Life

Life

When they sentenced me to life, I didn’t even know what they were really sentencing me to. I just knew I wasn’t going home.

Looking back now, I see a kid—confused, unprepared—who had no idea what he was about to survive. And that breaks me, because I should’ve been there. I should’ve been home being a kid—playing games, chasing girls, worrying about kid stuff. But instead, I was worried about one thing: staying alive. I was worried about having to kill somebody if they tried to rape me in juvenile, because I heard the stories… the real stories. I wasn’t a coward—but I didn’t know what to expect.

Trauma was already in me before prison, from growing up surrounded by the still and the lost. And I was one of them. So I walked through that nightmare with a smile, because if I didn’t, I would’ve lost control.

Every morning I opened my eyes, I cried. Sometimes I cried because I wished I didn’t wake up. And sometimes I cried because waking up meant the truth: this ain’t no bad dream—this is real.

Growing up in prison didn’t heal me. It damaged me in ways I still deal with today.

I lost my life in pieces—my 16th, 21st, 25th, 30th, 40th birthdays… milestones people celebrate with family, love, laughter. I celebrated with noodles. I “graduated” through every grade in prison—learning how to survive instead of learning how to live. I lost so much.

But honestly… even on my worst days, I know I can’t let it keep me down—because my mission isn’t done. I’m still here for a reason. And if I lived through that, then my life has to mean something bigger tha

n what they tried to bury me under.