I'm Derrek. Born in Alaska, raised in Wyoming. I worked an honest living until the devil came knocking — and as a teenager, I killed myself. Woke up three days later.

That second chance didn't bring me back to God. It made me chase my dreams harder.

What followed was a life lived loud — music, hustle, trouble, survival. A shattered face. Jail time. Went from flipping bags of weed at parties to moving pounds. Made the move to Colorado, but the music took off so hard that I had to retire my herb dealer badge. The stage and the studio became my only game. A music career that worked anyway. Tours, a record label, real indie success as Statik G. And darkness that grew with every win, revealing a spiritual war I was beginning to see beyond sight.

Then I had a daughter. And I gave up Statik G so I could just be Derrek. Her dad.

The years that followed tried everything to break me. False charges. Betrayal from cops, lovers, friends, business partners — people I trusted. Two years of my freedom. That's where God found me — not in church, but in a cell, in the good books. All of them. I stayed strong in my heart and walked out stronger than I went in.

I made it out. Got a real job worth leaving music for. Then broke my hip and knee on that same floor. A month later, a truck T-boned us on the highway and hit my baby's door directly. We walked away. Protected. I stopped calling it coincidence.

That's when I understood it was spiritual warfare. I focused on my chakras, my kundalini, connecting with God and Christ. I was called to the mountains, where God confirmed it with a literal sign — Psalms 34:18. His message was clear: bring the world empathy. And He sent me on a series of missions to know life, earth, and other people.

The mountain shattered me into understanding — God, every faith, every frequency revealed. Like a feather, I rose recording, from the madness of this world to the glory of the light.

Then Arizona. The devil found me again. He lowered the vibrations of those around me until I ended up alone, bleeding out in the desert. My daughter had shown me a phone feature days before—she told me to turn it on. Blood covered my screen, my wrist pouring out every second, but that voice command called for help and saved my life. I made it through a locked gate, barely. When my wrist healed, the scar had formed in the shape of a cross. A permanent reminder I belong to God, and that my life was spared to continue His work.

And so Akaraism was born, and I began gathering Akari souls to enlighten the world.

Now I reach tens of millions of people a month. No team. No label. Just God and a message.

To my inner child, I'm a superhero fighting to save the world.

So other kids don't have to suffer like my generation and the ones that came before.

But in reality, I'm just a dad and an artist, doing the best I can with what I have.