12/2/25 <-Written at 2 Weeks Out of Prison
This series is inspired by the actual letters I still write my friends on the inside.
Dear Prison Pals,
Somehow, the hardest thing to relearn after prison is using a debit card.
What the heck is tap to pay? How are you supposed to know which way to swipe the card? And does the machine really have to beep at you like you’ve personally offended it, announcing to everyone nearby that you’ve messed it up again?
My first attempt to use a debit card was at Subway, with a super cute guy behind the register. Meanwhile, I stood there dumbfounded, staring at the card reader like it was written in a foreign language. Sensing my panic, he offered that they had tap to pay. This only made my anxiety worse. Hands shaking, I tried to swipe my card the wrong way until he finally had to tell me to turn it over. So embarrassing…
I’m staying at an Oxford transitional house now, and somehow it has the best energy. We’re a happy, slightly dysfunctional family trying to figure out life in recovery together. Sometimes we all pile into cars to go to meetings or grab food. It’s a women and children’s house, with a seven-year-old girl who proudly gave me a full tour when I arrived and told me she hoped I lived my best life here. I feel welcome, safe, and surprisingly at home. We even spent Thanksgiving together, which turned out to be far better than I expected—and honestly, that day deserves its own story.
Let’s talk about food, because obviously. You probably expected this part to come first, but it somehow wasn’t my top priority right away. The very first thing I ate was my mom’s peanut butter cookies with a chocolate kiss in the middle. They were as delicious as I remembered. Then, at the very first gas station I went to, I found Peanut Butter Snickers. I was elated! My ex kept telling me they didn’t make them anymore. Turns out that wasn’t true. Shocking.
Ordering food has been surprisingly stressful. There are just too many choices, and the pressure to decide feels enormous. My first meal out was at Marco’s Pizza with my mom and my best friend. We were standing there, and suddenly they were both looking at me, waiting for me to say what I wanted. I think they were even expecting me to order. My brain completely froze. I stood closer to my best friend, leaned in, and whispered, “I like pepperoni.” Then I promptly disappeared into the bathroom to hide while they ordered for me.
Since then, there’s been Starbucks grilled cheese, a mocha cookie crumble frappuccino, and an Outback Steakhouse dinner that felt almost surreal with filet mignon, asparagus, and a loaded baked potato. Freedom comes with a lot of choices, and sometimes that’s the hardest part.
Not everything out here has been lighthearted or easy to laugh off. Registering as a felon and making it to probation brought a level of stress I wasn’t prepared for. I had reliable rides lined up, including my mom, who flew in from out of state just to help me transition back into society. When I couldn’t even reach her and the police station told me I had just thirteen hours to get to the jail to register, panic set in.
My ride to probation fell through in a completely different way. My seventy-six-year-old boss and longtime family friend wanted to take me to my first probation appointment to show that I had support and accountability. Instead, he got lost on the way to pick me up. I was scared for him, but I didn’t have the luxury of waiting.
Both times, I ordered a Lyft and focused on getting myself there. Thank God I had money on my release pay card for emergencies.
After I finally registered and met my probation officer, I felt a huge weight lift off my chest. At least I knew I had a month before anyone could haul me back to prison. That small window of certainty was exactly what I needed in that moment. I follow all the rules and won’t even jaywalk. Freedom feels fragile, and I’m doing everything I can not to break it.
The Oxford House requires five meetings a week, but it took me almost five days to go to my first one. I was nervous. Why, you ask? Well, seriously, why not? I’m back in my hometown, my case was publicized in the news, and people actually believe what the news says.
God led me here for a reason, and I do trust Him. I’ve learned not to overlook the small miracles and quiet reminders He sends, like putting my old sponsor back in my life. He also reminds me that I’m not doing this alone. While I still have not been allowed to see my children, my sister is back in my life after six years. The Persevere team has also checked in and helped me find my footing again.
I miss you all more than I can explain. I don’t miss prison, but I miss the people, the conversations, the laughter, the way we showed up for each other in the hardest place. Life out here moves fast, and sometimes it feels like I tried to do everything on my first day back. I’m learning as I go, one awkward moment at a time. Please know that you are capable of more than you think. I hope to see you one day out here in the free world. I love you.
P.S. You don’t have to lick or dip your free-world eyeliner pencil in water to make it work. Oops. I forgot. 😂