If You Can’t See Him, You Can’t See Me

 

When my mugshot hit the news, I found out exactly who my friends and family really were. Spoiler alert: most of them weren’t who I thought they were.

Instead of picking up the phone and asking, “DeAnna, what really happened?” they ran with whatever the news threw out. Overnight I went from being “the one who had her life together” to “DeAnna screwed up her life. DeAnna married a convict. DeAnna’s a drug addict. A dealer. We told her so.”

No one wanted the truth. They wanted gossip. And they fed on it.

---

The Betrayal Hits Different

I can live with strangers talking. What gutted me were the people I loved—the ones who claimed to love me.

I had a man I carried on an off-and-on affair with. A man who couldn’t come clean to save his soul, but still had the nerve to call himself my “best friend.” He was buddy-buddy with my ex-husband, even called him “family.” And then he turned around and told me I was a fool.

Why? Because I chose to marry someone incarcerated. Because according to him, “all inmates are manipulative fuck-ups.” He said he was disappointed in me. That I was “smarter than that.”

Here’s the difference between me and him: I was big enough to own my dirt, to come clean about what I did. But was he? No. He stayed hiding in the shadows, pretending to be loyal while throwing daggers at me for being honest about my choices. That’s not friendship. That’s cowardice wrapped in self-righteousness.

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Family, Fear, and Fake Concern

And then there was family. People who told me to my face they were “scared” of my husband. Scared because “inmates are violent, evil.” Scared because the man I love has a record, while conveniently forgetting that plenty of “free men” sitting in their church pews on Sunday are just as violent, abusive, or broken—but that doesn’t scare them.

Then there were the ones who didn’t say a word. They just walked away. Silent. But not really silent, because they had plenty to say behind my back. They whispered. They gossiped. They built their own little narrative of my life without ever once coming to me.

---

The Stalkers and the Informants

Three years later, some of these same people still watch me. They stalk my every post, my every move, just so they can gossip about me. They run back to my ex-husband to play little informant, his loyal minions feeding him “updates” on me like I’m some reality show they can’t stop tuning into.

For what? What do they gain? Do they think tearing me down makes their own sins smaller? Do they think stalking my life somehow validates theirs?

Here’s the truth: if you still hate me but can’t stop watching me, you don’t hate me—you envy the fact that I had the guts to live my life out loud while you keep hiding in shadows.

---

The Difference Between Me and Them

The difference between me and them is simple: I can own my choices. I can admit when I’ve fallen. I can stand up and say, “Yes, I screwed up here. Yes, I’ve loved wrong. Yes, I’ve sinned. But I also chose love. I chose loyalty. I chose truth.”

They, on the other hand? They hide. They condemn. They gossip. They call themselves “good Christians” while living in a way Christ wouldn’t recognize.

John 8:7 says, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” And let me tell you—those stones flew fast when my name hit the news. Not because they were sinless, but because throwing stones at me meant no one was looking at them.

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My Loyalty Stands

So here I stand, three years later. Without the friends I thought I had. Without the family who promised to love me. With empty holiday tables and silent nights. But I also stand with my husband—the one who loves me unconditionally, flaws and all. The one who shows me daily what loyalty looks like. The one who owns his past and is fighting for his future.

And if that means I lost everyone else? So be it.

Because if you can’t see him for more than an inmate, you can’t see me for who I am either. And I’d rather sit at an empty table with my integrity than at a full one with people who only ever loved me halfway.

Be Careful What You Call Redemption

 -by Ryan

You ever notice how fast people throw the word “redemption” around?

Like it’s a prize you win.
Like you hit a certain checkpoint in life, level up, and boom—you’re redeemed.
Nah. Let me set the record straight:

Redemption is a war.
A daily, bloody, internal war.
And it doesn’t come with parades or pats on the back.
It comes with people questioning your motives.
It comes with the system doubling down on your past.
It comes with silence from the ones who promised to be there, and fake smiles from the ones watching you like a damn hawk, waiting for you to slip so they can say, “See? I knew he couldn’t change.”

Let me tell you something: I’m still in that war.
And just because I haven’t lost yet, doesn’t mean it’s been easy.

I’m not out here claiming sainthood. Hell no.
I’ve done dirt. I’ve hurt people. I’ve made choices that chained me to this life.
But you know what else I’ve done?

