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.

Under the cold, dim glow of that streetlight, I felt it all over again—the pain, the betrayal, the hollow ache of abandonment that’s marked my life. Losing Caleb shattered me, but in that devastation, I recognized something familiar, a feeling I’d known since I was barely old enough to speak. The truth is, my story of loss didn’t start with Caleb. It began when I was just two, and it’s a memory that still echoes in the darkest parts of my mind. I was born Joseph Monroe Robinson, but no one called me that. I was just “Joe,” a curious, bright-eyed toddler with blue eyes and a world that seemed out of my control. I wasn’t alone, though. I had two siblings—John, my older brother by two years, and Tasha, a year older than me. We were a trio of kids, caught in a whirlwind of chaos, confusion, and a life that, even then, seemed determined to break us. The earliest days with my family are nothing but flashes of memory—blurred, painful, haunting. One of the few things I remember with a chilling clarity is our apartment, filled with the sour smell of cigarettes and beer, and strangers who saw us more like objects than children. One of those nights sticks out more than any other. A man I didn’t know, probably drunk, thought it would be funny to grab a pair of scissors and pretend he’d hurt me. He held them up to my face, laughing as I squirmed and whimpered, too young to understand why someone would be so cruel, but old enough to know I wasn’t safe. After that, everything moved fast. My mother, Belinda, took me to the Department of Economic Security office, holding a blue cake in her hand. She wanted it to feel like a celebration, but it was a goodbye. She led me down the hallway, her hand slipping from mine, leaving me with strangers and an uncertain future. She didn’t explain; she didn’t say why. She just left, leaving me, her own child, behind. I was two years old, and she was gone. That’s when the real abandonment began. Even though my mother left, John, Tasha, and I were still together. The foster homes we landed in became our world—a revolving door of strangers, each one colder than the last. For a while, we stayed with a couple named Lynn and Billy Pace. At first, they seemed like they might care. Lynn gave us chalk to draw on the sidewalks, even toys, and there were moments where I almost believed we’d be okay. But Billy was a storm that blew in hard and fast, and nothing could shield us from his rage. One day, while Tasha and I drew on the sidewalk, he came home drunk and furious. He walked up to me and punched me in the head with full force. Everything went black. When I came to, I was lying in bed, hours had passed, and Lynn was blowing on me to cool me down, too afraid to take me to a hospital. She didn’t want anyone to know, didn’t want the truth to come out. I was just a kid—a burden, a problem no one wanted to deal with. Eventually, I spoke up. It wasn’t out of bravery; it was desperation. I couldn’t take the abuse anymore, and I let someone at daycare know. That was what finally got us removed from Lynn and Billy’s home. I thought leaving would feel like freedom, but I was wrong. They loaded us into the car and drove us away, all three of us—John, Tasha, and me. It would be one of the last times we’d ever be together. Lynn pulled over, looked at us with tears in her eyes, and told us we weren’t coming back. She said she wished she could be our “mommy forever,” but it was just another lie, another broken promise from another adult who didn’t really want us. We cried, we begged, but nothing changed. We were just kids, learning that no matter how hard we pleaded, we were powerless. That was the last home we had together before they split us up. From there, they separated us, scattering us into different foster homes. I never saw John again as a child, and Tasha disappeared from my life for decades. In a moment, the only family I had left was gone. They handed me a small white stuffed dog from DES, a flimsy attempt at comfort. That little stuffed dog became my world. I held it tight, whispered to it, cried into it, clinging to the last bit of security I could find. It was my one connection to a childhood that was slipping further and further away. Eventually, I ended up with the Richins, the couple who would strip away the last piece of myself. Terry and Teresa promised me a “forever family,” but what they gave me was a life of control and manipulation. They took me to court, changed my name to Terrill Joseph Richins, and demanded I leave “Joe” behind. I became T.J., a name that wasn’t mine, a life that wasn’t mine. They thought they were saving me, but all they did was bury me deeper. Under that streetlight, the night I lost Caleb, I felt the weight of every one of those moments. The loss, the separation, the feeling of being someone else’s child but never anyone’s priority. I realized that I’d been losing pieces of myself since I was two years old, and that this cycle of abandonment wasn’t just a part of my life—it was my life. This is more than just a story. This is my truth. My birth certificate, the paper my mother signed to give me up, the adoption records that erased my name—they’re on my website at www.derricksolano.com/truth . They tried to erase me, but they didn’t take my survival. I am scarred, but I am still here. And this is just the beginning.

