#survivingprison

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.

Since the dawn of mythology, time has always been seen as an absolute and relentless power. Saturn, also known as Chronos in Greek mythology, is the god who devours his own children, a metaphor for the inevitability of time that consumes everything. Chronos created time as an infinite current, a force that shapes life, ages, and destroys, never stopping or looking back.

However, the modern view of time gained new dimensions with Albert Einstein and his Theory of Relativity. Einstein taught us that time is not a straight line but something flexible—it can stretch and shrink, depending on speed and gravity. For some, time passes slowly; for others, too quickly. But one truth remains: we can never go back, only move forward.

It is in this paradox that time becomes more than just a concept—it becomes a lived experience, especially when incarcerated. Time in prison becomes its own entity, a prison within a prison—stretched, endless, relentless. Here, time is a cruel dance between Chronos and relativity, a battle fought daily, minute by minute.

Here’s a gift, some advice, a word of encouragement: the more you fill your time with activities that elevate you as a human being, the faster time passes. This is called the state of flow—that moment when you are so absorbed in what you’re doing that you don’t even notice time passing. I rediscovered my love for reading in prison; I would read a book a day. And I didn’t just read—I realized we consume so little of a book, so I marked the pages I loved most, and when I finished the book, I wrote an essay about it. I still have those writings with me.

I redid high school, studied all the subjects; it was a unique experience to go back and study everything I had learned as a young man, but now in another language. I even asked the prison for a calculator to better follow the math classes, but since there were none available, I did the calculations by hand! I studied personal development, religion, and watched the video “Chasing the Dragon” repeatedly, which shows addicts and ex-addicts and their battles against addiction. It helped me a lot to understand my own methamphetamine addiction and where it could lead me.

I decided to work out and started right there in my cell. Of course, my cellmate laughed at first, but I just didn’t care—I kept going. Slowly, I gained more confidence, and that confidence spread to other areas of my life. Even today, I meditate and do yoga every morning, just as I did in prison. I would wake up before the C.O. called us for breakfast. By the time it was time to serve breakfast, I had already meditated, done yoga, brushed my teeth, changed clothes, and combed my hair.

I did yoga straight on the floor, no mat, no blanket, no blocks. It helped me immensely every day, and I became much more aware of my body. And I didn’t care what others thought. To them, it wasn’t normal. How dare I enjoy that moment in prison when they were all there suffering, with their families suffering outside? I heard that many times. But the truth is, it all comes down to choices. I made mine; they made theirs.

I wrote in my diary every day, about the past, the present, and my hopes and dreams for the future. I wrote stories, fiction, and about the reality of my past. I cried a lot—every month, every week, almost every day. I cried asking for forgiveness, I cried accepting forgiveness, I cried always in gratitude, never asking for anything.

Sometimes, I felt like the day wasn’t long enough for all the activities I wanted to do. I even enjoyed the days we were locked in our cells all day, as it was an opportunity to read uninterrupted. Gradually, I created a routine, added new activities, replaced others, and time went by.

Until, one day, the last day finally arrived.

Filling my time and diving into this state of flow made me see the prison experience differently. The walls no longer felt like they were closing in, and the barred windows no longer stopped my mind from flying and building a better future for myself. I thought about creating a list of goals to achieve after prison, but I wanted something deeper than a simple list. I went to understand the etymology of the word "Meta." The word "Meta" comes from the ancient Greek "μετά" (metá), meaning "beyond," "target," or "purpose." Originally used to denote something that goes beyond the here and now, "Meta" carries the sense of transcending, of seeking something beyond the current point—a goal, a change, an evolution.

Understanding that to reach a goal, one must transcend and change, I wrote down all my goals knowing that, to achieve them, I would have to change my current state. With that understanding and knowing I was imprisoned, I chose to use my time to my advantage, filling it with as much flow as possible.

Encouraging Message: