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.

This Ain’t Rehabilitation – It’s Survival

— by Ryan

You wanna know what prison’s really like?
Not the movie version. Not the watered-down “justice system” fantasy they sell you in court.
I’m talking about the real inside.

It ain’t about rehabilitation.
It’s about survival.

You walk into these gates, and you’re immediately forced to choose:
Fold or fight.
Ain’t no in-between.

The gangs? Yeah, they’re real. They run the yards, the dayrooms, the cells.
It don’t matter if you came in quiet, kept to yourself.
Eventually, someone’s going to test you.
And if you don’t stand up? You’re food.
Straight up. You’re someone else’s property.

I’ve seen men get jumped just for looking too long.
For saying the wrong thing.
For not saying anything at all.
You can catch a beatdown just for where you're from, who you talk to, or how fast you move on the tier.

And then there’s the dope.
Yeah, it’s in here. Don’t let anyone tell you different.
Some of it comes in through visits.
But a lot of it? Comes in with staff.
That’s the dirty truth they don’t want to admit.
COs, nurses, contractors—they’re the ones walking it in.
Why? Because they make more off us than they ever would out there.

And when that dope hits the yard?
It’s chaos.
Debts pile up. People get stabbed over $5 worth of pills.
Guys rob each other in the night, cutting open mattresses, stealing comissary, stealing photos, stealing the only damn things some men have left from the outside.

Then they pretend it's all under control.

You ever seen a man OD in his cell and the nurse take 40 minutes to show up—just to say “he’s faking” and walk out?
I have.
More than once.

And when someone snaps under the pressure?
When they beg for help, for meds, for therapy?
They throw you in suicide watch like you’re a threat instead of a human being in crisis.
Strip you naked. Put you in a freezing room.
Leave you there, humiliated and broken, hoping you just shut up next time.

There’s no peace in here.
There’s no dignity.
You get disrespected by people in blue, and you get disrespected by the ones in orange.
Sometimes the COs are more dangerous than the inmates.

This system?
It don’t want to fix you.
It wants to break you just enough so you keep coming back.

But I’m not giving them that.

I’ve been beat down, spit on, lied about, locked down, jumped, gassed, humiliated.
But I’m still standing.

Because I’ve got something most don’t have in here:

A reason.
A woman who believes in me.
A future I refuse to let them steal from me.

So yeah, this is prison.
No sugarcoating.
No fake hope.

But even in the darkest parts of this place, I still find my light.
And every day I survive, I’m one step closer to coming home.

Loving a Felon: From Prison Walls to the Street Life—A Journey of 978 Days

 

- by DeAnna

I met my husband, Ryan, when I was working as a Correctional Officer in the prison where he was incarcerated. He was an addict—trying, but not succeeding, to stay clean in a system that seemed more invested in keeping people locked in their struggles than in helping them find a way out. The prison system, as crooked as a witch's finger, wasn’t doing him any favors.

I had no idea what addiction really looked like. At the time, I didn’t recognize the signs of when he was using. He was "somewhat clean," or at least that’s what I thought. It wasn’t until he came home and relapsed that I truly began to see addiction in its rawest form.

When Ryan came home, I thought we would start fresh, build the life we always dreamed of. But addiction is like a storm that never really clears. I saw it all—the street life, the highs, the lows, the withdrawals, and the relapses. I watched him battle demons I couldn’t even comprehend. I watched the man I loved go through hell, and I watched him try to claw his way out of it, time and time again.

The first time I really saw addiction for what it was, it hit me hard. I saw Ryan fall back into the habits, the lifestyle, the people, and the drugs. The man I loved—the man I had dreamed of building a future with—wasn’t the man I was seeing. And yet, there he was, fighting. Fighting for himself. Fighting for us.

I saw the withdrawals, the cold sweats, the pain. I saw him desperate to get clean, but at the mercy of a body and mind that didn’t know how to survive without the crutch of drugs. And when he relapsed, I saw the shame and the guilt. But I also saw the determination—the same determination that once helped him survive prison, the same determination that kept him trying to fight for a future.

