For 13 years, I lived in concrete giants: Sterling Correctional Facility and Limon Correctional Facility — prisons so harsh they etched themselves into your posture, your pace, your sense of possibility. Institutions where hope felt like contraband and vulnerability was a liability, where I learned to keep my head down and my heart armored. 

Then in April 2025, I was transferred to a prison 50 minutes southwest of Colorado Springs called The Beacon at Skyline. Previously known as Skyline Correctional Center, the prison began operations in 1957, and has served different prison populations in the decades since. 

In 2022, after a nearly two-year closure, it reopened as The Beacon at Skyline with “a completely new organizational structure, mission, and philosophy,” according to Colorado’s state prison system website. The Beacon uses a “human-centered” collaborative approach with staff and extends greater educational and programming opportunities, as well as offers mental health services to prepare people for their reentry to the outside.  

In the state prison system out here, people whisper about The Beacon like folklore. Some people told me it was the most progressive prison in the nation, a claim that sounded as fictional as flying pigs. It sounded like a rumor made of hope. 

When I stepped off the transport bus at The Beacon, the first person I saw was my cousin Tyler. 

“Don’t grab your property,” he said. 

Ten residents rushed forward. One took my TV, another my green bag and someone else grabbed my legal box. I flinched instinctively; 13 years of hard time will do that. But I quickly realized they were helping me. No test. No angle. Just compassion. 

I looked around. No fences. No gun towers. No tension in the air. It looked like a rehab retreat or a nursing home. I smiled. 

Inside the facility, 20 residents and staff introduced themselves. Not one asked about my crime. Not one judged me by my number. They called me by my first name. Behind them was a fish tank with turtles swimming peacefully. A black-and-white cat named Socks strolled by like he owned the place (he kind of does!).

I started to understand: This wasn’t just a new facility. It was a new philosophy. 

A few residents took me on a tour. Mountains wrapped around us like the arms of an old grandmother. On the back side, I saw Colorado State Penitentiary just a mile away — indisputably the harshest facility in the state. It serves as a visible reminder of how blessed we are to be here. 

On the tour, we checked out the basement, which had a fully loaded gym: assault bikes, weighted vest, dumbbells and every other kind of weight you can name. 

The backyard? A pickleball court and an outdoor weights station. 

The food? A café, not a chow hall. 

At most prisons, whatever comes out the tray slot is what you get to eat. No questions asked. Here, those serving us ask what we want on our trays. The staff greet us with warm smiles. One of the servers, Ms. Bonnie, will occasionally ask us to perform a quick dance to get our food. There are no assigned seats for races or gangs. No sitting at a table with both of your feet on one side prepared to jump up if something pops off. When I first arrived, I was startled when two staff members sat down to eat dinner with me. That’s normal here. It feels like you’re eating at a local restaurant.

This was our meal on Juneteenth: catfish, grilled chicken, collard greens, yams, mac-n-cheese, black-eyed peas, cornbread, velvet cake, ice cream, watermelon and Kool-Aid! 

My guides joked about what they called “The Beacon 20.” Everyone here puts on at least 20 pounds not long after they arrive. I laughed like I hadn’t laughed in years. 

Here, we have single rooms, not cells. Books line the walls. Classes fill the calendar: trauma healing, restorative justice, business, CrossFit and parenting. One program called N.O.B.L.E. was extremely helpful to many over the last summer. In that program, we learned a soft skill, such as emotional intelligence for relationships, for one week. Then the following week, we were taught a hard skill, such as how to tie a tie.

We lock down 20 minutes a day for one count, and that’s it. Each day, I sit on the front steps of the facility. I can leave my room at 2 a.m. to hit the gym, grab a book or just walk around. Outside, deer graze 10 feet away while I listen to a podcast on my tablet.

During visits, there’s no rigid tables nor looming guards. We play volleyball with our kids. Toss the football. Sit under canopies with our wives, brothers and mamas. I’ve watched the toughest men melt in the sun of a 5-year-old’s smile.

One brother here is doing life without parole. He wears an ankle monitor, but could attempt to run away. He doesn’t. Why? Not because of fences, but because of trust. When people treat you like a person, you choose to act like one. 

There is no politics here. No gangbangin’. No knives littered throughout the compound. The code we live by is simple: Respect. Growth. Community. 

And the staff? They’re not just guards. They’re counselors, mentors, agents of change, dream defenders. They see us and fight for us. They show up every day like what we become matters. 

So how does it work? Compassion. 

When watered, the human spirit will bloom even in concrete. 

This isn’t just about prison reform. It’s about redefining justice. Retribution has its limits. You can’t punish a man into wholeness. But you can love him there. You can show him a mirror that reflects not who he was but who he could become. 

When we stop punishing and start restoring, we rise up. We write books, obtain degrees and certifications, start businesses, reunite with families and mentor youth. We leave and don’t come back. Some of us even stay connected to give back. 

If there is one common complaint at The Beacon, it’s that we have to wear our green pants to the cafeteria. Wearing sweats or gym shorts would be more comfortable. But I guess the green uniform pants distinguish us from the frequent outside visitors that join us in the café, and it’s also for sanitary reasons — many guys would come directly from the gym or outside recreation if they could.

I am not naive. Not every prison can be The Beacon. Not every man is ready for it. But this place should not be an anomaly. It’s a blueprint, and we have a duty to share it.

Here’s my call to lawmakers, educators, wardens, journalists and citizens: Come visit. Talk to men who once had nothing but rage who now facilitate classes and serve as mentors. Watch staff break bread with us over conversations about healing and accountability. And witness Socks curled up next to a man who once thought himself unworthy of love.