When you lose everything, there’s a part of you that expects the world to stop, to give you just one damn moment to breathe, to process the devastation. But life isn’t kind like that. It didn’t stop when Caleb was taken, and it sure as hell didn’t stop when the final lie broke me. I thought that maybe, somehow, I could find peace in the silence that followed losing him. But that silence—it was anything but peaceful. It was a crushing, unbearable weight that followed me everywhere, reminding me of the battle I’d lost. Every quiet moment, every empty room, every hollow morning—I was haunted by the echoes of what should have been. My son should have been there, laughing, learning, growing. Instead, he was somewhere else, being raised by people who had torn him from my life, and all I had left was a gaping, hollow ache where my heart used to be. I won’t lie to you; I fell apart. There’s no bravery in pretending I had it all together. I didn’t. I was a broken shell of who I’d once been, and that silence—God, that silence—nearly drove me insane. It was as if every unanswered question, every what-if, every stolen moment was embedded in that silence, screaming at me, taunting me. What kind of father loses his child? What kind of man falls for a lie? The days blurred together. I’d find myself staring at the walls, hours ticking by, unable to move, unable to eat, barely able to breathe. Friends tried to reach out, but what could they say? They couldn’t bring Caleb back. They couldn’t undo the lie that had shattered everything I’d built. And honestly, I didn’t want their pity. I didn’t want to hear that “things would get better” or that “time heals all wounds.” Time wasn’t healing anything. Time was a relentless bastard, dragging me further away from the life I’d lost, the family I’d been robbed of, the son I couldn’t hold. Eventually, the grief and guilt became too much, and I had to get out. So I started walking. It didn’t matter where. I just needed to move, to feel something other than the suffocating weight in my chest. I’d walk for hours, miles even, through neighborhoods, past houses filled with families I’d never know, lives I could never have. And every step was like pressing on an open wound, but it was the only thing that kept me from drowning in the endless silence of my own mind. I remember one night, in the middle of nowhere, standing under the streetlights. There was no one around, just me and the cold night air. I could feel the emptiness inside me, and for the first time, I realized something brutal and life-changing: they had taken everything from me, but they hadn’t taken me . Somehow, through it all, there was still a part of me left standing. Maybe just a flicker, a whisper, a shadow of the person I used to be—but I was still here. That realization didn’t heal me. It didn’t make the pain any less. But it did something even more important: it reminded me that I wasn’t done yet. I didn’t know how I’d keep going, but for Caleb, for myself, I had to try. I had to find a way to live with the emptiness, to carry the scars they’d carved into my soul, to survive the silence that followed the lie. So that’s what I did. Day by day, step by step, I learned to carry the weight of my loss. I made it through one more sunrise, one more night, one more breath. I wasn’t okay, and I didn’t pretend to be. But I was alive, and that was a start. The lie may have broken me, but it didn’t bury me. Not entirely. I may have lost my son, my dreams, and even my sense of self, but somewhere in that shattered mess, I found a new strength, one that wasn’t built on false hope or empty promises, but on sheer, unbreakable survival. And that—no matter what they did—was something they could never take from me.

