When someone asked whether I ever got off track during my prison term—especially in those early days—the answer came easily: No. Not because I had some special power or unwavering confidence. Quite the opposite. I hated being in prison. But I realized early on that hating it wasn’t enough. I had to build a plan.
That insight didn’t come instantly. I was arrested before I was even convicted. They put me in solitary confinement—a small, concrete box where I could stretch out my arms and touch both walls. No phone calls. No other people. Just silence, steel, and the sound of my own thoughts. I had no idea what prison was supposed to be like. I hadn’t yet gone to trial. No sentence. No road map.
But I had time. Time to think. Time to reckon with the life I had lived—the 18 months of fast money and cocaine trafficking that led to this. And time, eventually, to start reading. At first, I didn’t even know books could be sent in. But once I got my hands on them, something changed.
One day, I read a story—maybe it was Socrates or Frederick Douglass. I like to think it was Socrates and Crito. But the point is: I read something that made me sit up, literally. It was a moment of clarity. I knew I couldn’t control what sentence my judge imposed. I couldn’t predict whether I’d get 10 years, 30 years, or life.
Yet like anyone else, I could control how I responded to that time.
And with that, I made a decision:
- I would serve time with dignity and discipline—not just for myself, but for the people I hurt, for my family, and for the person I wanted to become.
From that day forward, I pursued a simple, three-part strategy:
- Educate myself.
I wasn’t a good student in high school. I’d never been serious about learning. But from prison, I earned degrees. I studied with urgency because I knew education would be a bridge to something better. - Contribute to society.
I didn’t want to serve time passively. I wanted to create value, even from behind bars. Whether it was writing, teaching, or mentoring others, I committed to building a life of service—even if the world couldn’t yet see it. - Build a support network.
I reached out. I wrote letters to journalists and mentors. I found people who believed in change and showed them that I was committed. Not interested. Committed. There’s a difference.
In fact, one of those early letters was to a reporter named Stewart Espinoza. He’d covered my case, and I told him: I’ve made a lot of bad decisions, but I’m going to make better ones now. He came to visit, wrote a story, and that article was in the judge’s hands before I was sentenced.
That was the moment I drew a line in the sand, declaring that I wouldn’t live as a criminal any more. I wanted to work toward becoming a good person.
If you’re facing time—whether it’s two years, ten years, or more—take the opportunity to rebuild. Write your story, or the system will write it for you.
You don’t have to wait for remorse to show up the day you’re arrested. It might take weeks, months, even longer. But when it comes, meet it with action. Don’t just say you’re going to change. Prove it—with a plan, and with follow-through. At Prison Professors, we teach the same strategy I learned about working to become the CEO of your life:
- Define success.
- Create a plan.
- Commit to that plan every day, regardless of the noise around you.
As I wrote in yesterday’s blog, the change will happen gradually. And then suddenly.