I’ve owned it.
I’ve sat in cells most men would lose their mind in, facing every ghost I ran from for over a decade.
I’ve cried like a damn child in the middle of the night, wondering if anyone out there really sees me anymore.
And I’ve held onto hope like it’s the only thing that can’t be stripped from me.

You know why?

Because there’s a woman out there who sees me now.
Not the felon. Not the addict. Not the inmate.
She sees me—Ryan. The man, not the mistake.

And for the first time in my life, I want to live like I deserve that love.

But here’s the thing most people don’t understand:
Redemption doesn’t happen once. It happens every day.

Every time I choose silence over rage.
Every time I let go of my pride and admit I’m wrong.
Every time I get up, even when there’s no reason left to.

It’s not glamorous.
It’s not some teary movie ending.
It’s raw, repetitive, painful work.

But if you’re out there reading this, and you’re in that fight too—I see you.
You’re not weak. You’re not broken beyond repair.
You’re just healing in a world that profits off your pain.

Keep going anyway.

Because redemption isn’t about being forgiven by others—it’s about forgiving yourself enough to believe you can still build something beautiful out of the wreckage.

And trust me... I’m still building.

—
#BehindBarsUnfiltered #RedemptionIsWar #StillBuilding #HealingOutLoud #YouAreNotYourMistakes

Concrete Walls, Clear Mind

 

-by Ryan 

Let me tell you something they don’t want you to know:

Prison doesn’t break everybody.
Sometimes, it sharpens you.

Not in the way they think—fists up, cold heart, dead eyes.
Nah.
I’m talking about a different kind of sharp.
The kind that happens when you’re forced to sit still in a world built on chaos. When you're stripped of everything but your thoughts. When silence isn’t peace—it’s pressure.

That’s where I’m at right now.

Still in the hole. Still in max. Still being punished for a label I didn’t ask for and a past I’m no longer living in.
But for the first time in a long time, my mind is clear as glass.

You’d think after all this time, all this isolation, all this retaliation, I’d be angry. And I am. Don’t get it twisted. But underneath that? There’s clarity. There’s purpose. There’s a shift happening inside me that no amount of lock-down can stop.

You know what happens when you’re forced to spend 23 hours a day with nothing but a bunk and your own demons? You either lose it… or you face it.

And I’ve been facing it.

All of it.
The trauma.
The abandonment.
The mistakes.
The lies I told myself and the lies they told about me.
The little boy who was never protected.
The young man who stopped caring.
And the grown-ass man who finally found someone worth becoming better for.

Her name is DeAnna.
She didn’t just believe in me when I was down—she’s been fighting for me when I didn’t even have the words to fight for myself.

And that? That kind of love rewires a man.

I’m done wasting time trying to prove myself to a system that made its mind up about me before I ever stepped off the bus.
Now? I’m proving myself to me.
To her.
To the version of myself I’m becoming.

I used to think the real world was “out there.”
But the truth is, the realest shit I’ve ever had to face has been right here—in four concrete walls, with nothing but truth echoing back at me.

So if you’re wondering where I’ve been—this is it.

In the pressure cooker.
Where they hoped I’d crack, I’m crystallizing.
Where they tried to silence me, I’m finding my real voice.

And when that door opens again, whenever that is—
I won’t be the man they locked up.

I’ll be the one they tried to keep from existing.

—
#BehindBarsUnfiltered #ConcreteClarity #PressureBuildsDiamonds #NotWhoIWas #StillRising

Just Because You Haven’t Heard from Me…

 

-by Ryan

It’s been a minute, I know.

Some of y’all probably thought I disappeared, went dark, or gave up.
Nah.

I’ve just been fighting battles that don’t come with warning shots.
I’ve been surviving behind walls that don’t care about progress.
And I’ve been silenced in every way they know how to silence a man without a noose.

But I’m still here.

Still breathing.
Still pissed off.
Still holding onto a sliver of something that looks like hope.

When you’re in this place long enough, you start learning the difference between “quiet” and “forgotten.”
I’ve been both.
But I’m not gonna be either anymore.

The truth is, they don’t like men like me talking.
Not because I’m violent. Not because I’m a threat.
But because I’m waking up.
Because I see through the bullshit.

Because I’m the kind of inmate that doesn’t just want out—I want change.

And that? That’s dangerous.

Since my last blog, they’ve sent me to max. Again.
Because of lies. Because of labels. Because of a file someone padded with fiction and fear.