Loving someone like him is a constant challenge, but it’s also a privilege. You see the raw, unfiltered truth of their struggle, the parts of them that no one else gets to witness. And while the pain and the heartache may threaten to tear you apart, you also see the resilience—the incredible strength that pushes them to fight another day, even when they feel like giving up.

Through all of it—the good, the bad, the heartbreaking, and the hopeful—I love him more. Every relapse, every high, every moment where I thought I couldn’t handle it anymore, only made me love him harder. I fell deeper into this love, not because it was easy, but because I saw the man underneath the addiction. I saw his heart, his soul, his dreams of a life beyond the struggle. And I realized that love isn’t just about the good times. It’s about showing up when it’s hard, when you feel like you’re drowning, and still saying, “I’m here.”

In these 978 days, I’ve watched him try to give up the life he once knew. I’ve seen him fight to stay clean, fight for the life he knows he deserves. But I’ve also seen the moments where he wondered if he’d ever be free of his past. Addiction doesn’t just vanish, and neither does the past. But we keep moving forward, together. And no matter how many times he stumbles, I’ll be right here. Loving him. Supporting him. Holding on.

So, if you’re reading this and wondering what it’s like to love someone in this struggle, let me tell you: it’s not easy. But it’s worth it. Every single day. Because through all the relapses, the pain, and the uncertainty, I know that the love we share is stronger than anything else. It has to be. And I will continue to love him harder, no matter what.

What Keeps Me Going In Here

- by Ryan

You wanna know how I get up every morning?
How I keep breathing in a place where so many men just... give up?

Her.

My wife.
My reason.
My home, even when I’ve got no walls around me.

Before her, I didn’t care if I woke up or not.
Some nights I prayed I wouldn’t.
Laying there in that dark-ass cell, wondering if anyone out there would notice if I stopped breathing.

But now?
Now it’s different.
Now I’ve got a woman who sees me. Really sees me. Not as a number, not as a criminal.
But as a man who’s still worthy of love—even when I don’t feel it for myself.

She’s the one who fights for me when I feel like folding.
She walks through hell with me barefoot and still holds my hand like I’m not covered in scars.
She is the reason I haven’t become just another ghost in here.

But it’s not just her.

It’s the hope she planted in me.
The kind of hope you can’t buy off commissary.
The kind that survives lockdowns, write-ups, lies, and abandonment.
Hope that whispers, “This ain’t the end of your story.”

It’s the writing.
These words? These are my lifeline.
They’re how I bleed without bleeding.
It’s how I scream without raising my voice.
Because when I write, I feel like someone might finally hear me—might finally understand what it’s like to be stuck between who I was and who I’m trying to become.

It’s growth.
Books. Faith. Conversations with men who are still trying, just like me.
It’s looking at the mess I came from—parents who were addicts, being shot up with meth at 13 by my own father—and deciding that I’m not ending there.
I’m not dying with their demons strapped to my back.

Because the truth is:
If you let it, prison will kill you slowly.
It don’t need a rope or a shank. It’ll take your mind.
Make you forget who you are.
Make you believe you deserve to be forgotten.

But I’ve got something to prove.
Not to the system. Not to my haters. Not even to my family who gave up on me.

I’ve got to prove it to her.
To the woman who answers every call, writes every letter, holds me up from hundreds of miles away.
To the woman who saw me at my lowest and still said, “That’s mine.”

She’s the home I’m building.
The life I’m choosing.
The reason I’m done being a repeat statistic.

I’m not doing another bid. This is my last.
Ten toes down, I mean that.

I’ve got something worth coming home to.
And more importantly, I’ve got something worth staying home for.

The Streets Raised Me

by Ryan

I didn’t grow up. I survived. There’s a big difference.

My parents? They were both addicts. Chaos was my childhood.

At 13 years old, my dad didn’t warn me about drugs. He didn’t try to stop me from falling into that world. No, he introduced me to it—by injecting me with meth himself.

You want to talk about betrayal? Imagine the one man who’s supposed to protect you, be your example, your safe place—turning you into a mirror of his own destruction.

I was just a kid. A kid who should’ve been riding bikes and playing video games, not learning how to hit a vein.

