Today marked my fourth month in the Special Housing Unit, a place meant to punish this country’s worst criminal offenders. I was sentenced to 30 days in the SHU for using a contraband cellphone, yet here I am, 123 days later, still being punished with no end in sight. I have spent much of the last month writing about the conditions here, writing about people I’ve met, writing letters to people who have impacted my life, writing down plans for the future, and writing for other people. What I haven’t publicly written about is how I’m actually doing in here—where my head is, how my heart is. I’m happy to report that I have never in my life felt stronger and more sure of myself as a person.

Despite my circumstances, I wake up every morning excited about what I’m going to learn each new day. I feel like I’m finally using my mind to its fullest potential. Much of my life has been spent being just smart enough to attract women or make another witty comment. Much of my ability to express my thoughts through words has been used in text messages and group chats rather than creating lasting content. While I can’t wait to get back to all of these things, this experience is teaching me that I’m capable of so much more than a meme-orable experience. I’m more than just a quick comeback, more than a pick-up line. Whether it’s writing out 26-page business plans, creating questions with respective explanations for the warden with journalistic integrity, learning and writing about the lives of other inmates, or simply writing a birthday card to my daughter, I’m able to do it at a level that surprises those who read what I have to say.

What most people don’t fully understand about my story thus far is that it all fell apart in August 2015 when my associates and I had $40,000 taken from us at the airport. The culmination of that cash seizure was my arrest on June 9th, 2016. Before that, I had big plans for the future. I was 27-years-old, had a beautiful girlfriend, and had a daughter I loved dearly. My biggest mistakes weren’t selling weed or transporting it across the country; my mistakes were losing sight of what I had, getting lost in the lifestyle created by an exorbitant amount of cash and status. I had plans to move out west, do things legally, and make a name for myself in the cannabis industry. I know that to people who have never been to legal states or truly experienced the cannabis culture, this sounds like a pie in the sky, some unobtainable ideal, but it isn’t. I had legitimate plans and opportunities, and I was so close to being able to make them all reality. Instead, 40k was confiscated from us and I had absolutely no choice but to stop selling. So, for a time, I stopped. It sucked, but what can you do? Sometimes life sucks. You do what you do to get by—you hustle, and you provide. Then I broke my hand and couldn’t work a “regular” job, so how was I supposed to support myself and my daughter? Even in South Carolina where everyone brags about the low cost of living, you still need to have an income to make ends meet, to feed yourself, to feed your child. What choice did I have? I started selling again. As I made another name for myself in the game, the State showed up and raided my house.

I’m not explaining all of this for sympathy or to stew in my own sorrow; this is just the way the cards fell. A bad hand. As soon as I was arrested, I knew I would eventually end up in prison. I knew the feds planned on picking up the case shortly after my arrest, and I knew that unless I ratted on my friends, I would definitely be going to prison. When you have that knowledge, all plans for the future spontaneously combust. They cease to exist. From that day forward, I wasn’t actually living my life any longer, just moving from space to space, day to day, waiting for that hammer to fall. Unless you’re someone who has experienced federal pretrial for almost three years, you can’t fully imagine what this experience is like. Everything in your life becomes temporary.

I fell in love during those three pretrial years, and I carried the knowledge that I would lose her every single day. Every moment spent with my daughter was another tick on the clock counting down until her dada was going to prison. I remember tallying up the remaining weeks I would have with her before I turned myself in. Even though I was still technically “free,” my impending imprisonment hovered over my head like a dark cloud. I knew that one day I would lose everyone I loved and my life would never be the same. I didn’t want to find some girl who would “ride with me” or “stack bread” until I started my time like a lot of guys do. I simply tried to enjoy the time I had left. I tried to cherish every memory I made.

When I arrived at prison, it certainly wasn’t as bad as I expected; I met some amazing dudes who I will be friends with for the rest of my life. The people I expected would be there for me fell away, but other people I would’ve never expected to rise to the occasion showed up and have been present in my life since day one. I consider myself lucky to have had the people that I do, the people that made my transition to prison life easier. Despite the relative ease of transition, I feel like the first year I spent in prison can be summarized by one task: adding up all the days I’d spent away from my friends and family. From the first five months where I lost over 50 pounds and became a sports star on the compound to the last three months where I started writing and became Prison Daddy—these were just days I’d spent of a 60-month sentence. Yes, some days were inspiring, interesting, and worth the story I’m telling, but it was time counted. I did have some thoughts regarding planning for the future, but truth be told? I was simply existing. I was making awesome connections and bettering myself, but it was all just adding to the time under my belt. Counting the tally marks. It wasn’t until I landed in the SHU that I finally started putting things together.

Instead of looking at prison as a running tally on how long I’ve been here, I have turned the corner into how long I have left. Even though I still have more time left than I have technically served, I count the three years that I spent waiting to come to prison as part of the time I’ve already done. It has been over four years since I’ve had the ability or will to plan for the future. I see a lot of guys about to get out, and they still have no idea what they’re going to do once they are. But here I am, and I’m alight with the passion to create every aspect of a plan for myself before I leave here.

I want to have a book to a publisher by the time I’m six months from being released. I want to have my business plans ready to go for once I’m done with halfway house and home confinement. This time in the SHU has given me the opportunity to sit and plan out the various paths and opportunities I see ahead for me. It has given me a definitive timeline in which there are things I can accomplish. It has taught me how to write about a variety of concepts, and it has brought my life back into focus. While I do want nothing more than to leave the SHU and move on to the next chapter of my prison experience, I think I’ll look back on this time as one of the most important and defining moments of my life. I completely believe in myself like I never have in the past. If I can make it through this with a positive attitude, excited to get up and be productive every day, I can certainly make it back in the “real” world.

One thing that being in the SHU has changed my perspective on is memories. I think that there are plenty of memories that get clouded by how things end with a person. Think about an ex or a friend you fell out with: normally we only remember the bad that happened at the end, whatever made us break up or stop talking. In here, none of the bad matters. Aside from planning for the future, what gets me through this time is thinking about all the amazing memories I have with so many different people. I am truly blessed to have had so many unbelievable times with such unforgettable people.

I wrote a bunch of people last month—not to get them to write back, but to simply thank them for getting me through this period of isolation with the memories we created together. I wasn’t able to write everyone, but if we share amazing memories, rest assured that I have probably thought of them and smiled. If you have a memory with me, I hope it makes you smile. If you’ve never met me, I hope my outlook makes you smile. I can’t wait to get out and make new memories with all of you. I can’t wait to get out and show the world the potential I’ve always had. I’m excited for the future, excited to see what I can become in this life.

If you’ve been wondering how I’m really doing, what I’m really thinking about, then this is all of it. I do write on a lot of different topics and try to write with conviction on all of them, but in the end? I’m just a pothead who loves the world and all the people in it. I know the world is crazy out there, and trust me: it’s crazy in here, too. Life is all about perspective, and maintaining a positive view on life and yourself is an invaluable tool. Sometimes it’s hard to keep faith in people when you live where I live, but in the end, I truly believe that together we can change the world.

—Prison Daddy