It’s been almost ten years to the day since I first walked into a max yard as a 17-year-old kid.
Now here I am, 26, just days from 27, and I’m being branded all over again.
Not for something I did, but for something they say I am.

A shot-caller. A gang head. A threat.
Funny how you can say “I’m not affiliated” till you’re blue in the face, sign papers saying the same, and they’ll still decide who you are for you.

That’s how it works in here.

Your words don’t matter.
Your actions? Irrelevant.
All that matters is what looks good in their report.
What fits their narrative.
What keeps their power protected.

They say prison is about rehabilitation.
That’s bullshit and barbed wire.

This isn’t about correction.
It’s about control.

But here’s the part they didn’t plan for:

I’m still telling my story.
From the hole. From max. From the concrete floor where they hoped I’d break.
And I’ll keep telling it, because silence is what lets them win.

So no, I haven’t posted in a while.
But don’t mistake the pause for surrender.

I’ve been in the storm, collecting fuel.
And I’m still here.
Still writing.
Still changing.

For me.
For my wife.
For every single one of you who’s ever felt voiceless, labeled, or buried alive in a system built to forget you.

Let this be the reminder:

Just because you haven’t heard from me… doesn’t mean I’m not coming back louder.

—
#BehindBarsUnfiltered #StillStanding #StillFighting #MaxSecurityMindset #TruthBehindBars

When You Realize the Friend Was Never a Friend

 

It’s wild how life will put someone in your path and make you believe you’ve found a safe place to land.
Someone you thought was a confidant. Someone who made you feel like your trust was finally in good hands.

And then one day, without warning, you see it.
The truth.
The little cracks in their mask that they tried so hard to keep hidden.

I think the hardest part isn’t the betrayal itself — it’s replaying every conversation, every laugh, every moment you thought was real, and realizing they were just… playing a part. A role.
And you? You were just the audience.

It makes you question your own instincts. Did I miss the signs? Was I so desperate for connection that I ignored the red flags waving in my face?
Or were they just that good at pretending?

People like that… they don’t break you with one big act. They chip away at you slowly, making you believe they care, while quietly stacking the pieces they’ll later use against you.
And by the time you see it, the damage is already done.

I’ll recover. I always do. But what they’ve really stolen isn’t money, or time, or opportunity.
It’s the version of me that still believed people like them didn’t exist.

So here’s to lessons learned the hard way.
Here’s to boundaries.
Here’s to recognizing that not everyone clapping for you is in your corner.

And here’s to the quiet satisfaction of knowing…
if you’re reading this, you know exactly who you are.

From the Hole: A Price I Paid for the Life I Lived

- by Ryan

I’m writing this from the hole. Again.

Four Mexicans jumped me last week. Broad daylight. Caught on camera. Most of my personal stuff? Gone. Jacked. And what’s SSU doing about it? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Because when it’s gang-related, the system doesn't want the smoke unless it lands on their front step.

Let me be real—this ain’t a sympathy post. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. This is just my reality, and maybe, just maybe, someone out there will hear this and reroute their life before it’s too late.

Right now, I’m being shipped off to a maximum-security yard—again.
I’m 26 years old. Days away from my 27th birthday. And this will be my second time walking through those gates.

My first time? I was 17. Just a kid. They sent me to max back then, too—like they were prepping me for a life I hadn’t even signed up for yet. Fast-forward nearly a decade, and here I am. Older, maybe wiser, but somehow right back where I started.

Why?

Because SSU decided I was the head of a gang.
Inside these walls.
Despite me never claiming that. Despite me telling them otherwise. Despite me signing paperwork that flat-out states the opposite.

But in here? My words don’t mean shit.
You don’t own your story. You don’t control your truth.
The suits do.

THEY run this place. THEY make the rules. THEY write the narrative they want the system to see.

It’s not about what you do.
It’s not about how good you’ve been, how many write-ups you avoided, or how many times you tried to earn your way to something better.
None of that matters when THEY decide who you are.

And they don’t decide based on facts. They decide based on convenience, control, and cover-your-ass politics.

If labeling me a shot-caller makes their job easier, if painting me as a leader of something I never claimed helps them keep the real problem buried, then that's what they’re gonna do. Simple as that.

This isn’t justice. This isn’t rehabilitation. This isn’t correction.
This is containment, plain and simple.
And if you don’t play by their game—even if you walk the straight line—they’ll rewrite the rulebook just to remind you: You’re not in charge. We are.

