone in that room, it felt like even my birthday was a reminder of the control Teresa had over every part of my life. And then there was Margot. She was everything to me back then—a girl from church with a smile that felt like sunlight on the few good days I had. I looked forward to seeing her every Sunday. It was a harmless crush, but it was one of the only things that felt like mine, something innocent and untainted by everything else. Teresa knew about my feelings for Margot, and she took every chance she could to make sure that even those moments didn’t come without a price. I can’t remember what I did wrong that day, but Teresa made sure I’d never forget the punishment. She forced me into a diaper—just a diaper—and made me sit there, humiliated. I had to sit, half-dressed and feeling completely stripped of dignity. It felt like she was peeling away every part of me, showing me that nothing, not even my crush on a girl, was safe from her reach. And, of course, Margot’s mom came over that day, bringing Margot with her. I don’t think it was an accident. I think Teresa wanted me to feel the sting of that shame, wanted Margot to see me like that. I never looked at her the same way again, and I don’t think she did either. Teresa didn’t just control my actions; she controlled how I saw myself, how I let others see me. I look back now, and I realize that losing Caleb, as devastating as that was, was only one chapter in a longer, twisted book. That moment wasn’t the start of my story, and it sure as hell wasn’t the end. My life has been a constant series of losses and recoveries, each one layering over the last, leaving scars on top of scars. The story of “T.J.,” the name Teresa chose for me, didn’t just end when I left her house. It haunts me, shadows me. Even now, as Derrick Solano, there are days when I look in the mirror and see fragments of T.J., reminders of a boy who learned early that control and love weren’t the same things. Today, I’m Derrick, and every day, I reclaim a little more of myself. But the past never leaves quietly. It shows up in unexpected moments, the whispers of memories I thought I’d buried. And I realize, each time, that my story isn’t just about what I lost—it’s about everything I’ve survived. And the journey isn’t over. It’s only beginning.

Today, I caught myself slipping back into “T.J.” mode. After all these years, after rebuilding my life as Derrick Solano, that version of myself—the one I never wanted to be—still lingers, like a shadow I can’t shake. I was just standing there, absentmindedly checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and suddenly, there he was. That look in my eyes, that vacant stare, that old instinct to shut down, to blend in, to disappear if necessary. It’s funny how the past finds ways to slip back in, no matter how far we think we’ve come, no matter how hard we try to forget. To most people who know me today, I’m Derrick Solano. They know pieces of my story—maybe a bit about my son Caleb, the years-long fight to keep him, the pain of having him torn from my life. But Caleb’s story is just one piece of a bigger, darker picture. Losing him was another scar, another notch on the belt of survival, but my story of loss didn’t begin with Caleb. It began long before that. It began with a broken system, a family I didn’t choose, and a name that wasn’t mine. It began with “T.J.” The Richins household was supposed to be my safe place, the family that would finally make me feel like I belonged. At least, that’s what they told me. By the time I ended up there, I had already known loss in ways no kid should ever have to understand. My mother had handed me over when I was barely old enough to talk, and my siblings—John and Tasha—were the last constants I had. But like everything else in my life, they were taken from me, too, scattered to different foster homes, just faces I’d see less and less of until they became distant memories. I was a kid, barely hanging on to the scraps of family and identity I’d managed to cling to. Then came the Richins. They said I could be their son, that they’d give me the life I’d always wanted. And for a while, I almost believed them. But they didn’t want “Joe,” the boy who had blue eyes and a past he couldn’t forget. They didn’t even want “Joseph.” They wanted “T.J.”