I’ve learned something over the years — time doesn’t heal everything.
Whoever first said that must’ve been talking about scraped knees or little heartbreaks that fade when you’re young. The wounds you carry inside, the ones no doctor can stitch up — time doesn’t fix those. Time just teaches you how to walk around with them without bleeding all over the place.
And that’s what I’ve been doing in here. Walking around with memories, regrets, dreams, and ghosts. Some days they all sit quietly in the corner of my mind. Other days, they’re screaming loud enough to drown out everything else.
But I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still trying.
My younger self would probably be shocked by that. Not because I’m alive — though that’s a miracle in itself — but because I’ve learned to live in a world I once feared. The younger me believed that one bad mistake meant the end of everything. No second chances. No redemption. Just a long fall into darkness with no one waiting at the bottom.
But life has a strange way of proving you wrong.
I’ve had years to think — too many years, if you want the truth. And somewhere along the way, I started understanding that your story doesn’t end because the world tells you it should. It doesn’t end because people walk away. It doesn’t end because you’re behind walls that claw at your sanity. Your story ends when you stop writing it — and I’ve refused to do that.
Not yet.
Not while I still owe the world something good.
The Days That Change You
People imagine prison as constant chaos — fights, riots, screaming matches, metal doors slamming like thunder. Sure, there’s some of that. But what really wears you down is the repetition. The same walls. The same faces. The same dull grey sky through the tiny window.
Every day blends into the next, like someone took a paintbrush and smeared time into one long stroke of nothing. You learn everyone’s routines. Who wakes up angry. Who hides their fear under jokes. Who never speaks a word. And who, despite the place we’re in, still believes they can claw their way back to something better.
Those quiet moments are what change you most.
There was this one night — I’ll never forget it — where I found myself sitting on the edge of my bunk, staring at the floor, feeling like the whole world had stopped breathing. I’d just gotten a letter telling me someone else I loved had passed away. And I felt that old familiar darkness tugging at me again, telling me I didn’t deserve to exist, telling me everyone would be better off if I slipped away quietly.
But then I remembered something my dad used to say when I was a kid:
“Life’s not fair, son. But it’s yours — so you better keep hold of it.”
I hadn’t thought of his voice in years. Maybe grief brought it back. Maybe he was looking out for me the only way he still could. But something in those words snapped me awake, like someone had grabbed me by the collar and hauled me back to myself.
And I sat there for a long time, breathing slow, thinking about all the people who never gave up on me — even when I gave up on myself.
My fiancée, who has stood by me longer than I ever deserved.
My family, who kept picking up the phone even when all I had to offer were apologies.
And strangers — like the ones reading this blog — who somehow found hope in the broken pieces I shared.
That night didn’t fix me.
But it stopped me from ending the story too soon.
Finding Purpose in the Smallest Things
You don’t always get big moments of meaning in here.
Sometimes your entire purpose comes from something tiny.
Like helping a new guy understand how to get through his first night.
Or sitting with someone when they get the call that their mother passed.
Or teaching someone how to read because no one else ever took the time.
Most people outside never hear about those things. They think we’re monsters, or lost causes, or shadows of real human beings. But inside these walls are men carrying mountains on their shoulders. Men who’ve made terrible decisions, yes — but also men who, if given the chance, could build something better with their lives.
I’ve met people in here who could’ve been anything if someone had believed in them sooner.
And maybe that’s part of the reason I started writing this blog.
Maybe I wanted to remind the world — and myself — that we’re more than the worst things we’ve ever done. That we still have something to offer.
For me, helping people became my way of surviving.
Not physically — though that matters too — but mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually, if you want to call it that.
Every time someone told me my words helped them, or made them think differently, or gave them strength on a bad day, I felt like I was becoming the man my younger self wanted to be.
Not famous.
Not a hero.
Just someone who made life a little easier for someone else.
And that meant more than any spotlight ever could.
The Deaths That Shape You
Losing my dad, my nan, and my great-niece shattered something inside me that I’m still trying to put back together. Grief is hard everywhere, but it hits differently in prison. You don’t get to go to the funeral. You don’t get to hold anyone. You don’t get to see their face one last time.
You sit in a space where the walls are too close and too cold, and you try to grieve quietly because the moment you break down, the world sees it as weakness. And weakness is dangerous in here.
There’s no privacy for heartbreak.
