It’s been almost two months since I arrived, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned fast, it’s this: if you don’t take charge of your own development in here, no one else will.
I came in hoping there would be structured programming—business classes, vocational training, maybe even workshops on reentry planning or technology. I figured in a federal facility, there would be at least a few programs to help people build skills and prepare for life after release. What I’ve found instead is dead time.
Plenty of people here want to learn. You see it in the way they talk about wanting change, wanting to do better. But the system isn’t designed to give them the tools. Classroom space is limited. Staff are overworked. Some programs are “temporarily suspended” and others have waiting lists that go on for months. I asked a CO about a business class and he just laughed and said, “Good luck, maybe next year.”
So I’ve fallen back on what I’ve always done: self-directed learning.
Every morning, I wake up before count and I carve out time to read. I brought a copy of Shoe Dog by Phil Knight. It’s a powerful reminder that every successful venture—whether it’s Nike or a fertilizer company run out of a Texas ranch—starts with a simple decision to keep going, especially when things get hard.
After reading, I write. I’ve been drafting lesson plans for Prison Professors, drawing from my own experiences of building and selling a multimillion-dollar business. I focus on what I wish someone had taught me earlier—how to analyze markets, how to manage inventory, how to think long-term instead of chasing quick wins. I’m working on turning those lessons into something tangible that can help others in here who never had a shot to learn that kind of thinking.
But here’s what gets under my skin: this work isn’t recognized.
If I were taking a class run by the prison, I’d earn First Step Act credits. But because I’m designing my own curriculum, helping others, and writing materials to distribute nationally, it doesn’t count. Not officially. Not on paper.
The irony is bitter—the system says it wants us to rehabilitate, but it only rewards us for playing by its limited menu of options. What about those of us who are proactive? What about those of us who create? Who teach? Who lead?
I’m not doing this for a pat on the back. I know who I am. I know the mistakes I’ve made, and I know what I’m trying to build now. I’m doing this because I still believe in redemption. But I can’t ignore how many guys I’ve seen sitting around with nothing to do—not because they’re lazy, but because there’s nothing offered to them. How are we supposed to reduce recidivism if we don’t even provide the basics of education and opportunity?
Today, I drafted a new lesson on self-assessment—on how to perform a personal SWOT analysis. Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, Threats. I walked DeShawn and a couple of others through it in the yard this afternoon. They asked questions. They wrote their answers on the backs of old commissary receipts. It wasn’t much, but it was something. We created a classroom under an open sky.
I’m going to keep going. I have time, and I have purpose. But this place could be doing so much more if it chose to. It’s not a lack of people—it’s a lack of will.
Still, I’ll keep showing up with a book, a pen, and a plan.