So yeah, I’m headed back to max.
Not because I did something wrong.
But because I stopped playing the game.

Because I spoke up.
Because I asked for protection instead of retaliation.
Because I’m trying to change in a place that doesn’t reward redemption—it punishes it.

Let me rewind a little.

This life started long before the gates slammed shut. I was just a kid—a scared, broken boy with a needle in his arm at 13, thanks to my own father. That trauma wrote the intro to my story, but I’m man enough to admit now: the chapters after that? They were mine.

I chose the streets. I chose the drugs. I chose the hustle and the pain and the pride. And eventually, I chose silence. I didn’t speak out when I should’ve. I didn’t ask for help when I needed it. I wore my scars like armor, not knowing they were actually chains.

But I’m choosing something else now.

Even in this cell, even after being jumped, robbed, blamed, and labeled—I know who I am. And it ain’t what they say. I’m a man in repair. A husband. A fighter for something real this time. Her name is DeAnna, and she’s my home, my anchor, and the reason I still believe I can become more than what this place has tried to make me.

I’m done pretending this life didn’t leave marks. It did. But scars ain’t shame—they’re survival stories. And I’ve survived damn near everything they’ve thrown at me.

So if you’re reading this, and you're out there still straddling the line—thinking you can dabble in this life and come out clean—don’t be stupid. There is no dabble. There’s only in... and deeper in. Until one day you’re in a 6x9, writing blog posts from the hole, hoping someone hears the warning shot in your voice.

You don’t want this life. You don’t want to be stripped down to your drawers in a concrete box, wondering what it would’ve felt like to be free before the prison walls became your reality.

I can’t undo my past. But I sure as hell can own it. And I can use it.

I’m not done yet. Not even close.

I’m still breathing. I’m still healing. And I’m still reaching—because if one soul out there reads this and says, “Damn… I don’t want that to be me,” then maybe this pain served a purpose.

Until then, I’ll keep writing from the darkness. Because even in the hole, I still believe I was meant to shine.

—
#BehindBarsUnfiltered #MaxSecurityTruths #PrisonPolitics #RedemptionInProgress #TheyDontWantYouToChange #ThisIsNotRehabilitation

Solid Hearts, Steel Backbones: A Shoutout to the Real Ones

- by DeAnna

Being a prison wife isn't for the weak — let’s just get that out there right now.

We don’t choose this life because it’s easy, glamorous, or something we dreamt of growing up. We choose it because love showed up, and it didn’t come with a convenient timeline or a perfect package. It came real, raw, and wrapped in barbed wire — and we said yes anyway.

Because that's what loyalty actually looks like.

While the world screams “walk away,” we show up — day after day — holding down the damn fort with nothing but our own strength, a whole lot of love, and maybe a good cry in the bathroom when no one’s watching. We do this through 30-minute calls that cut off mid-sentence. We do it through letters written with hope and pain inked on the same page. Through visits where the touch is limited, but the connection? Untouchable.

We wipe our own tears. We build them up when they’re breaking down. We speak life into them when the world around them is trying to kill their spirit. We send strength in envelopes and wrap our prayers around them like armor.

People love to label us as “naïve” — as if love has to follow a script they approve of. But this isn’t naivety. This is the kind of ride-or-die loyalty that most people couldn’t even spell, let alone understand. Loyalty when it’s inconvenient. Loyalty when it’s hard. Loyalty when no one else claps for it.

If you’re living this life, then you already know — you’re part of a sisterhood that moves in silence but loves with the volume cranked up all the way. We might be quiet out here, but don’t ever confuse that with weakness. We are warriors in lip gloss and hoodies. We carry weight most people wouldn’t survive.

So shoutout to the real ones.

To the women who keep answering those calls, who keep showing up for visitation day with butterflies and a bag of quarters, who write “I love you” a thousand different ways without ever needing the words back. To the women who said I got you — and meant it. This one's for you.

We stay solid. We stay true. And no, we’re not alone — not now, not ever.

"I Remember Peace"

- by Ryan

I remember this day like it was yesterday.

We weren’t rushing. We weren’t looking over our shoulders. We weren’t worried about who was calling or what chaos was waiting around the corner. We were just… breathing.

This photo was taken before everything started unraveling again—before I let old ghosts pull me back into the fire. Before I made choices that hurt the one person who never stopped believing in me. Before I gave in to pain I hadn’t dealt with yet.

