Prison to Purpose: Owning My Story Set Me Free

Ten years ago today I reported to federal prison.

It was day 1 of 730.

Then followed by 3 years of supervised release and an order of restitution.

I would do my time in a prison camp, but I was processed in a medium-security prison, the ones we see on TV, the ones we fear.

Prisons impose themselves on the landscape, carrying weight and foreboding presence.

As I made my way through the facility, I paused to look where I was, and it dawned on me with the crystal clear clarity of the Caribean Sea,

“I’m on the wrong side of the fence.”

The CO escorted me to a single prison cell, and without saying a word, I understood what was expected of me. I didn’t want to, but I lost my voice because of the choices I’d made.

I picked one foot up, followed by the other, and crossed the threshold into the cell, the door slamming behind me with a severe finality.

I watched helplessly as my freedom died.

I, and I alone, was responsible.

Shame has many levels, and in this moment of extreme responsibility, I discovered a new one.

It’s been ten years, but when called upon, the memory has 20/20 vision.