Some days I find myself reflecting on the phrase my father repeated so often it etched itself into my bones: “Wherever you are, make yourself useful.” As a kid, I thought it meant chores. As a young man, I thought it meant building a business. As a chiropractor, I thought it meant treating as many patients as I could. I never realized how deeply those words would challenge me after everything fell apart.
Now, they don’t feel like a command. They feel like a question. Am I useful—not in a way that earns praise or income, but in a way that steadies someone else’s footing, even just for a minute?
There’s no shortage of opportunities here. I cook. I sweep. I pray. I give quiet tennis lessons in the yard when the weather cooperates. I offer encouragement to a man trying to write a letter to his daughter. I read court documents alongside someone trying to understand his own appeal. None of it makes the news. None of it erases the harm I caused. But it matters.
Some afternoons, I stay behind after lunch to clean the sinks. It’s not assigned. No one expects it. But the mess is there, and I’ve stopped waiting for someone else to handle it. I used to think I was too busy for small tasks—too important, maybe, if I’m being honest. Now, I find more clarity on my knees with a rag in my hand than I ever did behind a desk.
I think of my father flying to Grand Isle, year after year, on his only day off. He never mentioned it like it was noble. He just packed his bag, took the plane, and showed up. No photos. No plaques. He saw patients, held hands, and came home tired. I didn’t understand the depth of that until I found myself here, doing the smallest things I once overlooked. I used to look for ways to grow my business. He looked for places to be needed. That difference feels sharper now than ever.
There’s no audience here. No recognition. That’s the point. When no one’s watching, what you reach for still matters.
I broke the law. I harmed a program that millions of Americans depend on. I certified Medicare claims tied to illegal referrals. I paid marketers for access to prescriptions. I took part in something that damaged the very system my father dedicated his life to. That truth does not go away—and I don’t want it to.
There’s a man in my unit who lost both parents while inside. He doesn’t talk much, but last week, he sat down next to me and just started speaking—about regrets, mostly. I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t offer advice. I just listened.
I’ve come to believe that usefulness isn’t always about action. Sometimes it means making space for someone else’s sorrow without trying to fix it. Just bearing witness. Just staying present. Silence, when it’s steady and respectful, can be its own kind of service. I never understood that before.
The mistake would be thinking the only way forward is to talk about redemption. That word doesn’t belong to me. What I can do is carry the weight honestly, and without distraction. Not to earn sympathy. Not to escape consequence. But to ensure that none of this pain, none of this loss, is wasted.
Every morning, I show up in the kitchen before sunrise. I tie the apron. I peel potatoes. I stir the rice. I fold towels when the cooking is done. I still teach a few tennis basics in the yard when the weather cooperates—mostly footwork and follow-through.
It’s not about the task. It’s about the habit. About showing up, again and again, not because I think it will change my record, but because it might honor what I broke. My father’s words still come to me: Wherever you are, make yourself useful. So I do.
There are men here who will never leave. Others are barely clinging to hope. I don’t pretend I have it worse than they do. I don’t pretend I deserve better. But I do know this: every day I show up for them, I get a little closer to being someone my sons can be proud of—even from behind a wall.
Standing in the background isn’t penance. It’s purpose. My name doesn’t need to be called. My role doesn’t need a title.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll be in the kitchen again. Someone will need a hand. That’s still enough.
