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