September 2024, MCC Chicago Prison
What Man’s Search for Meaning Gave Me
(finding light in the middle of a dark stretch)
I read Man’s Search for Meaning during one of the hardest stretches of my life. I was in the federal prison MCC Chicago, in middle of legal trouble, uncertainty, isolation—and just trying to make sense of everything. I didn’t expect this little book, written by a man who survived the Holocaust, to speak so directly into what I was going through. But it did.
Frankl was a psychiatrist and a prisoner. He lived through Auschwitz, Dachau, and lost nearly everything—his wife, his parents, his freedom. But somehow, through all that horror, he came out with this unshakable belief: that life has meaning, even in suffering. Especially in suffering.
The first half of the book is Frankl’s story—what it was like day to day in the camps, how people broke or held on, how the ones who survived weren’t necessarily the strongest physically, but the ones who still had a reason to live. A “why.”
The second half is where he breaks down what he learned: that we can’t always control what happens to us, but we can choose how we respond. That meaning isn’t something we find by chasing happiness or comfort—but by facing suffering with purpose, and by choosing to love, to serve, to hope.
I needed to hear that.
Because I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people. I’ve gone through hell in my own way. Sitting in jail or sitting with shame—either way, it’s easy to lose your “why.” But this book helped me remember that the pain doesn’t have to be wasted. That I can still choose to live with purpose. That God can still write meaning into a story I thought I’d ruined.
One of Frankl’s lines stuck with me:
“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”
That’s where I’ve been. Forced to sit still. Forced to face the mess I’ve made. But also given the chance to be changed. To let go of control. To look for something deeper than just getting through it.
For me, that “something deeper” has been grace. I don’t deserve it, but I’ve been receiving it. Through Christ. Through second chances. Through people who still believe in me. Through quiet moments where God reminds me He’s not done with me yet.
Frankl talks about how some men in the camps would comfort others, give away their last piece of bread, even while starving. And it hit me—if they could love in those conditions, maybe I can love in mine. Maybe I can still be a man who brings light into dark places. Even if it’s just one small act at a time. If I go back to prison, that is exactly what I intend to do. But even now, and for the rest of my life, it’s about helping others through love.
Man’s Search for Meaning didn’t fix me. It didn’t make everything better. But it gave me something solid to hold onto: That no matter where I am or what I’ve done, I can choose to live with meaning. That suffering doesn’t get the last word. And that hope—real hope—comes from something deeper than comfort. It comes from knowing I’m not alone. That God is still with me. And that there’s still a story being written.
I’m surviving because of that hope. I’m growing because of that grace. And I’m learning, slowly, to believe that even this chapter has meaning.
