Twelve Years Sober, and Finally Going Back to the Beginning

On recovery, reinvention, and the record that ties it all together.

Today marks twelve years of sobriety for me. And if you'll allow me a few minutes, I want to talk about it — because it's the reason everything else in my life exists the way it does.

Getting sober was simultaneously the hardest and best decision I have ever made. I was terrified, really. I had never genuinely admitted to myself — beyond saying it to take the heat off my previous poor decisions — that I am an alcoholic. And I knew that the moment I truly took ownership of that, there was no going back. Because I didn't really know what life would look like without alcohol, I was petrified of what lay ahead.

But I did it — though not alone. And for that I'm entirely grateful for my family and friends who showed up for me.

The Person I Was

I wasn't a great person when I drank. While drunk, I thought the exact opposite — I thought my life was pretty good, actually. I had a job, I was making music, I had a partner, I wasn't homeless. But it wasn't until I stopped long enough to let the fog lift that I realized just how much I was hindering my own health and my own potential.

Putting down the bottle meant changing everything about how I lived, and that was hard. But not as hard as the first few days.

I had to break down the days into 15-minute segments just to get through them. I had pints of Americone Dream, Red Bull, and GIRLS loaded up on HBO. I'd say to myself: okay, you're not going to have a drink for the next 15 minutes. And when those elapsed — great job, now we're not going to have a drink for the next 15 minutes. Slowly, the days crawled by. But I could see a tiny crack of light peering through. And so I followed that.

The minutes became hours, the hours days. Days became weeks, and weeks months. Before long, I was sleeping better, I had more money in the bank, my digestion improved, I began wanting to exercise, my head un-fogged, and I could begin to see how life might look past this hurdle.

It Didn't Happen on the First Try

I want to be honest about something, because I think it matters: before this day twelve years ago, I tried and failed twice.

So if you're reading this and you're somewhere in that process, thinking I must be failing at this — no, you aren't. Everyone is different. Mine took the classic third time's the charm. Recovery isn't linear, and the attempt itself is never wasted.

The first few years were still really hard even after it finally took. But something had shifted. The crack of light got wider.

What Changed

Soon after getting sober, I started taking full control of my life in ways I never had before. I quit my job and started my own business. I went solo as an artist. I married the love of my life. I moved to a completely new city and bought a house. I signed with a music label. I clocked more hours than ever in a career I genuinely love. The list goes on.

And all of it — every single thing — comes down to that one final night before I quit. The night I was at my absolute lowest. The night I was my worst. The chapter I didn't know how to get past.

I think we try too often to rush past the hard things in life. But if I didn't have that hard night, I would've never made a change. The darkness wasn't a detour. It was the door.

Change is scary. Change is exciting. I'm just really glad I was able to make the change before things got undoable.

Where This Leads — drift, sway

So what does any of this have to do with music?

Everything, honestly.

To mark this anniversary, I'm going back to my roots as Six Missing — back to where it all began, when I was just starting out and fumbling my way through things. Me, my guitar, and some pedals. No armor, no production gloss. Just the thing itself.

drift, sway is a record about honoring your past, celebrating your courage, and looking toward the future. It's the most personally true thing I've made, and I think that's because I finally had twelve years of clarity to make it from.

If you've read this far and you're somewhere in the middle of your own hard chapter — whether that's sobriety or something else entirely — feel free to reach out. I'm happy to chat about any of it. For me, getting sober was the best decision I could've ever made. I don't say that lightly.

Here's to another twelve years.

— TJ (cheers-ing with a seltzer)

You Don't Have to Beat It — You Just Have to Outlast It

Reflections on ten years of Six Missing, survival reality TV, and why sway: breathing room exists

I want to talk about Alone. But first, let me back up — because that's actually how we got here.

SXSW just wrapped up in Austin, and while I didn't do much by way of events this year, I did get to see two old friends and one new one, which was absolutely lovely. Through chatting with one of my old pals — who had me on his podcast while he was in town (more on that soon) — we realized we've known each other for almost 30 years. How absurd is that? Three decades, and somehow it still just feels like us.

But here's the thread that ties this whole thing together: my other old friend is the one who turned us onto Alone.

The Show

If you haven't seen it, Alone is a survival reality show where contestants are dropped — completely solo — into the wilderness with minimal gear and told to last as long as they can. No camera crew. No producers. Just them, the elements, and whatever they can figure out. Season 11 is on Netflix, and my partner Hanna and I tore through it in about a week.

Reflecting on it together over the past couple of days, something started to crystallize for me.

Some contestants came in trying to dominate — to beat the game, outsmart it, conquer it. Others took a different approach entirely. They weren't trying to win against the wilderness; they were trying to exist with it. To build something sustainable. To make themselves at home in an environment that wasn't designed for them.

And in the end, the one who built the most sustainable relationship to their survival — not the strongest, not the loudest, not the most aggressive — was the one who won.

I feel the same way about my relationship to music and the music industry.

You Can't Beat It

I'm not trying to beat the music industry, because it simply can't be won. The goal posts never stop moving. Streaming payouts shift. Algorithms change. What worked last year doesn't work this year. If you orient yourself around winning that game, you will exhaust yourself chasing a finish line that doesn't exist.

But what you can do is co-exist with it. You can build sustainable workflows and habits and a body of work that allows you to quite literally outlast the other contestants.

There's an old adage: you don't always have to be the best, you just have to outlast everyone else. That's something I've been sitting with a lot lately, as I approach ten years as Six Missing this year.

Ten years. I genuinely can't believe it and also I can completely believe it, because I've never once felt like I was grinding against something. The work feeds me. It always has.

My Version of Alone

My approach to Six Missing mirrors the mindset of the best Alone contestants. Build a shelter, find food, sleep, stay alive, repeat.

For me: shelter is my body of work. Food is the inspiration and motivation. Sleep is still sleep (heh). And staying alive is continually releasing the highest quality work I can — not rushing, not forcing, but never stopping either.

I never grow tired of it. And I think that's where my real advantage lies. Another ten years? I'd do it without hesitation. I'm really only just getting started.

But here's where my version of the story diverges from the show, and it's the part that actually matters most to me.

A lot of those contestants tap out — not because they can't survive physically, but because they miss their people too much. The isolation becomes the thing that breaks them, not the cold or the hunger. And honestly? I get it completely.

Unlike them, I don't have to choose. I get to make this work with incredible artists, collaborators, and listeners who light me up just as much as the music itself does. Every collaboration teaches me something. Every conversation with someone who's actually heard the music changes the way I think about what I'm making.

And that includes you — reading this right now. You showing up here, following along, lending your ears and your time — that's what keeps me wanting to share. That's not a small thing. That might actually be the whole thing.

sway: breathing room

Which brings me to today.

I have a new single out — sway: breathing room — and its existence is pretty much a direct product of everything I just described. It's full circle in the best way: me, sitting with my guitar and my pedals, the way I used to make music when Six Missing was brand new. That intimacy, that simplicity. But sway: breathing room takes it a step further — printed to tape, slowed all the way down, given room to exist without rushing anywhere.

Mmm, tape.

It feels like a breath. Which, given everything, feels exactly right.

If you'd like to hear it, you can find it HERE. And if you haven't started Alone yet — you can thank me later, just as my friend did for us.

Your friend, TJ