But that day, by the water, standing barefoot on the red rock, I was just a man trying to show my wife what peace looked like. Not the fake kind we tell ourselves we’ve earned. The real kind. The kind you find when the noise in your head finally shuts up for a minute and lets your heart speak.

I wanted her to feel what I was feeling—calm, centered, almost human again. I didn’t grow up with peace. My peace had to be fought for. It had to be carved out of trauma and silence. So to be able to give her a piece of that, even if just for a moment, felt like magic to me.

But truth is, I was still running. Running from the pain that never really left me. From the memories of fists flying between my parents, the screaming, the chaos. From the guilt of reconnecting with a dad I thought I wanted something from. From the pressure of trying to be the man she saw in me while I still felt broken inside.

And I slipped. I fell back into the darkness I swore I left behind.

But that moment—this photo—it reminds me that peace is possible. I’ve lived it. I’ve breathed it in beside her. I’ve felt the world pause in her presence and give me space to imagine something better.

That’s what I’m fighting for now. Not just to come home—but to come home right. To come home whole. To create that peace again and protect it like hell. Because I saw what life could be when I was free from the noise. I showed her. And next time, I won’t just show it to her—I’ll live it with her, every damn day.

 

Reclaiming Power

- by Ryan

Prison doesn’t just strip away your freedom—it strips away your dignity if you let it. But there comes a time when you have to stop letting it break you and start using it to rebuild yourself.

I’ve been through enough to know one thing for sure: if you don’t take control of your own life, no one else will. People say they love you, they say they’re here for you, but when it comes down to it, they show you who they really are. That’s when you have to make a choice—let them keep dragging you down with their excuses, or stop tolerating the lies and start setting boundaries that protect you.

I reached out to my sister recently, asking her to reach out to my mom for me. She doesn’t have a Securus account, and I can’t reach her directly. Simple request. But instead of support, I got excuses. “I have my own family.” “It’s hard with my husband and kids.” All the reasons why it’s too much for her to take five minutes to help me out. And the same old tired words—“I love you” and “I’m here if you need me”—only to be followed up by the same crap every time.

I’m done with it.

I told her straight up that I’m tired of all the excuses. Tired of the same old bullshit. I’ve never asked for anything more than a simple request, and I’m tired of being treated like my needs are just an inconvenience.

I don’t need anyone to fight my battles for me, but I do need people to stop pretending like everything is okay when it’s not. I’m the one who’s been the black sheep, the one who’s always taking the blame. But you know what? I’m done being the scapegoat for their failures. It’s time for them to start taking responsibility for their role in this family too.

And you know what else? I’ve got my own family now. My wife. And that’s where my loyalty lies. So, from this moment on, stay the fuck out of it. If you’re not willing to step up and be real, don’t bother pretending like you’re part of my life anymore.

I used to think that being a part of this family meant enduring all the drama, all the bullshit. But I’ve realized something: I’ve got to protect my own peace. I’ve got to stop letting the same people who’ve hurt me keep playing that same damn game.

And it’s not just my family. It’s with everything and everyone. Life is too short to keep fighting for people who aren’t fighting for you. So, from now on, I’m only putting my energy into what’s real. Into the family I’ve built, into the people who show up for me, into the future that I’m working toward.

Prison may have taken my freedom, but it’s not going to take my dignity or my power. I’m reclaiming both. And I’ll keep moving forward, no matter who stays behind.

“Don’t Pretend to Care Now”

-by DeAnna

When a loved one gets locked up, the first reaction people have is rarely compassion. Oh no, it’s disappointment, judgment, and a whole lot of “We knew it,” “Told you so,” “They’ll never change,” and the ever-condescending, “Was he even worth it?” Trust me, I’ve heard them all. People love to throw their two cents into a life they’ll never understand.

But here’s the part that makes me laugh—time goes by, and suddenly the same people who couldn’t be bothered to show up when it mattered start snooping. They stalk my page, my posts, my blogs, pretending to care. Maybe they feel a little guilt. Maybe they’re just nosy. Either way, let me make this crystal clear: you didn’t care then, so don’t you dare pretend to care now.

Yes, people in prison are there for a reason. That’s no secret—they messed up. Big. They know it. I know it. Hell, the whole world knows it. But here’s what people seem to forget: being incarcerated doesn’t strip away someone’s humanity. It doesn’t make them less of a person than you. So why do so many of you act like it does?

