Hearts on the Table

A Year of Wagers, Wreckage, and What Comes Next

Photo by Jamie Taylor on Unsplash

A year ago today, I found myself at the East Texas Treatment Facility in Henderson, Texas, expecting a quick stay but landing on a year-long sabbatical in a place that posed as a refuge for those seeking recovery and dodging prison time. The holidays there were surreal; the air felt thick with the forced cheer of staff and the quiet longing of residents. In a place like that, if you don’t find something to focus on—some small hobby or distraction—you risk letting the walls close in around you, trading boredom for madness or another vice. That’s how I ended up at a scuffed-up poker table, surrounded by men I barely knew but had learned to depend on. Places like that forge an unspoken bond—a temporary brotherhood bound by shared loss and hopeful mirages. The laughter after a bluff or a busted hand was genuine enough, but it also hid the loneliness we all felt. Each of us missed someone—family, friends, or just the life we used to know.

The holiday spirit felt like a ghost, a faint reminder of what we’d left behind. It was New Year’s Eve 2023, and all I could think about was, How the fuck did I end up here? I was holding a jack-high straight and went all in, fully convinced I had it in the bag. But my mind wasn’t in the game—it was back home, tangled in the wreckage of things I couldn’t fix—when Benny slid his chips across the table. “Call.” That son of a bitch never calls anything. Then I looked down at the board and realized my fatal mistake: hearts all over like it was fucking Valentine’s Day.

I didn’t see it. I didn’t see any of it. My mind wasn’t on the cards—it was miles away, tangled in the mess that led me to a place claiming to heal us but thriving on our brokenness. Benny laid down his little ol’ flush, and just like that, my chips disappeared. But the real loss wasn’t in the pot—it stung, sure, but I could stomach it. The real loss was realizing I’d bet everything without glancing at the board. I was so far removed that I never sized up my opponent, never even considered he might have the better hand. I didn’t play with my head. I played with desperation—and I lost my way. Maybe I deserved it. And maybe, in some twisted sense, that had always been my pattern—perhaps that’s what landed me at that table to begin with.

Where We Go From Here

So now you know a piece of my backstory—and maybe you’re wondering, “Where the hell does this ride lead?” Fair question. Remnants and Rye isn’t just a place for me to rant about the past; it’s a space to pick apart the real stuff—mental health, addiction, the crooked systems we get trapped in, and the edges that never quite smooth out. But there’s a strange poetry in the rubble, a stubborn seed of beauty that can break through even our darkest days. We’ll pop the hood on the world around us, tinker with the machinery, and figure out what keeps it running—or what seizes it up.

We’re not aiming for polished—we’re aiming for honesty. If you’re looking for self-help bullet points or a neat, three-step guide to happiness, this probably isn’t the place. But if you want unvarnished stories, uncomfortable truths, and the occasional laugh at life’s twisted sense of humor, buckle up. What comes next is a deep dive into the questions most folks don’t dare to ask out loud—about democracy, justice, our society’s unwritten rules, and how we keep it together when everything goes sideways. And maybe, right in the middle of that chaos, we’ll spot the kind of grace that only appears once the old ways die.

Stories That Matter

• Unfiltered Narratives: From war stories to prison nights, right down to that last frayed thread you’re clinging to—authentic experiences, scars in plain sight.

• Mental Health & Addiction: The uphill battles we wage in our minds, the moments we crumble, and what it takes to stand up again.

• Behind the Bars: A look into the prison-industrial complex, halfway houses, and “treatment” facilities that profit from brokenness instead of healing.

• On the Road: Taking to the highways and backroads to dig into the world’s overlooked corners—documenting the beats, brushstrokes, and hidden histories that reveal something deeper in every chord, canvas, and mile traveled.

Unbiased (As Possible) Exploration

I’m a journalism student, but I won’t pretend I’ve pinned down every last fact. What I do have is a commitment to truth—flashing a light into the corners we tend to ignore. Together, we’ll follow the breadcrumbs through political alleyways, social justice front lines, and the nooks other outlets don’t dare explore.

Tools for the Road

Life doesn’t come with a how-to manual, but I’ve picked up a few survival tactics along the way: stretching a dollar till it screams, silencing demons when they howl at 3 a.m., and standing firm when the weight of it all feels like too much. We’ll share those strategies here—no judgment, no sugarcoating.

Why Now?

I’ve crashed into more dead ends than I can count, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that waiting for the “perfect moment” is a shortcut to nowhere. Remnants and Rye is my open invitation to anyone willing to peel back the layers of this thing we call life. I’m done letting shame and regret hold the reins—this is about reclaiming my story. If it helps you reclaim yours, so much the better. Sometimes, the only way to find poetry in the ashes is to sift through them, piece by piece.

The Road Ahead

I’ll be packing a bag, filling up the tank, and taking a page from Kerouac—letting the road guide me from the steps of the Texas State Capitol, where we’ll talk cannabis legislation and prison reform, to late-night hangouts with friends, family, and strangers, digging into the struggles that keep them up at night. Along the way, I’ll keep documenting my path as a college student, a convicted felon, and a broken veteran—capturing every twist and turn that might lead to something bigger than all the noise. If you’ve ever felt alone in the mess, jump in the passenger seat. Because these stories—our stories—deserve more than silence, and the best way to find them is to chase the horizon, one dusty mile at a time.

Ready to Roll?

I’m not here to preach or offer easy fixes—I’m here for the stories, the grit, and the electric pulse that hits when you dare to step outside your comfort zone. It’s easy to drift into a fog where nothing quite hurts—or heals. If you happen to feel a pull to keep this journey moving, there are ways to lend a hand, but no pressure—just a wide-open road for those who see something worth helping along.

I’ll keep driving down these highways, pausing in sleepy diners and neon-splashed motels, looking for flickers of truth in the everyday hush. Because sooner or later, we all brush up against becoming comfortably numb—and maybe, by sharing our stories, we can wake up together.

So here’s to pressing on, asking hard questions, and listening closely, even when the world hums like a half-forgotten tune. Let’s see where the next mile takes us.

Until next time,
FB Rye
Founder, Remnants and Rye