After they took Caleb, I thought that would be the worst of it. I thought the pain of losing my son, of having him ripped out of my life by the very people who were supposed to protect us, was rock bottom. But I was wrong. The true hell wasn’t in the moment they took him—it was in everything that followed. The sleepless nights. The haunting silence. The suffocating, gnawing guilt that sat in my chest, weighing me down day after day, making it impossible to breathe. There’s a kind of pain that doesn’t just break you. It buries you. And when I lost Caleb, I found myself drowning under the weight of a thousand different emotions. Anger. Betrayal. Helplessness. And then, of course, the question that kept echoing in my mind, like a taunt I couldn’t escape: How could I let this happen? I spent days—hell, weeks—after it all went down, running that question over and over again in my head, like I was stuck on an endless loop. It didn’t matter how many times I replayed it. It didn’t matter how many scenarios I went over, imagining a different outcome, a different way things could have gone. The truth was always the same. They had tricked me. They had played me for a fool. And I had let them. I was naïve. Hope and I both were. And that’s what tore me apart the most. It wasn’t just that they took Caleb—it was that they made us believe, even for a second, that we could trust them. That they were there to help. That they gave a single fuck about what was best for Caleb. When the reality was, all they ever wanted was control. I didn’t get it at first. When they refused to give him back, it was like a slap in the face. I mean, these were people who had adopted me, who had taken me in when I was a kid and told me that family was everything. But here they were, holding my son hostage with impossible demands, setting the bar so high that they knew damn well I would never be able to reach it. Not with the way my life was. A stable job? A house? A car? At that point in my life, I could barely keep my head above water, much less meet their bullshit conditions. They knew that. They fucking knew  it. And that’s why they did it. It was never about Caleb’s well-being. It was about power. About control. About making sure I stayed under their thumb. But it wasn’t just me who suffered. Hope, as much as I had my own issues with her, was shattered. I mean, how could she not be? Caleb was her son too, and they tore him away from both of us. And yet, instead of bringing us closer together, it destroyed us. We couldn’t even look at each other without seeing the cracks. The weight of our failure, the loss of Caleb—it was too much. So, she left. Went to live with her mom, and I… I went the only place I knew. I went inward. I wish I could say I fought harder. I wish I could tell you that I went to war for my son. But after the court sided with them, after the judge, another cog in their Mormon-controlled machine, slammed that gavel down, I knew it was over. It was like someone had cut the strings holding me together, and everything just fell apart. I was a mess of broken pieces, and I didn’t know how to pick any of them up. That’s when I started making the trips to see Caleb. The first time, I thought it would be a chance to reconnect, to remind him who I was, to show him that no matter what, I was still his father. But they made sure every second of that visit was torture. It was like they were watching me, waiting for me to fuck up. They treated me like a criminal, like I was some kind of threat. Like I was going to steal my own son. I remember standing outside their house, my heart pounding in my chest, waiting to see him. And when they finally brought him out, it felt like a dagger straight to my soul. He looked at me like I was a stranger. And I guess I was, in a way. He was just a kid. He didn’t know me. How could he? I wasn’t there to put him to bed at night. I wasn’t there to kiss his scraped knees or tell him that everything was going to be okay. Those moments had been stolen from me. And there was no getting them back. I tried. I swear to God, I fucking tried to make it work. I tried to be the father he needed, but every time I showed up, they were there, lurking in the background, watching, waiting, suffocating any chance I had to just be  with him. And slowly, the fight in me started to die. I stopped visiting. It was too much. Too painful. Every time I saw Caleb, it was like being ripped apart all over again. I knew that as much as I wanted to fight, as much as I wanted to bring him home, I couldn’t. He was theirs now. And even though it killed me, I had to let go. I had to move forward. But how do you move forward when your heart has been torn out? How do you just… carry on after losing the one thing that mattered most to you? The answer is, you don’t. Not really. You just survive. You wake up every day with this emptiness inside you, this hole that nothing can fill. And you learn to live with it. You learn to carry the weight of that loss, even though it never gets lighter. The hardest part? Letting go. Not of Caleb—because God knows I never really let go of him—but of the hope. The hope that one day I’d get him back. The hope that one day, we’d have the life we were supposed to have. That’s the part that kills you. The hope is what makes the hurt last. It’s what makes every day after the loss feel like another betrayal. Eventually, I had to stop hoping. I had to stop dreaming of the “what ifs” and face the reality of what was . And what was… was hell. I still think about him. I wonder if he remembers me. I wonder if he’ll ever know the truth. But even if he does, even if he finds out one day what really happened, it won’t change the fact that I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there when he needed me most. And that’s a burden I will carry for the rest of my life. They broke me. They shattered me in ways I didn’t even know were possible. But here I am. Still standing. Still breathing. Still surviving. Because as much as they tried to destroy me, they couldn’t take away the one thing that keeps me going: I won’t break.

