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The thing about suffering is that when it’s over, you sometimes forget the depth of the cave you’re still emerging from. And by suffering, I mean depression. By depression, I mean 2024 when I found myself spiraling down a staircase that led me through all of Dante’s hells. A different way for me to admit this is to confess again: the best thing that you can do when hurting is find someone to talk to, but sometimes, the need to ask for help masks itself. You believe you’re asking for a life raft, but never articulate the word help. You emote. You weep. You learn what taciturn means. Around you, too often, people see your pain and it troubles them. They run to their comfort.

The dashboard clock glows a soft 4:15 am as I navigate the pre-dawn streets. At this hour, the city belongs to the early risers and late-night thinkers. Most passengers are content with the silence, but occasionally the conversation takes a turn towards the things that actually matter. We'll be cruising along when a rider will ask a question, "How long have you been Ubering?" "Do you enjoy Ubering?" "Have you met your fair share of weird riders?" That's usually the "tentacle" which can lead us into a deeper conversation. It's the perfect opening for me to share where my heart is during the daylight hours: Freedom Reads. I share my experiences working with Freedom Reads and the mission we're pursuing. The responses are a kaleidoscope of genuine curiosity. People lean forward, their faces illuminated by the passing street lights, asking the questions that show they are truly listening: "What do the libraries look like?" "How do you decide which books they get?" "What are the libraries made of?"

Autumn is a storyteller and brand champion — and as Freedom Reads' Senior Communications Associate, she puts those talents to work every day through branding strategy and oversight. From crafting press releases and media advisories to shaping our editorial strategy, her days are spent making sure the voices of people Inside reach the world outside. She brings years of storytelling experience to every piece of content, always keeping the people transformed by books at the center of the narrative.

He looked at me and said, “Thank you. Thank you for looking me in the eyes. No one looks me in the eyes. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to connect with the outside world.” This is how Dy’shawn, Inside Literary Prize judge at Shawnee Correctional Center, shared his appreciation for the opportunity to participate in the only US literary competition judged exclusively by incarcerated readers. This is how he shared his appreciation for the opportunity to simply be seen.

I have been out of prison for just over two decades, and in that time I have gotten at least three honorary degrees. Not once have I had my sons or my mom or any of my closest friends come and listen to me address a class of graduates. Such a huge honor, one that I'm deeply grateful for, and one I realize now that I might not have believed I deserved. That's the strange thing about prison: it makes you question what you deserve. And yet there's also something profoundly beautiful about what men, women, and children create in prisons.

The 15th annual National Conference for Higher Education in Prison was held in Cleveland, OH this year - and I was there. I went to prison in January of 2000 and got out in July of 2025. In 2011, while Inside, I joined Wesleyan University’s Center for Prison Education Program (CPE) - I had been in college almost since the first NCHEP.

Sometime in the 1980s, a friend of mine had just been denied parole and was in need of an uplift. I thought of giving him a book to help take his mind elsewhere and chose Claude Brown’s Manchild in the Promised Land. I felt that reading Manchild following his denial would cut through the disappointment with something steadier and more defiant. Provide proof that despite missteps, life and growth continues even when it feels stalled.

Meet Ben Bruce, the Chief Financial Officer of Freedom Reads. On any given day, Ben is the steady hand behind the organization's financial operations, reviewing transactions, approving expense reports, closing the books each month, and steering longer-term projects like the annual budget and year-end audit. He describes his work as balancing a dual objective: advancing the organization's mission while staying true to sound financial policy and legal requirements.

There is a specific kind of joy in watching a friend be truly seen by the world. Not just any friend, either, but one who helped free me from four decades of imprisonment when he was a Yale University law student. I recently had that experience while listening to Dwayne Betts sit down with Conan O’Brien on the latter’s wildly popular podcast. Talk about surprise! I’m a regular listener to the Conan O’Brien podcast and was amazed – and impressed – to hear Dwayne’s voice mix with Conan’s!

Since when do funders help do the work of going into prisons to bring Freedom Libraries Inside?

I mean help as in lifting heavy boxes to sort the thousands of books that live on the beautifully handcrafted bookshelves that Freedom Reads is founded upon. But that is just what happened at California Medical Facility (CMF), staff and supporters, together, opening Freedom Libraries for the sick and injured prisoners of CMF.

Every year, I celebrate March 4th as if it's my birthday, because in some ways, it is my birthday. 21 years ago on March 4th, I walked out of prison for the first time, and walked back into the world as somebody who had earned a lot of new names. Felon, a name I earned when I carjacked a man. Convict, a name I earned over the eight and a half years I spent in prison. Ex-con, the name I earned by walking out of prison, a free man. Shahid, the name I chose because I’d begun to understand that a name can be a future and I wanted to carry one that reminded me that the lives around me mattered.

Every other Wednesday, twenty of us chained and rustled like cattle, formed a motley crew. Destination; courthouse basement. We waited in bullpens, (large holding cells), as if in purgatory drowning in sweat, uncertainty, and fear. Not quite hell, not quite hope. We shared cold benches, bologna sandwiches with green edges, and an unspoken understanding that most of us would not be going home. It was better left unsaid. Words were weaponized against us, in the foreign language of reports and plea offers.