Knox Avery, born February 14, 1999, and raised in Pine Ridge—a struggling trailer-park community outside Dalton, Georgia—didn’t grow up with a safety net. He grew up surviving.
Raised in rural North Georgia, Knox spent much of his childhood moving between trailer parks, shelters, and temporary housing as his mother battled addiction and the criminal justice system. With an older brother often acting as his protector, Knox learned early how to move quietly, stay alert, and adapt fast. Stability was rare. Childhood wasn’t measured in school years, but in court dates, social workers, and nights spent wondering where he would sleep next.
By his teens, Knox had already experienced foster care and juvenile facilities, carrying more trauma than most people face in a lifetime. Addiction found him young—first as an escape, then as a trap. What began as numbness turned into a cycle of arrests, poor decisions, and close calls that nearly ended his life.
One of those moments came when Knox was robbed and shot by a group of men—an incident that should have killed him. He survived, but barely. Not long after, he found himself incarcerated again, sitting alone with nothing but his thoughts.
That’s where something changed.
Knox says it wasn’t a voice he heard with his ears, but something deeper—something steady. Something he now calls his Higher Power.
“Something inside me said I was going to make it. That I was built for this. That God wouldn’t bring me this far just to let me die like that.”
Music had always been Knox’s refuge. As a child, singing was the only way he could leave his surroundings without physically leaving. When he sings, he describes it as stepping into another universe—one where pain doesn’t get the final word.