Right before that, my parents split. And as sick as it sounds, I stayed with my dad. Because I knew if I didn’t, he’d die. I couldn’t walk away from him the way my mom walked away from me.

I walked in on him OD’d more times than I can count. In the bathroom. On the floor. Needle still in his neck. Cold. Blue. Barely hanging on.

And I was the one who had to pick him up. Keep him breathing. Clean the blood. Clean the mess.

That kind of trauma doesn’t leave you. It carves itself into your bones.

So I did what I had to do: I hustled. Not for Jordans or girls or clout—although the girls started coming in droves. But they were the wrong kind. The ones that only pulled me deeper into the street life, into the thrill, into the addiction. I hustled to survive. I hustled to keep the lights on. I hustled to keep a roof over our heads, food in our stomachs, and the dope flowing so my dad—and I—wouldn’t get sick.

I learned the streets before I ever learned algebra. I learned to lie. To move product. To manipulate. To watch my back.

By the time I hit 17, I was sent to max security prison in Missouri.

I had no business being around the kinds of men I was surrounded by. Lifers. Shot-callers. Cold, broken killers.

But that’s what the system does. It chews up broken boys and throws them into a pit and tells them, “Figure it out.”

So I did. I proved myself. I fought. I survived.

And when I got out? I went right back to my dad. Who didn’t call me “son” anymore—he called me “brother.” Like I was just another one of his junkie friends. Like I wasn’t his kid, but his co-defendant.

He still leaned on me. Still expected me to hold it all together.

That was my life. That was my normal.

Until now.

Now I see the truth of what I went through. Now I’m learning how to let go of the pain and rebuild something real—with someone who actually loves me for me.

Now, I’m not surviving. I’m learning how to live.

Fighting for Freedom: Not Just My Story, But a Call for Change

-by Ryan

They want me to stay down. They want me to be forgotten. But here I am. Fighting every day to prove that I am not what they say I am. I am not just a criminal. I am a person who has been broken, but I refuse to stay that way.

This is not just a story of someone behind bars. This is a story of a man who’s been pushed to the edge and has finally decided he will never fall back into that darkness again.

I’ve been to the depths, seen the worst of humanity—my own, and others. But I have a message for anyone who's ever felt like they're at the bottom: You are not your worst moment. You are not your past. You are so much more than the mistakes that have defined you.

Every single day in here is a reminder of the world outside that tries to erase us. And you know what? I refuse to be erased. I will not be silenced. Not now, not ever.

Do you know what it feels like to be invisible? To have your cries for help ignored? To be discarded as if your life doesn’t matter?

I’m done being quiet. Done waiting for someone to "fix" me. I’ve learned that healing starts when we start telling our truth. I will keep fighting—for myself, for every inmate who feels trapped, for the families left behind. I’m showing you the truth, and I won’t apologize for it.

This isn’t just about me anymore. This is about us. It’s about showing the world that we deserve better. We are human, and we have the right to fight for a future beyond these walls. And I need YOU to stand with me.

I’m not fighting alone in here. My wife, the strongest advocate I know, is out there every day fighting for me and for those who can’t speak for themselves. She’s helping raise awareness, fighting for change, and pushing for a future where no one is forgotten. If you NEED help, don’t wait—reach out! Your voice WILL be heard.

I am not going down without a fight.

If you’re ready to stand up for justice, to stand up for real change, SHARE this post. Let’s turn this message into a movement. I need you. We all need you.

Comment ‘FREEDOM’ below if you believe in second chances and real change. Let’s make this voice too loud for anyone to ignore. 

How Prison Changes a Man

 

- by Ryan

Prison doesn’t just change a man’s habits. It changes his soul. It changes how he trusts, how he loves, how he breathes.

At 17, I thought prison was just another fight to win. But after years inside, after everything I’ve lived through—especially these last few days—I’ve learned that it’s not just about surviving the bars. It’s about surviving the weight that never leaves.

I just found out my grandma passed. The people who should’ve told me? My family. My blood. They left me hanging. Again.

My mom reached out for the first time in a year and a half. "Regardless of what you think, I still love you," she said. But this came after telling my wife she wanted nothing to do with me. This came after years of being used as a pawn, stuck in the middle of their war, with no one caring how it tore me apart.