People have this ridiculous idea that prison is “easy.”
You know, free food, three hots and a cot, no bills, no responsibility.

Let me break this down for the peanut gallery—REAL TALK:

Prison is getting “walked up on” by men daily because someone’s got beef and you better be ready to protect yourself every single time.

Prison is trying to choke down food that literally says “NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION” on the label, just to keep from feeling hungry and weak.

Prison is praying every single day that people on the outside don’t forget you, because the usual excuses are always, “I have a life too, you know,” or “I’ve got my own problems.”

Prison is crooked COs and inmates working with staff to set you up, just to keep you down and strip away every ounce of progress you’ve made.

Prison is watching your good time and programming depend on the moods of guards who wake up pissed off and decide your life will be hell today.

Prison is sleeping with one eye open and a weapon in reach, because at any second someone spiced out, high, or paid to take you out could come for you.

Prison is paying three times the price for commissary, hoping your stuff doesn’t get stolen.

Prison is watching photos of your loved ones get passed around like “currency” or worse, a damn sex object.

Prison is TORTURE.
And nowhere in ANY of that hell is the word rehabilitation.

So let me just say this:
If you can’t visit, can’t even take the time to set up a free video visit, can’t put a few bucks on the phone for a call, can’t buy a single stamp to send a letter, or you’d rather spend $6 a day on coffee than put $20 on their books so they can eat something decent—don’t you dare come at me acting like you care.

I know what it takes. I know what they go through. I know what matters—and I show up.

So don’t hand me your weak excuses about “having a life.”
Guess what? So do I. And I struggle every damn day to live it. But here’s the difference—I know where my priorities are. I know who my heart beats for. Part of my LIFE is HIM. And I’ll keep showing up when everyone else has turned their backs, because that’s what love and loyalty look like.

Behind Bars Unfiltered is Giving Back – Join Us on TikTok!

 

Behind Bars Unfiltered isn’t just a brand—it’s a movement. Our mission has always been about more than just creating merchandise. It’s about raising awareness, giving hope, and standing up for the incarcerated and their families. And now, we’re taking that message to TikTok, where our community is growing stronger every day.

We’re thrilled to announce that a portion of ALL sales from our merchandise will go directly toward the $180 Giveaway hosted by these amazing advocates:
@lovedonescoalition, @Peilaroni, @TheRe-entryProject, and @JoshuaBrowning.

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Here’s How You Can Be Part of It

• Shop our merchandise at behindbarsunfiltered.creator-spring.com.

• Use promo code INMATECOAL for a discount on all products.

• Follow us on TikTok (@BehindBarsUnfiltered) for updates, behind-the-scenes content, and announcements about new product drops and giveaways.

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Why TikTok?

TikTok has given us a platform to tell real stories, connect with people who understand the fight, and amplify voices that often go unheard. By supporting our store, you’re not just buying merchandise—you’re becoming part of a larger movement to advocate for second chances and real change.

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Join the Movement

Every product you buy, every video you share, and every conversation you start brings us one step closer to making a difference.

Hustle or Go Without: How We Survive Behind the Walls

- by Ryan

Let me paint you a picture—not the kind with bright colors and clean lines. Nah, this one’s smeared with desperation, survival, and a hustle game that never clocks out.

This is prison.

You think people are in here just doing their time, three hots and a cot, maybe reading books and watching TV all day? That’s the Hollywood version.

Let me tell you about the real grind behind these walls.

You either hustle… or you go without. Period.

Soap? Hustle.
Toothpaste? Hustle.
A decent meal that doesn’t taste like wet cardboard? Hustle.
Boxers that ain’t see-through? Yep… hustle.

Everything costs something in here—even if it’s not bought with money. Bartering, trading, wheeling, dealing—this place is its own underground economy. And if you’re not in it, you’re gonna feel it. Hard.

And don’t get it twisted: this isn’t just about comfort. It’s about dignity. About trying to hold onto some piece of yourself in a place designed to strip you down to nothing.

You’ve got guys making handmade cards from ramen wrappers, tattooing with guitar strings and motor parts, pressing jailhouse spreads like they’re running a food truck out of a plastic bag and a stinger.

Me? I’ve hustled too. I’ve drawn, fixed radios, written grievances for people who couldn’t spell their own name, done laundry for people who couldn’t bend down long enough to do it themselves. I’ve given away socks for a ramen, swapped stamps for hygiene, made calls for guys who didn’t have anyone on the outside.