So you bite your tongue, you hold the tears until your throat burns, and you pretend you’re fine so no one asks questions. It’s a strange kind of torture — crying silently into a pillow so no one can hear.
But every death changed me.
Every loss carved something new into the person I’m becoming.
My dad taught me resilience.
My nan taught me compassion.
My great-niece taught me innocence — how beautiful and fragile life really is.
And their absence still pushes me forward.
Because I want to live in a way that honours them.
I want them to be proud of the man I’ve become, even if they’re not here to see it.
How I Got Stronger
People sometimes tell me, “You’re so strong,” and I never know how to answer. Strength isn’t something I woke up with one day. It’s something that grew out of necessity, like a weed pushing its way through concrete.
For a long time, I wasn’t strong at all.
I was angry.
I was lost.
I was drowning in guilt, regret, and self-loathing.
But then I started listening to the people who believed in me — really listening, not just nodding along. My fiancée reminded me who I used to be. My family reminded me who I could still become. And total strangers reminded me that I wasn’t alone in my pain.
I started exercising. Not to get big, not to show off, but because it gave me something to control. One hour a day where my mind didn’t eat itself alive. One hour where I could push all the dark thoughts out through sweat and breath.
And I started reading. Books about psychology, about faith, about people who had fallen and gotten back up again. I read stories of men who lost everything and still found a reason to stand.
Slowly, piece by piece, I rebuilt myself.
Not as the man I was — but as the man I want to become.
And I’m still building.
Dreams Don’t Die in the Dark
When I was young, I thought dreams lived in the spotlight.
I imagined success as people knowing your name, clapping for you, praising you. Fame had nothing to do with ego — at least not in my mind. I just wanted to be someone who mattered.
Now I realize something important:
Dreams don’t die in the dark. They grow there.
They grow in silence.
In pain.
In regret.
In long nights where you lie awake imagining how things could’ve been different.
My dream evolved.
It isn’t about being known.
It’s about being understood.
It’s about being the kind of man who leaves something good behind.
A story.
A lesson.
A bit of hope.
Maybe that’s why I keep writing, even on the days when the words don’t come easily. Maybe this blog, this shared journey with all of you, is the legacy I never knew I’d have.
The Outside World Feels Far Away — But Never Gone
The world changes fast — faster than I can keep up with from inside here. Every time I get updates from my family, I’m reminded of how much time has passed without me. How much I’ve missed. How much I can never get back.
But I’ve also learned something important: even though time moves on without you, love doesn’t.
My fiancée is proof of that.
Twenty years of waiting, visiting, writing, believing.
Twenty years of choosing me, even when it would’ve been easier to walk away.
I don’t know how many people on the outside understand what that kind of love looks like. It’s not simple. It’s not easy. It’s sacrifice — pure and raw. And she’s given me more support than I’ll ever be able to repay.
When I think about getting out — truly getting out — she’s the first thing that comes to mind. Not freedom. Not the sunlight. Not the taste of real food.
Her.
Her smile.
Her hand in mine.
Her voice not distorted by a phone line.
That’s the future I hold onto.
What Comes Next
I won’t pretend I know exactly what comes next for me.
I don’t know how the world will receive me.
I don’t know if the opportunities I dream about will ever be within reach.
But I do know one thing:
My story isn’t over. Not even close.
I want to work with people who feel lost.
People who think their mistakes define them.
People who think they’ve run out of hope.
Because I’ve been there.
I’ve lived there.
And I’ve learned how to climb out of that pit — slowly, painfully, stubbornly.
If I can help even one person do the same, then all these years won’t be wasted.
Maybe that will be my legacy.
Not fame.
Not applause.
But connection.
Compassion.
Understanding.
Something real.
Thank You — Again and Always
If you’re reading this — whether you’ve been following me for years or you just stumbled across my story today — thank you.
Your presence matters more than you will ever know.
Your empathy saved my life.
Your encouragement kept me alive long enough to become the person I am now.
And here’s the truth:
I don’t write these posts because I’m strong.
I write them because I’m still healing.
Because sharing my story makes the burden lighter.
Because knowing you’re out there — listening, caring — gives me a reason to keep going.
My dream is still alive.
Changed, yes.
Evolved, definitely.
But still alive.
Not to be famous — but to be meaningful.
Not to be known — but to be useful.
Not to be applauded — but to be understood.
And if my words reach even one person who needs them, then maybe, just maybe...
I’ve already achieved that dream.
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