Flying Blind, But Still Here

Hey everyone,

Jeremy here. If you follow what I do, you see the highlight reel: the shows, the merch, the illusion of progress. But if I’m going to live by the "I’m Out Here" mantra, it has to be about the whole bloody journey. Not just the parts that fit neatly into a social media post.

So, here’s the unfiltered truth. I’m flying by the seat of my pants. The line between one day and the next gets blurry when you're working overnight, driving for hours, and then stepping onto a stage—all just to keep the lights on and a dream alive. It feels less like living and more like just reacting, hoping you don’t crash.

In the midst of that chaos, the personal goals I once held so high feel like distant stars, lost in the clouds of exhaustion. I’ve reached out to people I trusted, looking for a hand, some guidance—anything to keep those fires burning. And honestly? It often felt like I was speaking a different language. The silence, the subtle dismissals, the gaslighting… you start to believe your priorities must be the problem.

So, you adjust. You quiet those longings. You stop asking, because you don’t want to be a burden. It’s that familiar feeling of being the quiet kid on the playground, suddenly unsure of how to join in, afraid of disrupting the game.

And in those moments of intense pressure, what’s the common advice? "Man, just grab a beer." "A six-pack will help." It sounds simple. But we know that for anyone, that casual suggestion can be the small crack that crumbles the foundation of a man. For me, it's not a possibility; it's a death sentence. There is no "just one beer."

So you stand there, taking the hits, feeling the full weight of it all without a feedback loop or a person to lean on, knowing that the one escape hatch society so freely offers is a door you can never, ever open again. Progress is the only option. Moving forward is the only way.

And if I'm being brutally honest with myself, a lot of this grind, this running myself into the ground, is just to pay the bills on a house I hate. A place filled with past memories and trauma that I have to walk through every time I come home. I feel trapped here by the simple math of rent prices, working myself to the bone to maintain a place that offers no peace, feeling completely alone unless I have my son, which feels like 2% of the time. And that 2% is never, ever enough.

It’s led me to wonder if maybe this exhaustion is a shield. Maybe if I keep running, if I keep myself busy 24/7, there won't be a single quiet moment left for my brain to even think about that drink, or the memories, or the loneliness.

But then, I see people connect with the “I’m Out Here” message. I see you guys out there, sharing your own stories. And that connection fuels me. It makes me want to keep pushing, running on fumes, even when it feels impossible, because I want to be supportive of you.

So why share all this heavy shit?

Because if any of this resonates with you, first, I’m genuinely sorry that you know this feeling. It sucks that you have an understanding of this kind of pain. But second, I need you to know that you are not standing alone on that playground. We're out here together, flying blind, but still here.

This isn't a cry for help; it's a declaration. A declaration that it's okay to be a work in progress. It's okay to feel lost. The positive light might seem distant right now, but I have to believe that the act of looking for it—of pushing forward for something better for our kids, for our peace, for ourselves—is the whole point.

That's the journey. And I’m still on it. Thanks for being on it with me.

I love every one of you. And I’m out here.

Jeremy