It ain’t glamorous. It ain’t easy. And it sure as hell ain’t fair.

Some dudes will do whatever it takes to survive—whatever it takes. And in that, you see a whole spectrum of humanity: broken, desperate, creative, dangerous, brilliant.

And yet… you know what makes it even more twisted?

The system knows it. And they count on it.

They create these conditions. They take away basic needs. They deny jobs. They charge double for commissary compared to the streets. Then they throw us into a cage and say, “Figure it out.”

So we do.

But don’t confuse surviving with thriving.

Don’t think for a second that hustling in here makes us “lazy felons” or “natural criminals.” Most of us in here had no other way to survive on the streets either. The hustle just changed scenery. From alleyways and trap houses to cell blocks and chow lines.

And yeah, I’ve made mistakes. Big ones. But I’m still a man trying to make it through hell without losing what little of myself I’ve got left. Still trying to send my wife a birthday card even when I don’t have a damn pen. Still trying to keep my mind moving when the walls don’t change and the clocks don’t tick.

Still hustling.

Because in here? If you don’t hustle, you go without.

And even when you’re trying to change, trying to do right, trying to heal—it’s the hustle that keeps you alive long enough to try.

So the next time someone tells you inmates have it easy?

Ask them how easy it is to fight every single day just to afford a bar of soap.
Then get back to me.

The Day I Saw My Father in the Mirror

 

-by Ryan

You ever have one of those moments where everything just... stops?

Like the air in the room gets sucked out, the noise goes mute, and all you can hear is the sound of your own heart cracking open?

Yeah, that was me—sitting on the prison phone tonight, talking to my wife. And just when I thought the conversation couldn’t get any heavier, she hit me with it.

Her voice was soft, but serious—dead honest in only the way she can be.
"Baby… no joke… I paused the interrogation video from the night we got arrested—and do you want to know what I saw in your face in that moment? I saw your dad."

Boom.

Just like that, my world shattered.

Because that—right there—is the one man I swore I’d never become. The one reflection I prayed I'd never cast. But when she said it, I knew exactly what she meant. I felt it. Deep.

I was high as hell in that video. I don’t even recognize the man she was looking at—paranoid, twitchy, soulless eyes, face tight and vacant. A shell of myself. Gone.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel. She was just being real. And the truth? It crushed me.

Because I knew.

I knew I had become the very thing I feared the most. The one example of “husband” and “father” I had growing up—and it was all wrong.

My parents didn’t love each other; they survived each other. Fists, glass bottles, screaming, cheating, choking each other out. That was marriage to me. That was “love.”

So when I met her—my wife—I didn’t know what to do with it. I was terrified I wasn’t enough. That I couldn’t love her right. That I’d fail her, just like I’d seen over and over in my life. So what did I do?

I ran.

Right back to the only coping skill I ever learned: meth.

And when meth wasn’t numbing enough, I stacked it. Meth turned into meth and fentanyl. Then meth, fentanyl, and PCP. Then heroin. Then Xanax. If it could shut me up inside, I took it. Anything to stop feeling.

And once again—just like clockwork—who was there to feed it all?

My dad.

The same man who swore he loved me but handed me poison every time I needed comfort. The same man who shot me up for the first time at 13 and never once stopped to think about what that did to my soul.

So when she said those words to me tonight over the phone—“I see your dad”—it wasn’t just a statement.

It was a wake-up call. A gut-punch. A mirror I couldn’t smash.

It destroyed me.

But you know what else it did?

It shook something loose in me. Something real. Something I’ve been too afraid to face for a long-ass time.

Because the truth is, she didn't say that to hurt me. She said it to SAVE me.

She’s not just my wife. She’s my truth-teller. My lifeline. My one shot at real love.

And instead of running from that truth tonight—I’m choosing to run toward it.

Because I’m done being a legacy of pain.
I’m done being a man made in the image of trauma.

I’m building something new now.

Not the man my father was.

The man she believes I can be.

So yeah... that phone call tonight? It broke me. But it also rebuilt me.

And I’m holding onto that.

Brick by brick.

