And I have something I need to say.
For the 7th anniversary of sobriety, I’ve decided to release everything tied to that chapter — the regret, the pride, the pain, the version of me that didn’t believe I could make it. The good, the bad, the painful, all of it. While I might revisit different aspects of the time period for future music projects, I will no longer hold on to who I was as a self-destructive alcoholic. I have a lot of people to thank for getting me here.
I was going to go year by year, mistake by mistake, but I did that in my 7 part documentary that you can watch on my YouTube page. Instead, I have 7 groups of people I need to thank.
My Family
My wife, my siblings, my parents, my grandparents, my cousins, my nephews, my uncles, my aunts, and everyone in between. I am sorry for the pain I caused you. I am sorry for my absence, my distance, the way I drifted from my path. I am sorry I lost my way. I am sorry I sacrificed my morals, put aside my values, and missed out on crucial moments because I couldn’t let go of my vices.
I appreciate your patience; how you were right there waiting for me when I came around. It still brings tears to my eyes to think about the way you all welcomed me back like it was just yesterday. I didn’t deserve your forgiveness, and I thank God to have it.
Each and every one of us have dealt with this cycle in our own ways. My story is not unique, and it runs in our blood. I do not want you all to follow my footsteps of sobriety, but I do hope to inspire us to break the cycle in whatever way works best for you.
I love you all.
My Friends
I almost started listing names, but the truth is, friendship isn’t measured by proximity. Whether we still speak or not, if you were ever part of my life, this is for you too.
I am sorry I ask for too much and don’t acknowledge enough what you have done for me. I am sorry I spend too much time worrying about who isn’t a real friend instead of spending it appreciating what I have in front of me. I am sorry for how much I put you through. I am sorry for my unrealistic expectations. I am sorry for putting you in awkward positions with your friendships. Whatever I have done to wrong you, I am sorry for it all.
There’s not a day that goes by where I take for granted all that you have done for me. There isn’t a plan I make for the future that excludes you. There’s a big part of me that still believes I am able to right my wrongs by sharing my wins with you.
The Ones Who Left
I understand, honestly, I do. I was lost — reckless, self-destructive, and clinging to comfort when I should’ve been fighting for change. The dreamer who sold his dream for a fantasy world he could escape to because it was easy and comfortable. I don’t blame you for doubting me.
I heard every doubt. I carried it with me, probably longer than I should’ve. But I’ve learned something in these seven years — your doubts never paid my bills, never saved my family, never got me clean. I did that.
So I don’t need your apology. I don’t need your validation. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be — and I’m just getting started.
But if you ever decide to believe in me… the door’s open.
The Recruiter Who Believed In Me
I’ll never forget that season of my life. Fifty job applications, not a single interview. Just rejection after rejection — like the world had already decided I wasn’t good enough.
I was so broke I couldn’t even afford clothes for the interview you set up. I’d wake up every morning and shower in a room behind a laundry room — a shower smaller than my own wingspan, busted shower head spraying water sideways out of a cracked hose. Couldn’t even afford to fix it.
That was my reality. Day after day, rejection after rejection, standing in that broken shower listening to music — convincing myself everything would be okay, even when it felt like a lie.
And then came you. You told me straight — they didn’t want to hire me. Said I didn’t qualify. But you saw something the résumé couldn’t explain. You vouched for me. You gambled your name on a kid they’d already counted out.
Because of that, I saved my family — twice over. I turned my life around. And now I lead others to do the same.
That same kid who couldn’t afford clothes, couldn’t fix a shower, didn’t qualify for this job… six promotions later, he’s leading the room now.
You made that happen. I never forgot. You are proof of what the world can be if we take a leap of faith for something we believe in. Thank you.
The Younger Me
I know most days, you barely believed in yourself. You carried so much hurt — the weight of mistakes, shame, rejection. You tried to drink it away, laugh it off, bury it deep enough so nobody could see.
But I see you now. And I finally understand you. You weren’t weak — you were tired. You were hurting. You were surviving the only way you knew how.
I forgive you. For the nights you tried to disappear. For the people you pushed away. For thinking love had to be earned through pain or performance. You didn’t know better. But you never gave up completely — even when it felt like you should.
You got me here, flaws and all. Seven years sober, standing in rooms you never thought we’d belong in. You’re not my enemy anymore — you’re the reason I made it this far.
We’re good now. You can rest. I’ll take it from here.
The Future Me
Don’t forget why we do this — and who we do it for.
This isn’t about pride. It’s not about proving doubters wrong or stacking up years like trophies. It’s about the people who depend on us now. The family we swore to protect. The love we almost lost. The version of us that barely made it through.
Every sober day, every hard decision, every moment we lead with truth — it’s for them. For the ones watching. For the ones carrying our last name. For the kid inside us still healing.
There’s too much at stake to lose focus now. We do this for peace. For legacy. For the life we never thought we deserved — but fought for anyway.
Seven down but the mission stays the same. Protect the ones we love, honor the ones we lost, and never forget where we came from.
To Everyone
Everything I do, believe it or not, is to redeem myself in your eyes.
I know I can’t undo the pain I caused. I can’t rewrite history, and I can’t force anyone to believe in the man I’ve become. But I’ll never stop trying to earn that belief — every day, every step forward.
I’m not the same boy I was during my drinking days. I’m a husband. A leader. A man committed to doing better — for myself, for you, for the future we all deserve.
Becoming August Wild 