Hope and I were just surviving. If you can even call it that. We were living in a friend’s freezing garage, in the dead of winter, with not a single penny to our names. No jobs, no plan, and no future. The world had already chewed me up and spat me out, and it felt like we were just existing, waiting for whatever came next. But whatever little stability we had came crashing down when I made a mistake—one I still feel the shame of to this day. I took something I shouldn’t have, got caught, and that was the end of our welcome in that house. We were told to leave, and it wasn’t like I had much of a defense. I wasn’t trustworthy back then. The weight of everything was already crushing me, but at that point, I didn’t care anymore. I had no direction, no path forward. That’s when they  stepped in—Terry and Teresa, my so-called adopted parents, swooped in like fucking vultures, pretending to save us. They helped us move, offering to take Caleb in while we got back on our feet. You know, “just for a little while,” until we found an apartment, until we could breathe again. They made it sound like they were helping us. Like they were family. We were desperate and stupid, and I trusted them. We signed the papers they gave us. They said it was just for medical reasons—just in case something happened to Caleb while he was with them. That’s what they told us. What they didn’t tell us was that we had just signed full custody over to them. We didn’t find that out until it was too late. Hope and I finally found an apartment, got some footing beneath us, and we thought, okay, we can finally bring Caleb home.  But when we went to get him, they said no.  Just like that. They had our son, and we weren’t getting him back. They set all these impossible conditions: a high-paying job, a car, proof of stability for months on end—all bullshit standards they knew we couldn’t meet. I was fighting a system designed to fucking destroy me, surrounded by Mormons, including the judge, who sided with them every step of the way. And just like that, I lost Caleb. That loss destroyed me. It was the ultimate betrayal. Not just because they took my son, but because they ripped open every wound from my childhood, from the time I was abandoned, bounced around in the foster system. It was like they were trying to break me all over again. And they almost did. Hope and I fell apart after that. We didn’t look at each other the same. She went to live with her mom, and I crashed at a friend’s place in another town. The fight was over, and I was fucking lost. I had to accept that Caleb wasn’t coming back, and as much as I wanted to fight, I didn’t want to rip him away from the only home he knew. He was only two when they stole him, and I was still a kid myself, barely holding on. I had to move forward. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t have a choice. It was survival. The same way it always was.