And that… that does something to a man. That kind of pain cuts deeper than any shank. It’s trauma. It’s something no one can prepare you for.

Growing up, I learned early that love doesn’t always come gentle. My parents didn’t just fight—they tore each other apart. Skillets to the face, glass bottles smashed against skin. Fists breaking and shattering, every damn day. I can still feel it in my bones, the terror of hearing them scream and not knowing if I was next.

And after all the chaos between my mom and dad, when things seemed like they couldn’t get worse, my dad would still find a way to beat my ass. The tail end of all that bullshit was when he’d turn on me, just when I thought there was no more room for hurt. That’s how I learned love wasn’t safe. It was dangerous.

I’ll never forget the night my dad tried to choke me out. I was just seven, couldn’t even breathe. He had me in a headlock so tight I thought I might not make it. My brother had to jump on him, yelling at him to stop. That’s how we survived. That’s what I grew up with.

And that… that does something to a man. That pain sinks deeper than the darkest cell. It’s not just the physical cuts—it’s the wounds they leave on your soul, and the way prison builds on top of it.

When you’re stuck in a six-by-nine cell, with nothing but your own thoughts, and all the lights off, that’s when it hits you. That’s when you start to think about who you were, who you thought you could become, and who you are now. The silence forces you to face all the things you’ve been running from.

In here, I see versions of myself— the scared kid, the angry teenager, the grown man full of regret, and the one trying to hold on.

That’s how prison changes you:

Trust? It’s gone. Hell, some days, I don’t even trust myself.

Your heart? Half the time, it feels like it’s not even there. Just an empty space, trying to make it through another day.

Your mind? Spinning. Constantly. One minute, I’m screaming on the inside, the next, I’m shutting everything down, because feeling is dangerous in here.

You learn how to numb yourself just to keep moving forward. You learn how to stand still, while the world spins without you. You put up walls so no one can see the cracks, even though you feel them deep in your bones.

But this isn’t just about being locked behind these walls. This is about being forgotten. About losing people who were supposed to never let you go. About carrying pain you didn’t ask for, and weight you never should’ve had to bear.

And through all of it, I fight to stay me. Not the broken version my parents made me. Not the hardened shell prison is trying to turn me into.

Because I’m my wife’s man now. For her, I hold on. For her, I fight. For her, I remind myself that I am more than my mistakes. I am more than my number.

I am still ME. Learning to be the father I was never shown. Learning to be the husband I was never shown. Learning to be the MAN my wife has proven to me that I truly am and have always wanted to be.

The Ones Who Forgot Me

 -by Ryan

There’s this moment that hits you somewhere between your first year down and your third—when the letters stop, the phone list gets smaller, and the visits dry up. You don’t really understand loneliness until you get locked up and realize the silence on the outside is louder than the chaos in here.

That’s when you learn who’s really riding with you.
That’s when you figure out who loves you for you… and who only loved what you could do for them on the outside.

They say “don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”
What they don’t say is that the time doesn’t just mean the years—it means the people who disappear with them.

Family.
Friends.
People who said they’d ride for life.
Gone. Just like that.

At first, you make excuses for them.

“They’re busy.”
“They probably didn’t know where to write.”
“They’ll come around.”

I ain’t here to guilt-trip nobody.
People got lives. I get that.
But don’t get it twisted—you feel it.

But after a year and a half of silence? After birthdays pass without a card, holidays go by without a phone call, and your name becomes something people flinch at—
You stop making excuses.
You start realizing who’s real.

Most of my so-called people? They disappeared after my first stretch.
Family. Friends. Folks I thought would never turn their back.

And it wasn’t always quiet either. Some didn’t just fall off—they made sure to cut me deep on the way out.
Cold words. Harsh messages.

“You chose this.”
“You’ll never change.”
“You’re dead to me.”

That shit sticks with you.
Even when you try to brush it off.
Even when you act hard and say, “F** ‘em.”*

It hurts. More than I’ll admit out loud most days.
Because the truth is, I didn’t just lose my freedom—I lost people I thought were mine forever.

