One song left in the set. Then my heart stopped.

Sudden cardiac arrest. Every bit of electricity in my body shut off at once. I suffocated from the inside, mid-performance, doing the thing I'd done for 37 years. The body went offline. That's what death is, technically — a system shutting down.

I'd been performing since I was a teenager — funk, soul, gospel, rock, whatever the room needed. That night was supposed to be like any other. It wasn't.

Paramedics arrived six and a half minutes after the call went out. Six and a half minutes is a long time to be gone. They worked on me hard enough to collapse my lungs getting a heartbeat back. A heartbeat returned. I didn't — not right away.

What followed wasn't a clean recovery story. A heart attack. A coma. Triple bypass surgery. Almost two years of rebuilding a body and a mind that didn't come back the way they left. The pain didn't have an end date. At some point you stop waiting for the day it's "over" and face something harder: the life you had isn't coming back. That version of you is gone.

That's the moment that matters most — not the cardiac arrest, not the surgery. The moment after, when you're still here and life is still happening, and you have to choose what you're going to focus on.

I wrote this song to myself. A reminder that whatever life throws at me, I carry the power of what made me — and I can rise above it. But only if I'm willing to meditate on this shit from the root of it to the crown. Mind the gut, mind the foundation, mind the whole system — because that's where the real work happens, not just at the surface.

Only in Source I trust.

There's a word in that title I won't apologize for, and that word is "shit." In 1066, when the Normans stole the English throne, they crowned French the language of power and branded native English "vulgar" — a word that simply meant belonging to the common people. From that point on, language became a tool of control: deciding who gets to speak plainly, and who gets shamed for it.

Curse words inherited that same control. They were never really about filth — they were built to police how regular people talk about their own lives. I take this word "shit" back to something closer to its root: separating from the body what no longer serves it. That's not vulgar. That's healing.

“Remember that… when life gets hard, the journey gets long, it won't always last, so stay in the game baby. Meditate on this shit.”

I came back from somewhere most people don't come back from. Three years shy of forty when it happened — three-plus years deeper into it now, still standing, still in the game. If you're in your own long season right now — your own six and a half minutes that's stretched into years — this record was built for exactly that moment.

I'm still here. Still in the game. Stay in yours.