Halloween was supposed to be a time for magic, excitement, and a little bit of mystery. As a kid, I wanted nothing more than to dress up as something magical, like a witch, and fully embrace the wonder of the holiday. But the Mormon family that adopted me had other ideas. They didn’t think Halloween was evil, not in the traditional sense. They even participated in their version of it—a church event called "trunk-or-treat," where families decorated their cars and passed out candy in the parking lot. It was safe, controlled, and sanitized for their comfort. But when it came to anything involving witches or magic, that was where they drew the line. They already knew about my natural gifts and interests in the occult. They knew I had something in me they couldn’t explain, something they feared. To them, it was evil. To them, I  was evil. So, every Halloween, when I wanted to dress up as something magical, like a witch, they shot me down. They’d say witches were wrong, that dabbling in magic would corrupt me further. But I didn’t let them stop me from finding my own fun. They thought I was doing innocent trick-or-treating with my friends for that hour before sunset—the little bit of freedom I was allowed to have. But they didn’t know the truth. Behind their backs, my friends and I had our own Halloween traditions. We weren’t content with just collecting candy. We wanted to feel the real magic of the night. We’d sneak off, far from the trunk-or-treats and neighborhood streets, and dive into what we thought was real witchcraft—spells, Ouija boards, and ghost hunting. We were just kids, barely understanding what we were messing with, but that was part of the thrill. One Halloween, when I was about 14, we took it further than usual. After sneaking away from the group, we headed to the local graveyard. It was exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find spirits, and we were determined to have our own supernatural experience. We carried a Ouija board with us and tried to make contact with whatever might be lurking there. It was exciting and a little scary, but we were used to the adrenaline rush by then. As we wandered through the graveyard, we stumbled upon an old, neglected gravestone. That’s where I saw it—an old, tarnished necklace draped over the stone. Without thinking twice, I picked it up. It felt heavy in my hand, like it had some history behind it, but I didn’t care. I shoved it in my pocket and kept walking, thinking it was just a cool souvenir. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I had just invited something dark into my life. It wasn’t long after that night that things started going wrong. Weird, unexplainable things. My friends and I started having nightmares—terrifying ones that we couldn’t shake. We got sick, all of us at the same time. Fevers, chills, headaches—it was like something had cursed us. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, with the feeling that something was watching me from the corner of my room. Every night, I’d hear whispers, see shadows moving out of the corner of my eye. But it didn’t stop there. I began to feel like I was drowning in bad luck. Everything that could go wrong, did. I fell behind in school, got into trouble for things that didn’t make sense, and my relationships with my friends got tense. They were going through the same thing—each of us haunted by something we couldn’t explain. Eventually, one of my friends got into a serious accident, and that’s when we all knew this was more than just a series of coincidences. We realized we needed to go back. Months later, we returned to that same graveyard, and I placed the necklace back on the gravestone. But it didn’t matter—the damage had already been done. That Halloween still haunts me to this day. It wasn’t just the necklace or the ghosts we thought we had summoned. It was the feeling of being trapped—both by the family who saw me as evil for embracing my natural gifts, and by my own choices that led to months of nightmares and fear. Looking back now, it’s easy to see the lesson in it all. Life is too short to let other people tell you who you are or what’s right for you. I spent too many years living under someone else’s rules, letting them decide what I was allowed to do, what I was allowed to believe in. And yeah, I made mistakes. That night was reckless, and I paid for it. But it also taught me something important: don’t let fear or control tie you down. Because before you know it, you’ll be older, wondering why you didn’t let yourself live. So, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: you’ve got to embrace who you are, even the parts that others might not understand. Don’t let them scare you into being something you’re not. Life is full of real dangers, but living under someone else’s thumb is the scariest one of all.

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.