—the son they could mold, a blank slate to fill in with their own story. They took me to court, stripped away my birth name, and rechristened me “Terrill Joseph Richins,” after Terry, the father in this “forever family.” They made me T.J., and that’s when the erasing began. I was too young to understand it then, but looking back, I can see it clearly. They weren’t adopting a son; they were rewriting me. They weren’t interested in the kid who had seen too much too soon, who carried scars from a life they didn’t want to acknowledge. They wanted a kid they could start fresh with, as if every piece of who I’d been was something to scrub away. And for years, that’s exactly what I tried to do. At first, I thought that if I became T.J., maybe they’d love me. Maybe they’d accept me. I buried “Joe,” buried my past, buried the memories of my mother, John, Tasha. I became quiet, obedient, invisible. Teresa was cold and calculating, the kind of person who could switch on the charm in public but was quick to remind me of my “place” in private. Every time I showed a glimpse of who I really was, every time I slipped, she’d be there to reel me back in, to remind me that I was here because they allowed it, that I was theirs to shape and control. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that “forever family” meant playing the part they’d given me, no questions asked. I learned to silence my thoughts, to hide every part of myself that didn’t fit. I kept my head down, my mouth shut, and I tried to convince myself that maybe, if I was perfect enough, if I was the son they wanted, the pain would finally go away. But the pain never goes away. Trauma doesn’t just disappear because you put on a new mask. It lingers, festers, claws its way to the surface, no matter how hard you try to bury it. I became so good at being T.J. that I almost convinced myself that’s who I was. I’d go through the motions, keep my head down, make myself as small as possible, just trying to survive without drawing attention. But at night, when the house was quiet, the memories would come back. I’d lie there in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember my siblings’ faces, the sound of my mother’s voice, the way life felt before everything shattered. Those memories were all I had, and yet every day, they slipped further away. And with every day that passed, “Joe” faded a little more, replaced by the hollow shell of “T.J.” Years passed, and I became a master at blending in. T.J. was all the Richins saw, all they cared to see. And the rest? It was buried, locked away, so deep even I struggled to reach it. But the thing about ghosts is, they never stay gone. They’re always there, lingering, waiting for a moment to break free. Standing in front of the mirror today, I caught a glimpse of him—of T.J., of the kid I’d been forced to become, the kid who’d learned that love was conditional, that survival meant silence, that being seen was dangerous. And no matter how hard I’ve tried to escape him, he’s still there, woven into every piece of me. Today, I’m Derrick Solano. I chose that name, reclaimed that identity, rebuilt a life that feels like mine. But T.J. is still part of me, a reminder of the years I spent trying to be someone else, of the life I lost, the self I buried. He’s the part of me that shuts down when things get too hard, that questions my worth, that feels like I don’t deserve to take up space. He’s the part of me that still wonders if love is something earned, something conditional, something you can lose in an instant. Losing Caleb, years later, was like reliving that old pain all over again. But losing Caleb wasn’t the start of my story—it was another chapter in a book that began with abandonment, betrayal, and a system that tried to erase me. This story, my story, is bigger than any one piece of loss. It’s a lifetime of learning to survive, of finding strength in the darkest places, of reclaiming every piece of myself that was taken, erased, rewritten. Today, I’m Derrick, but T.J. will always be there, a ghost of the boy who learned to survive by disappearing. And while Caleb’s absence is a scar I’ll carry forever, it’s just one of many. My story didn’t begin or end with him—it’s a story of resilience, of fighting to be whole, of refusing to let the past define me. And every time I look in the mirror, I see both Derrick and T.J., two sides of the same journey, two pieces of a life that’s far from over. This isn’t just about losing Caleb. It’s about a lifetime of being lost, of fighting to reclaim the parts of myself that were taken, the parts I thought I’d never see again. It’s about survival. It’s about resilience. And it’s far from finished.

