I’ve never taken the traditional road to anything in my life, and my education is no different. Most students go from high school to college with parents cheering them on. Me? Both of my parents were meth addicts. As far back as I remember, neither one of them wanted to take care of me. My aunt did, and she was the kindest, softest soul I ever knew—but she died when I was thirteen. After that, everything changed. I was sent to live with my dad, fresh out of prison. He wasn’t a father; he was a dictator. I caught a whoopin’ for just about anything. So I ran away. That was the first of many decisions that put me on a path far from a classroom.
I bounced between chaos and survival. When I landed at my mom’s house, things weren’t much better, but at least I found people who took me in. They jumped me into their gang, handed me a gun, an ounce of meth, and told me to bring back $800. I brought back triple. And that fast money felt like the love and approval I’d been starving for. I tried the drug everyone around me seemed addicted to—including my parents. And by fifteen, I was fully hooked. At eighteen, I was on my way to prison.
Prison didn’t break me—it exposed me. I arrived at Chino, my enemies’ headquarters, the only active member of my organization inside that yard. The odds of surviving were low. I knew the only safe place was the hole, so I fought the first person I saw. I remember the sound more than the pain—my ears ringing after being hit with a block gun. Then looking at the ground and seeing my teeth on the floor. That was the moment I realized how thin the line between living and dying really is.
Three and a half years later, I walked out—but I didn’t walk away from addiction. I fell deeper: meth, heroin, anything to keep me numb. I finally hit rock bottom and entered a Victory Outreach Men’s Recovery Home, where I gave my life to God. I graduated, got married, moved states, and then fell again—me and my wife both drowning in the same darkness. When she left with my daughter, it crushed me. I hit another bottom I didn’t think I’d survive. But my pastor sent me a Greyhound ticket back home. I went back into the Recovery Home and graduated again. That’s when I learned that sometimes perseverance isn’t one big moment—it’s choosing to get back up again and again even when shame tells you to stay down.
My biggest act of compassion—and maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done—was filing for custody of my daughter, Corazón. Her mother didn’t want to get clean, and I couldn’t watch another child grow up the way I did. God put strength in me I didn’t know I had, and today I have full custody. I work full time, I serve full time in my church, and every day I try to be the safe place I never had growing up.
If there’s one moment that shaped me, it wasn’t the violence or the drugs or even losing my teeth on that prison yard—it was the moment I realized my daughter was watching me. That everything I chose would someday teach her what love is, what responsibility is, and what faith looks like when life gets ugly. That moment pushed me toward the man I’m becoming. It showed me I wasn’t meant to repeat the cycle; I was meant to break it.
That’s why I’ve become so invested in others, especially the youth. I know firsthand how a kid can get swallowed up by the streets simply because no one gave them another option. If someone had handed younger me a studio instead of a gun, maybe my story would’ve gone differently. That’s why pursuing music production means more to me than a degree—it’s a mission. I want to open a studio for kids who can’t afford studio time, a place where creativity is louder than their circumstances.
I’m a non-traditional student because life pushed me into survival mode before I ever had the chance to think about school. But everything I’ve been through—addiction, prison, recovery, fatherhood, faith—has shaped me into someone who doesn’t quit, who knows how to fight for others, and who believes deeply in second chances. I’m not the typical student, but I am someone who knows how to get back up, who knows how to love hard, and who knows that resilience and generosity can rewrite any story—even the one you were born into.