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.

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