After that day with Lynn and Billy, when they took my siblings and me from the home we knew, everything changed. It was as if every familiar face, every last piece of safety, was ripped away, leaving us with strangers and a system that saw us as little more than names on a file. They kept John, Tasha, and me together for a while after leaving Lynn and Billy’s, but soon enough, we were scattered—split into different foster homes, our lives unraveling in different directions. The bond we shared, the only constant in a life of chaos, was broken. And with it, my sense of family, my sense of self, started to disintegrate. Those next few homes blurred together. I was moved from house to house, each one colder than the last, with people who didn’t know me, who didn’t care to. Every time I’d get somewhat comfortable, the state would shuffle me off to the next “placement.” I was just another foster kid. By the time I ended up with the Richins, I was already a ghost of myself—a kid who knew that “family” was just a word people threw around, a promise they didn’t mean to keep. Terry and Teresa Richins were different, though. They weren’t just another stop on the foster care conveyor belt. They weren’t supposed to be temporary. The Richins offered me what no one else had dared to promise—a forever home. They said they’d take care of me, make me one of their own, give me a place to belong. For a brief moment, I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d finally be safe. But promises have a way of turning on you. I learned that the hard way when Terry and Teresa took me to court and erased the last piece of me that connected me to John, to Tasha, to the life I’d lost. My name, Joseph Monroe Robinson, was gone. Terry wanted to rename me after himself, and so they gave me a new identity: Terrill Joseph Richins. They even gave me a nickname, “T.J.,” expecting me to adopt this new version of myself as if it were a gift. But that new name, that identity they forced on me, didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like a prison. They were erasing the boy who’d lost his siblings, who’d survived a twisted childhood, who’d been left behind again and again. “T.J.” wasn’t the name of the kid who knew what betrayal felt like, who knew the sting of abandonment. “T.J.” was who they wanted me to be, someone they could mold, control, someone who would fit neatly into their picture-perfect family. Behind closed doors, Teresa’s smiles turned to cold stares. She was the type who could turn her charm on and off like a switch. In public, she played the role of the doting mother, but at home, she expected me to fall in line. Every time I acted out, every time I showed a glimpse of the person I was, she’d remind me of my “place,” of how lucky I was to be part of their family. It was as if my very existence needed constant correction, and every step out of line was met with a reminder that I was only there by her grace. It didn’t take long for me to realize that “forever family” meant compliance. I had to stifle my feelings, bury every trace of the life I’d known, and become the kid they wanted me to be. I was supposed to be grateful, to act like I belonged. But how could I belong when every part of me—every scar, every memory, every piece of my name—was erased? The Richins didn’t just want to adopt me; they wanted to reprogram me, to scrub out any history that didn’t fit into their vision of family. At night, I’d lie awake in the bed they gave me, staring at the ceiling, clinging to the last fragments of who I’d been. I’d think about John and Tasha, wonder if they even remembered me, if they missed me as much as I missed them. I’d think about my old life, about the boy named Joe, who had blue eyes and a family he thought would always be there. But that boy was fading, replaced by “T.J.,” a kid who knew better than to hope. This wasn’t just the loss of a name. It was the loss of my identity. I was becoming someone else, someone the Richins could accept, someone who wouldn’t make waves or ask questions. I had no choice but to adapt. To survive in their world, I had to bury Joe, bury every memory, every connection to my past, and let T.J. take over. But no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I was never enough. Teresa had a way of making sure I felt that in everything I did, in every way I was or wasn’t “good enough.” I became quiet, withdrawn, almost robotic, a survival mechanism to keep myself safe. I learned not to speak up, not to show too much emotion, to become a shadow in my own life. The only glimpses of myself I could hold onto were buried deep, hidden behind walls I built to protect what was left of the boy who’d once been Joseph. That night, standing under the streetlight, I realized just how much of myself I’d lost. Losing Caleb had ripped open the wounds of my past, forcing me to face the hollow places, the parts of me that had been taken away piece by piece. Caleb was gone, but so was John, so was Tasha, so was the kid I used to be. In the silence of that night, I vowed that I wouldn’t lose anything more. I wouldn’t let them erase any more of me. If you want to see the proof of who I was—the birth certificate with my real name, the papers my mother signed, the adoption records that turned me into someone else—it’s all there. Visit www.derricksolano.com/truth . You’ll see how they tried to rewrite me, how they thought they could erase my story. But I’m still here. I am scarred, I am broken, but I am unbreakable. And this is only the beginning.