Hey y’all, Zane here—still in and out of the woods, living life on my own terms. But just because I’m chasing sunsets doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten where I came from.
I’m beyond grateful to my family and friends who’ve helped bring ZANG-A-TANG to life—a clothing line as untamed and bold as the life I love. To give back and keep the good energy flowing, 10% of every sale goes straight to homeless societies. Because freedom isn’t just about roaming; it’s about lifting others up too.
Check out the vibes at ZANGATANG.com—wear the wild, share the love. And if you’ve got ideas or just wanna chat, slide into my inbox: [your email here].
For months, the wilderness was my home, my only companion. I lived with nothing but the sound of the wind through the trees and the crunch of my boots on the frozen ground. I had no walls, no roof, and no one to lean on but myself. Every day was a test—finding food, staying warm, and simply surviving. The nights were the hardest, the cold creeping into my bones and the silence pressing heavy on my mind. Out there, it was just me against the world, and for a while, I convinced myself that was all I needed.
But it wasn’t enough.
The day I decided to leave the wilderness was one of the hardest of my life. It felt like I was admitting defeat, like I was giving up on something I had fought so hard to endure. But I knew deep down that I wasn’t just surviving anymore—I was stagnating. I needed something more. So I made my way to my sister’s home, not knowing what to expect or if I even deserved a warm place to stay.
When I arrived, she opened the door with a smile and pulled me inside. Her home was everything the wilderness wasn’t—warm, loud, and full of life. The laughter of her children filled the air, and the smell of dinner cooking made my stomach growl. I hadn’t felt this kind of comfort in years. At first, I wasn’t sure how to fit in. I had spent so long alone, with no one to answer to, that I wasn’t sure how to be around people again. But my sister and her kids didn’t give me much of a choice. They welcomed me into their routine, and before I knew it, I was part of their world.
Every morning now, I walk the kids to school. It’s become one of the best parts of my day. The chill in the air reminds me of the wilderness, but instead of the emptiness, I have their voices filling the silence. They chatter about their friends, their homework, and their dreams, their small hands tugging at mine as we make our way down the path to the school. I never thought I’d enjoy something as simple as walking children to school, but it’s these small moments that remind me why I left the wilderness—to be part of something bigger than myself.
When I walk back home, the quiet feels different. It’s no longer the oppressive silence of isolation. It’s a moment to think, to reflect on how far I’ve come. I’ve started helping more around the house—cooking meals, fixing things, and just being present. I never thought I’d find joy in standing over a stove, but there’s something satisfying about watching everyone sit down to eat and knowing I had a hand in creating that moment.
But no matter how warm this home is, a part of me is still cold. I left my children behind, not because I wanted to but because I had no other choice. Their mother’s decisions made it impossible for me to stay, and walking away from them felt like tearing my heart out. I think about them every day. I wonder if they miss me, if they’re okay, if they understand why I had to go. I wonder if they know how much I love them.
I dream of the day when I can bring them into my life again, when I can walk them to school the way I do my sister’s kids, hear their laughter, and hold them close. That dream keeps me going, even when the weight of it feels too much to bear. I know I’m not there yet, but I’m working toward it. Every step I take—every meal I cook, every walk to school, every moment of connection—is a step closer to being the man they need me to be.
The wilderness taught me resilience, but here I’m learning something new—hope. I’m learning that it’s okay to rely on others, to be part of a family, and to find joy in the small things. I’m not just surviving anymore; I’m living. And while my journey is far from over, I finally feel like I’m on the right path.
One day, I’ll have my children back. One day, I’ll be able to give them the life they deserve. Until then, I’ll keep walking—one step at a time—knowing that every step is bringing me closer to the life I’ve always dreamed of.
Life hasn’t been easy, and I’ve got the scars to prove it—both the ones you can see and the ones you can’t. I’ve been through a lot: jail, addiction, broken dreams. But it’s not all about the bad times. There’s more to my story, and I’m ready to share it with you.
In these upcoming blogs, I’m going to take you through my life—everything from the highs to the lows. You’ll get a glimpse of what it’s like to live in the woods, to raise two kids when you’re struggling yourself, and what it means to keep pushing forward when it feels like you’ve got nothing left. I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve got my story, and that’s what I’m here to share.
Stick around, read along, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll figure some things out together.
I wake up every morning with a fog hanging over me, not just from the alcohol still burning in my veins, but from the weight that never seems to lift. The bottle and the drugs—my faithful companions—they quiet the noise, muffle the cold that’s always pressing in on me. The cold isn’t just in the air; it’s in my bones, in the marrow of my memories, and I reach for anything that will dull it.
The truth is, the bottle doesn’t judge. The pills, they don’t ask me why I didn’t show up for my kids, why I wasn’t there when they needed me. They just silence the guilt, the shame, that gnawing feeling deep inside. It’s like a whirlwind I can’t step out of, spinning faster every time I try to find my footing. Some days, I wonder if I even want to get out. Maybe it’s safer here, where the drugs cushion the fall, where the alcohol slows the spin just enough for me to breathe.
But I know what they’re doing to me. I can feel it in the moments when the haze clears just a little too much, and I catch a glimpse of who I’ve become. The man who didn’t show up, who couldn’t face his own life, let alone theirs. The man who let the whirlwind take him because it was easier than fighting against it.
There are nights when I think about the things I’m missing. The birthdays, the scraped knees, the laughter I can barely remember. The drugs—they make it all feel distant, like it’s happening to someone else. That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? They make everything distant. The pain, the cold, the guilt. But they also make the good things distant too—the love I have for my children, buried under layers of numbness I can’t peel back anymore.
I tell myself I’ll get out of this, that one day I’ll put the bottle down, stop popping the pills. But the truth is, I don’t know how. Every time I try, the memories come rushing back. The failures, the missed moments, the look on their faces when they realized I wasn’t coming home. It’s easier to stay numb, to let the whirlwind keep spinning, because at least in the chaos, I don’t have to face the quiet truth. I don’t have to admit that I’ve been running for so long, I’ve forgotten what I’m even running from.
So I keep reaching for the bottle, keep chasing the high, hoping it’ll push the cold just a little further away. And maybe tomorrow, I’ll try again. Maybe I won’t. But for now, I’m stuck in this storm, and the only thing that quiets it is the very thing pulling me deeper into it.