And yeah, I messed up. I know that.
I hurt people. I lied. I used. I made choices that landed me in here.
But some of the people who turned their backs? They weren’t hurt. They were just uncomfortable being reminded that someone they know ended up in a cage.

That’s the thing no one talks about:
People don’t just forget you. They pretend you never existed.

And for a while, I let that break me.
Every time mail call came and my name wasn’t on the list.
Every time I sat by the tablet hoping someone—anyone—would reach out.
Every time I realized the ones I loved didn’t love me enough to show up when it counted.

But here’s the shift:
Now I know… they’re not my people anymore.

Here’s what I learned:
Not everybody’s meant to make it to your finish line.

I wasted too much time begging folks to care. Writing letters they never answered. Calling numbers that never picked up.
Until it finally clicked—
The ones who forgot me aren’t my people anymore.

Now I’ve got my wife – a woman who shows up for me day in and day out, at ALL hours of the day/night, even when I’m not easy to love. I’ve got my own family.
I don’t need to chase ghosts.

Being married, building my life with her—that’s what made me finally stop bleeding for the ones who already let me die in their minds.

It still hurts some days, don’t get me wrong.
But I’m learning to heal from it.
Because when I do come home—and trust me, I will—I’m not wasting a single second on the ones who forgot me.

So if you forgot me?
If you walked away when I needed you most?
Stay gone.

Because I’m not bitter—I’m focused.
And I’m done chasing ghosts when I’ve got real love holding me down.

I’ll be too busy building something real with the ones who never did.

The ones who forgot me taught me something I didn’t expect:
I don’t need everyone. I just need the right ones. I need HER – My Dragonfly!

Prison Pass? Miss Me with That Bullshit.

There’s a phrase I heard today, from a Troll on my TikTok page, that has me sitting back in my chair like—wait, what? “Prison Pass.”

Apparently, some women out here throw this around like it’s some kind of hall pass for cheating:
“My man’s locked up, so I get a prison pass.”
“Girls have their needs.”

Let me say this clear enough for the ones in the back: FUCK THAT.

If you are with a man doing time and you claim to love him—ride for him, wait on those phone calls, send those packages—then be loyal to your man while he’s down. Or let him go.

These men already have the weight of the world on their shoulders in there. They’re surviving conditions half the world wouldn’t last a week in. The last thing they need is to lay their head down at night and wonder if the woman they love is out here using some made-up bullshit excuse like “prison pass” to step out.

Now, I’m not pretending to be some saint. I did my own dirt in my past. Folks will tell my story however they want.
Some of y’all reading this have known me forever—or you know somebody who thinks they know me.
I won't EVER pretend to be perfect, because I am the FURTHEST thing from it.

But here's my truth today: When you find your person—your real ride or die—there’s nothing else like it.
It’s like… if you know, you know.

You want to talk about “needs”? Let me tell you what his needs are right now:

• A meal that ain’t powdered potatoes and bologna.

• Human touch that isn’t from a CO slamming a cuff on his wrist.

• A minute to breathe without looking over his shoulder.

And I’m supposed to sit here whining about my “needs”? About missing sex or intimacy? Please. If that’s really where your head’s at while your man’s locked up, I’m gonna say it as plain as I can: Re-evaluate you.

Because this ain’t about just being somebody’s girlfriend or wife.
It’s about being their peace.

If you can’t hold it down for him while he’s away, don’t waste his time. Don’t string him along. Let him know so he can focus on his fight, not be stressing over yours.

For me? I’ll wait.
Every day.
Every letter.
Every phone call.

And when he walks out those gates, he’ll know I stayed solid.

That’s what real loyalty looks like. No passes needed.

The Day I Took the Fall for My Wife

-by Ryan

There’s a lot about my life I can own up to. Mistakes, bad decisions, running with the wrong crowd.

But there’s one thing I’ll never let slide:
Letting my wife carry weight that doesn’t belong to her.

We got arrested together. Yeah, I said it.
Because of me. Because I relapsed. Because I wasn’t thinking straight. Because I had drugs in the car that she didn’t even know were there.

