About

My name is Ryan Roberts. If you’ve spent any time reading here, or if you just know me, you know I’m not much for small talk or surface-level observations. I’ve spent forty-plus years trying to find the pattern in the noise; mostly, it just looks like a beautiful, chaotic storm to me.

In 2004, a version of me died when I lost my wife, Stacy. For over a decade, I was a passive observer in my own life—a particle tangled with a past that wouldn’t let go. I’ve been broken, I’ve been in handcuffs, and I’ve sat in the sub-zero silence of a house with no heat, waiting for the end.

But the end didn’t come.

I started this page when I divorced my second wife in 2016. I was suddenly a dad to a four- and six-year-old, a divorcee, and a widower. I was lost; this was my therapy.

Where I Am Now

Today, I live in Northern Illinois. I’m a husband to a woman who gives me the grace to be human, and a father to four kids who range from “almost grown” to “just getting started.” I’m a man who prefers a slow morning with a cup of coffee and a silent porch, yet I’m constantly surrounded by the beautiful, loud reality of a house filled with six people. I’m a Network Engineer by trade, an electrician, woodworker, and guitar tinkerer by hobby, and an armchair philosopher by nature.

Why “The Fangry Texan”?

There’s a specific kind of hunger—a “fangry” discontentment—that comes from knowing how short the ride is.

I’m not a Christian, but I’m fond of the Word. I don’t believe in luck, but I believe in entanglement. I don’t have the big answers; I’m not even positive about the small answers. I’m just a guy who stopped hiding behind the mask of his losses and decided to start walking toward the light, even when it feels like I’m walking through quicksand.

When I was a kid, every report card or progress report I ever received said essentially the same thing: “Ryan is smart and could probably teach this class, but since he doesn’t, he talks too much and disrupts the class as a result.” That followed me from kindergarten until I dropped out. I don’t know when I stopped talking, but I know why. I’ve been quiet for a long time now, but I never stopped having things to say.

I’ve found myself talking to people a lot lately. Strangers, mainly—”single-serving friends,” to quote Chuck Palahniuk. To my surprise, they have talked back, and it’s been a pleasure.

I write because I have an insatiable desire to create and a deep-seated need to be honest. Even when I’m silent, I still have a deep-seated need to connect. If you’re looking for “thoughts and prayers” or easy platitudes, you’re in the wrong place. But if you’ve ever stared into the void and your future reached back to grab you by the hand, or if you’re just trying to figure out how to move—welcome.

Now what?

We just keep moving.