For almost two decades, I drifted through my time in prison feeling purposeless. In my mind, the world was black and white. Where could I go from here, and what could I contribute, after harming people and being sentenced to life in prison?
I started to find my answer through the special needs unit at Sullivan Correctional Facility, a prison in upstate New York. In this role, I cared for people with developmental disabilities. Those who need the so-called SNU typically have impairments in several fundamental aspects of daily life: communication and social skills, self-care, home living and the use of community resources.
Most incarcerated people utilize programs offered by the state prison system to earn GED certificates, college degrees and other skills in preparation for reentry. But people who are developmentally disabled or have severe mental health issues have extremely limited options. The SNU tries to fill some of that void.
Finding meaning
In the SNU, I helped men who needed assistance showering, writing letters home and getting food from the commissary. Through the work, I built trust with others, tended to their needs and helped them feel a sense of autonomy. For the first time in my 17 years in prison, I started to find meaning through this work. Over my years working — and living — in the unit, I learned how to listen and show up for people every day.
At first, it was a bit of a culture shock. The SNU resembled a homeless shelter more than your typical prison block. Some people in the SNU would sell their food for a smoke, or beg for food like a panhandler. Most of the SNU residents walked around with their coats and limited personal property on their person. A staff member told me that this habit was learned from their time in shelters, where leaving property behind left it vulnerable to being stolen.
To resolve issues, I had to work side by side with administrators and corrections officers. I could have met that situation with animosity. At times, I felt tempted to. But by collaborating with prison staff, I realized I could advocate for the guys in the SNU more effectively. Having an ear in the prison’s administration often meant I could make sure to emphasize when one of the guys needed transitional care, or to be transferred to a mental health facility instead of being left to fend for himself.
Once, we came up with a system to help the guys call home. The prison phone system required a personal identification number before entering the phone number of the person you wanted to call, which confused many of those in our care. To get around this, we had family members call the prison and ask for their loved one to call home. The counselor would then give me the person’s phone number, which I’d dial after entering their PIN for them. When the person answered, I would pass on the phone so the SNU resident could talk to his family.
A job change
When Sullivan closed in late 2024, I was transferred to Eastern New York Correctional Facility, a prison which didn’t have an SNU when I arrived. Without the sense of purpose and the close bonds I’d built with the guys there, I became depressed. I was afraid life would feel meaningless again.
But then Maggie came along. Maggie is a yellow labrador retriever whom I’m training in obedience and explosives detection. This is part of the Puppies Behind Bars program in New York, which matches dogs with incarcerated people who train them for future work with law enforcement, first responders and wounded veterans. The irony of this story isn’t lost on me: I broke the law, and now I’m training Maggie to enforce the law.
Being entrusted with Maggie and the responsibility of introducing this puppy to the world, is a way I can contribute to communal safety. While I may stay in prison, she will go out into the world and make it safer. Through her, I get to do my part.
Not a number
I bring Maggie with me to different parts of the prison. I socialize with her. I train her to ignore distractions and follow instructions. Working with her is obviously different from working with humans in the SNU, but many of the muscles are the same: building a daily relationship of empathy and trust, uplifting and guiding another living being who depends on you, and preparing that being for a next phase that you won’t get to witness.
In prison, care is often in short supply. You’re separated from your family and reminded daily of what you’ve lost. You’re made faceless, nameless, into a number. But when Maggie has looked to me for guidance with her big brown eyes, or when I helped one of the guys on the SNU read a letter from his family, I haven’t felt like a number. With them, I’m not defined by the worst day of my life. I’m defined by how I show up.
In 2025, Eastern Correctional opened its own SNU, and I got to be part of the team that launched it. Now, in addition to caring for Maggie, I’m once again caring for guys on the SNU — while also pursuing my master’s degree in public humanities. I no longer just feel fleeting glimmers of meaning. Despite my life sentence, I can finally see a future for myself, one where I can make the world a safer, softer, more caring place, and begin to transcend the harm I caused.