She wasn’t about that life. She’s not an addict.
Before me? Her record was squeaky clean—zero priors, not even a damn traffic ticket on her name. But that didn’t matter to the cops. All they saw was a former correctional officer now married to a man like me.

“Cop gone rogue.”
That’s what they called her.
That’s what they’re still trying to paint her as.

But it’s not true.
She wasn’t part of it. She wasn’t dirty. She wasn’t using.
She was loyal—to a fault, maybe—but never dirty.

And the system don’t care about the truth. They care about a good headline. A better conviction rate.
So yeah—she’s still facing charges. She’s still fighting battles she never should’ve had to fight.
Because of me.

I carry that guilt every single day. It doesn’t leave me. It sits in my chest like a weight I can’t put down.
But here’s the part that matters:
When it came time to speak up, I told them flat out:
It was mine. All of it.

No “we.”
No “us.”
No “both of us.”
Just me.

Because that’s the truth. Because that’s my responsibility. Because when you love someone, you don’t let them drown in your mess.

I’ve made a lot of bad choices in my life, but that day? That wasn’t one of them.
Taking the fall was the right thing to do.
Not because I’m some kind of martyr. Not because I’m trying to play the good guy.
But because she didn’t deserve to be in that position in the first place.

She stood by me. Through it all. Through relapses, through bids, through the worst version of myself.
So standing up for her? That wasn’t even a choice. That was instinct.

People like to talk tough about loyalty, about riding for their people.
But until you’re in that interrogation room, looking at real time, facing real consequences—you don’t know what you’ll do.

I know what I did.
I took it. I owned it. Because she’s my wife. And because it was mine to carry.

What the World Gets Wrong About Us

 

-by Ryan

When people hear the word “inmate,” they think they know me already. They think we are all the same—violent, heartless, lost causes.

Let me set the record straight real quick:

"We’re All Violent."                                                                                                             The news loves showing riots and fights. What they don’t show is the real majority: Men teaching GED classes. Writing music. Drawing, reading, learning, just trying to stay human in a place that tries to strip that from you.

"We Don’t Care About Family."

I hear it all the time—

“If you loved your family, you wouldn’t have ended up in there.”

That’s straight-up bullshit. I’ve seen grown men cry in their bunks over a missed birthday, a letter that never showed up, a death in the family they couldn’t be there for. Hell, I'm one of them!

You don’t know real guilt until you sit in a cell alone at night realizing you hurt the people you love most.

And I’ll be honest—All I care about now is having just that. A real family. My people. But because of my mistakes, a lot of them walked away. Harsh words. Cold silence. People who said they loved me once but clearly show they don’t anymore.

That used to eat me alive.

But now, I’m a married man. I’m building my own family with my wife. And it hit me: The ones that forgot me don’t matter anymore.

I’m finally learning to heal from that. Because I ain’t here to chase people who let me go. I’m here to hold tight to the ones still holding me down.

"We Can’t Change."

I get it. I’ve been back in this system more times than I care to count. I own that. But don’t get it twisted. This is my last bid. I stand ten toes down on that.

Not everybody in here is content to rot. Some of us are fighting like hell not to. Reading. Learning. Growing. Trying to walk out different than we walked in.

For me? I finally have a life worth coming home to. And staying home with.

I’ve got a reason now. And I won’t trade that for nothing—not another cell, not another high, not another dumb-ass choice.

"Our Wives or Girlfriends Are Stupid for Loving Us."

Let me say this plain: Loving someone in prison ain’t weakness. It’s strength.

It takes a strong woman to ride this bid with a man like me. My wife ain’t stupid. She’s loyal. And loyalty’s rarer than diamonds in this world.

You especially don’t get to judge her or speak on her for sharing MY truth through this walk of life. For blogging. For advocating. For speaking up when I can’t.

I’ll back that woman 888% to the grave.

Nobody will ever judge her in my presence. Nobody will ever shame her for standing beside me when others walked away.

That’s my wife. That’s my peace. That’s my home.

So the next time somebody wants to throw labels at us—“Criminal.” “Lost cause.” “Prison wife.” “Foolish.”

Tell them: We don’t live for their approval. We live for each other.

