The first photo after a year and seven months in prison feels different. The world after a year and seven months in prison feels different. Even though I kept up with the outside world through TV and newspapers, the world outside isn’t the same. After a year and seven months, when I was released from prison, I didn’t know who had arrived, who had left. I didn’t know what was new, what was old, what was trending. Honestly, I still don’t know, even after eight months of freedom.

It feels like I was frozen in time while the whole world kept turning. People, of course, continued with their lives, while I was stuck there, in prison. The feeling of being smaller, of being lesser than everyone else, gnawed at me and left deep scars until I had to fight and confront myself. I had to rethink everything I knew about prison. Not everyone sees it the same way, but I needed to find some kind of beauty in that experience, because I lived it so intensely that it had to mean something.

In the early days, I thought I was going to lose my mind, that I was going to lose everything. So, I had to start working on myself. I began developing myself personally. I read every book on personal growth I could find. I took every online course I could. I re-learned high school material. I understood that the most important thing about being in prison was what I was going to do with it, and I decided that I was going to make the best of it.

I did yoga naked in a cell. I danced naked in a cell. I made friends, told jokes until late at night, laughed until my stomach hurt. I cried many times. I slept hungry, woke up thirsty. My privacy was ripped away, exposed, shattered. I was diminished, dehumanized. I fought for rights and realized, most of the time, it wasn’t worth it. I translated documents in Portuguese, English, Spanish, and French. I worked on immigration cases. I wrote every day. I taught classes. I exercised. I did and lived the best I could in that situation.