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.