Things I Wish I Knew BEFORE Prison

 

If I could sit my 17-year-old self down before that first bus ride to the max yard in Missouri, I’d tell him a few things I didn’t know back then—things that would’ve saved me a lot of pain and maybe even saved my life.

Here’s what prison really teaches you, too late:

Respect Isn’t Given. It’s Earned, Every Day.

In here, nobody cares who you were on the street. Your past don’t mean shit. It’s about how you carry yourself.Say less. Watch more. Mind your business. Speak only when it matters. The loudest dude in the room? Nine times out of ten, he’s the weakest one.

It’s Not About Being the Toughest—It’s About Being the Smartest.

When I was young, I thought I had to fight everyone. Had to prove I wasn’t scared. All that got me was time in the hole and a couple of scars.The real OGs aren’t running their mouth. They’re running their mind. Playing chess while everybody else is playing checkers.

Snitches Get More Than Stitches—They Get History.

That whole “snitches get stitches” saying is real, but it ain’t always physical. Word follows you from yard to yard, from unit to unit. Your name gets written down, passed around. If you snitch once, trust me—it never gets forgotten.

Isolation Will Eat You Alive If You Let It.

Yeah, I’ve spent time in lockdown. Days, weeks, sometimes months with nothing but my own thoughts. If you don’t learn how to keep your mind moving—reading, writing, praying—it’ll eat you. Depression’s real. That silent kind, where nobody knows you’re slipping until you stop getting up.

Time Doesn’t Stop for You.

Out there, people keep living. They have birthdays, holidays, babies, funerals—all without you. That part hurts worse than anything physical.I used to think I’d come home and everything would be like I left it. It won’t. People change. You change. If you don’t prepare for that, it’ll break you.

You Can’t Let Prison Define You—Unless You Want It To.

Some dudes in here gave up. Became their DOC number. Lost every part of themselves that wasn’t about prison life. Me? I’m not perfect, but I’m fighting to still be Ryan. Not just an inmate. Not just a number. A man. A husband. A father.That choice is yours every single day. Be bitter or be better. That’s it.

Don’t Count on the System to Save You.

Mental health. Medical care. Programs.They sound good on paper. But in reality? You have to fight for every little scrap. Write grievances. File complaints. Stay loud about your own life. Because if you don’t, nobody else will.

If you’re young and reading this, thinking prison’s just part of the game—It ain’t.

It’ll change you, sure. But the real truth?It’s up to you how it changes you.

-By Ryan

The Truth About Prison Relationships

 

by Ryan

People love to say things like:

“She’ll move on.” “It’s not real love.” “He’s just using her.” “She’s wasting her life.”

Let me be clear: They don’t know a damn thing about prison relationships.

They don’t know what it’s like to hold onto love through walls, wire, and years. They don’t know what it’s like to fall asleep wondering if she’s okay and wake up praying she hasn’t given up on you yet.

They don’t know what it takes for a woman to stay committed to a man society already threw away. And they sure as hell don’t know what it’s like to love someone you can’t touch, can’t hold, can’t protect—but still fight for every single day.

My relationship isn't built on physical closeness. It’s built on trust. On pain. On redemption. On showing up for each other through letters, through phone calls, through the worst days of our lives.

And let me say this loud and clear: She didn’t wait on me. She stood up for me. When I couldn’t speak, she spoke. When I couldn’t be free, she moved like I already was. And when the system tried to erase me, she wrote my name louder.

This isn’t just some jailhouse romance. This is survival. This is spiritual warfare. This is what it looks like when two people refuse to let distance kill their bond.

People on the outside think we’re foolish. They think she deserves better. They think I’ll never change. And maybe they’d be right—if they knew the version of me from back then.

But they don’t know the version I’ve become because of her.

She calls me out when I slip. She lifts me up when I drown. She reminds me every day that I’m still worth loving—even in a place designed to make me forget that.

Yeah, prison relationships are hard. But they’re also real. Raw. Sacred. You can’t fake this kind of loyalty. You can’t manufacture this kind of love.

So the next time someone wants to talk shit about prison love, tell them this:

Only a strong woman can love a man behind bars without losing herself. And only a real man will take that love and build himself into someone worthy of it.