The Vicious Cycle of Being a Prison Wife: My Role as His Rock

- by DeAnna 

Being a prison wife is a job that no one could ever truly understand until they walk a day in your shoes. Every day, I wake up with a heavy heart, searching for my husband in the empty space beside me. I roll over, hoping to feel his warmth, but the bed remains cold. And so begins another restless night of sleep that never truly rests.

The constant countdowns, the promises of release dates, they change like the wind. One day, his out date is set—bright and promising, a beacon on the horizon. But then, the prison system, fickle as it is, decides that the out date has changed, once again, without any explanation or reason. It feels like they just adjust it based on their mood for the day. Another setback. Another disappointment. Yet, I have to stay strong, remain hopeful, because what else is there to hold on to?

Each morning, I face another day of being his rock, the one he leans on, the one who smiles and says, "Everything will be okay." But inside, the worry never stops. It’s constant—like an echo in the back of my mind that never fades. I spend my days researching the prison system, scouring through emails, trying to uncover any violations they’ve committed against him. I fight the endless battles, even if it’s just to protect him from the inside.

I worry about his basic needs. Is he eating? Are they providing him with enough food or even safe food? Is he getting proper medical care, or is he left to suffer without the help he desperately needs? I wonder if he has enough clean clothes to wear or if he's forced to wash his things with a bar of soap in the toilet or shower. I think about the days when he had to fight to make sure his items weren’t stolen by someone else who took advantage of his vulnerability. And every week, I find myself replacing something else for him, whether it’s something stolen, worn out, or damaged.

The uncertainty never stops—when will the next lockdown come? Will he be safe? Will I get that dreaded phone call telling me there’s been a riot or something worse happening on the inside? It’s a constant fear, one that never truly lets you go.

And yet, despite all this, I put on a brave face every single day. I show up with a light-hearted voice, offering him my smile through the phone, telling him everything’s okay, even though inside, my heart is heavy with concern. Because he’s worth it. He deserves that smile, that strength, even when I feel like I'm crumbling inside. I do it because he needs me to be his constant, his stability, his rock.

And I keep going, day by day, loving him through the pain, the uncertainty, and the worry. Because no matter how hard it gets, he is worth every second of it. And as long as he’s behind those walls, I will be here, holding on, loving him with everything I’ve got.

Why I Still Believe in Redemption

- by Ryan

You think you know us.

“Once a convict, always a convict.”
“He’ll never change.”
“He made his bed.”

You wanna judge me by the worst thing I ever did?
Fine. But don’t forget—I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still fighting.

I spent years in a cycle—prison, relapse, pain, repeat.
Truth is, I didn’t even believe in myself for a long time.
Because when the world treats you like trash long enough, you start to agree with it.

But you know what I believe in now?

Redemption.
Not the shiny, fake kind.
The kind you earn—bloody-knuckled, soul-searching, brick-by-brick.

I’m not looking for pity.
I’m not writing these blogs for sympathy.
Let me be real clear:
I know damn well I put myself here.

But that’s not the point.

I write because I’ve lived it—every cold tier, every fake friend, every brutal memory.
I write for the ones who feel like no one gives a damn about their story.
I write for the men locked in cells right now wondering if anyone sees them.
I write for the families on the outside who think they know what prison is like—but don’t.
I write to speak truth in a world full of judgment and silence.

I write to heal.
Because healing in here? It’s damn near impossible.
But I do it anyway—one word, one page, one blog at a time.

For me?
Redemption looks like staying grounded when everything around me is chaos.
It looks like loving my wife right.
It looks like being a father, even from inside these walls.
Even when I don’t get to hear my son’s voice.
Even when his mother has stripped me of every legal right to call myself “Dad.”
Even when she hides behind her own dark secrets while putting all of mine on display—like she’s the saint and I’m just the sinner.

But I know the truth.
And he deserves a father who’s better than who I was.
So I work on myself. I grow. I heal.
I prepare for the day I get the chance to show him the man I’ve become.
Because being a father isn’t just about biology or court papers.
It’s about who you show up as, even when the world tries to shut that door in your face.

Do I regret the things I’ve done?
Hell yes.
But I’m done living in that shame.
Now, I’m focused on what comes next.

I’ve got reasons to keep going.
Real ones.

So yeah, call me a felon.
An addict.
A repeat offender.

But now?

I’m also a man in recovery.
A husband worth holding on to.
A voice for those who don’t have one.
A survivor learning how to live again.

I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.
I just need you to listen.
Because behind every inmate number is a story.
And this one?
Ain’t over yet.