When you’ve been broken down to nothing—stripped of your name, your identity, your child—it’s easy to believe that nothing is left. That’s what they wanted me to think. When my adopted parents manipulated me into signing away guardianship of my son, they thought they’d finished the job. They’d broken me when I was seven, changing my name and locking me into their twisted reality. Taking Caleb from me when he was two? That was the nail in the coffin. But here’s the truth they didn’t expect: I wasn’t finished. You see, it’s easy to let the world break you when you’re standing on the edge of nothing, staring into the dark, but what they don’t tell you is that sometimes hitting rock bottom is the only way to rise . I didn’t give up, even when I lost everything. I didn’t break, and I’m here to remind you—neither will you. When I lost my son, I lost myself. Or at least, I thought I did. I drank away the pain. I burned bridges with everyone who tried to reach me because I was convinced I was nothing but the wreckage they left behind. But then Anthony came into my life and showed me that there’s more to me than the scars, more than the pain, more than the mistakes. He didn’t try to save me—he stood by my side and watched me pull myself out of the hell I was stuck in. Here’s what I’ve learned in this battle: No One Will Save You—Except Yourself. People can love you, support you, and be there for you, but at the end of the day, you’re the one who’s got to choose to fight. I had every excuse to give up, and trust me, I almost did. But I made the choice to stand the fuck up and fight for my life. Your Past Doesn’t Define You, Your Fight Does. The world will try to lock you in a box labeled "broken," but that label only sticks if you let it. They took everything from me—my family, my son, my identity—but they couldn’t take the fire burning inside me. I took that shit back, piece by piece, and so can you. You’re Allowed to Be Angry. Anger isn’t your enemy—it’s fuel. Don’t let people tell you to be quiet, to sit down, or to be grateful for whatever scraps you’ve been given. If you’ve been betrayed, abandoned, or destroyed, you have every right to burn with rage. Use it. Let it light your way out. Reclaiming Yourself Takes Time. This isn’t an overnight victory. I’ve been clawing my way out of the pit for years, and I’m still not done. But every step you take forward, no matter how small, is a victory. Don’t ever forget that. They tried to take everything from me, and for a long time, I let them win. But the only way they truly win is if you stay down . I’m here, standing, fucking roaring in the face of all that bullshit. So if you’ve been broken, if you’re standing in the dark wondering if it’s worth it to keep going, hear me when I say: it is. Keep fighting. Keep screaming. Take back what’s yours. Because if I can do it, so can you. Remember, this blog isn’t for everyone. It’s for the fighters, the ones who’ve been through hell and are still standing. I’m not here to sugarcoat anything. Life ripped me apart, and I know it’s done the same to many of you. But we don’t stay down. We rise. And that’s what makes us unbreakable.

Let me cut the bullshit and get straight to it: this blog isn’t for everyone. If you’re here looking for feel-good, sugar-coated bullshit, you’re in the wrong place. This is a space for those who’ve been through the fire, who’ve had life chew them up and spit them out, but refuse to stay down. This is for the fighters, the survivors, the ones who were told they wouldn’t make it, but here they are—standing, scarred as hell, but unbroken. If you don’t know me yet, I’m Derrick Solano. My story’s ugly, raw, and real. I was abandoned at two, spent my childhood being passed from one abusive foster home to another, and was eventually adopted by a Mormon family who tried to strip me of everything that made me, me. I’m talking about losing my name, my identity, and later on, they even took my son from me. I battled addiction for years, drowning myself in alcohol, thinking it would numb the pain of all the shit I went through. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. But here I am today—alive, sober, and fucking thriving. So why should you subscribe to my blog? Because I’m going to take you places most people are too scared to go. I’m not here to tell you life gets better if you just hang in there. I’m here to tell you that life can be a raging dumpster fire, and sometimes, the only way out is through the flames. I’ve burned. I’ve bled. But I’m still standing, and I’m here to tell you that you can stand too. I won’t pretend I’ve got all the answers. Hell, most days I’m just figuring shit out as I go. But what I do have is my story—my raw, unfiltered truth. I’ve been through the system, lost everything that mattered to me, and fought like hell to reclaim my life. My music? It’s not just songs; it’s survival. Every lyric is a piece of my fucking soul. And my book, I Won’t Break , tells it all in excruciating detail—from the abuses I survived to the son I lost, to the love I found with my husband, Anthony, and how I fought like hell to stay sober. This blog is going to be an extension of that. It’s where I’ll share updates on my music, my writing, and my life—no filters, no fake positivity, just the raw, hard truth. If that resonates with you, then this space is for you. Subscribe, because if there’s one thing you’re going to learn from following me, it’s that you can go through hell and come out the other side. You might not be the same person you were before, but fuck it, you’ll be stronger, sharper, and more unbreakable than ever. And if you stick around, we’ll rise together.