Dear Fear,

I see you.

I've come to understand that you are a natural part of life, not an enemy, just a presence. You show up as a signal, a form of protection, sometimes even as a guide. You've helped shape the pathways of my brain, taught me how to assess danger, how to prepare, how to survive. You've played your part in my development, and for that, I can't deny your value. Here's where we get tangled.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped being a feeling and started sounding like a warning siren - loud, relentless, urgent - even when there's no real danger. You show up now with your companions: overthinking and anxiety. Together, you create endless loops of "what ifs," spirals that exhaust my mind and drain my spirit.

And yet, even as I name you liars, part of me fears you're right. The hardest part is that I'm more afraid of being right about the fear than being wrong, and that's what keeps me stuck. It's paralyzing. You've held me back from moments I should have walked into with courage. You've built walls I didn't need. You've convinced me that safety lies in hesitation.

However, here's the truth I'm learning to hold: sometimes, the best thing I can do is walk straight into you because discomfort and/or fear isn't always danger -- sometimes, it's growth. And sometimes what feels like fear is really just the stretching of unfamiliar muscles. Maybe that's where transformation lives: in sitting with you, breathing through you, watching you pass.

You will always be a part of me, but I'm learning that you don't have to lead. I'll listen to you, but I won't always obey you. And slowly, I'll learn to tell the difference between your caution and your control.

With courage,

LG

Behind me I've burnt so many bridges, sometimes it's hard for me to breathe.
The soots settled on my skin and I can still smell the gasoline.
I choke up and still feel the grime of what I've done, as if the smoke is still surrounding me.
Looking back my vision gets hazy to the point I can hardly see.
Actually, I recognize the wreckage so clearly, but not how I came to be.

Here at this point I'm paralyzed to make decisions.
Because my path is one that was paved with so many good intentions.
Now look it's littered by the things strewn from the midst of addiction.
Evidence of my betrayals stretch far back in that direction.

Promises like shattered glass covers the street.
Discarded with the masks I used to get what I need.
Are the hearts of those I misused, squished under my feet.
Follow the burning wreckage and bloody tracks, they'll lead you straight back to me.

My heart starts to race and my palms start to sweat.
I start getting anxious about what has not happened yet.

Fear sets in as I think about all that I have to say.
“Please just let this be over” is what I pray.

I don’t like being the center of attention.
This brings me not only fear, but a lot of apprehension.

All the thoughts in my head keep telling me “you’re going to sound dumb.”
But as soon as I open my mouth, the fear is no longer heard from.

Only confidence and clarify are the feelings I feel,
and my words bring me out of my mental ordeal.

I am strong and enthusiastic when I find my groove.
Nothing can stop me once the fear I remove.

In a conversation with my celly, he told me that he couldn’t understand how there was any question of the absence of beauty in a place with grey walls, grey bars, grey boxes & grey floors. I replied “I guess it’s just a matter of perspective.” Though that was half an answer from my brain, not fully from my heart. As I sat there silently after I spoke my heart shouted in my head to confess: 

That sometimes I agree..

However; Everyday I see kings in shackles and warriors in chains. 

Kings whose only subjects are in preparation for a GED and warriors with no more wars other than with themselves, battling addiction and the pain from the trauma they’ve endured.

Still despite all this I see these men smile.

To me that’s as beautiful as the sunset I’ve watched on the Rec yard in-between sets of burpess and bench press, the sun so close I could catch it and cup it in my hands if not for the razor wire. 

I may have become desensitized to the bars, gate, glass, gate, ars that overlap and overlay my vision, because I only see the tree shiver and shake in what I assume must be the breeze but in my imagination she’s a lover waving at me. And my heart swells just the same. 

I may have become delusional, because I’ve meditated at dawn and as the sun rose I watched the morning light, soft as a brush stroke paint the air and before my eyes the dust swirls transformed into dancing diamonds and literally it brought tears to my eyes.

I know I’m emotional because everyday I see men shake hands, I see men laugh and I see men embrace. I won’t lie, sometimes it’s fake, sometimes it’s forced and sometimes laughter is the only thing we can do or else we’ll break and at times I see men remain strong just for another’s sake.

If you don’t find that beautiful, I don’t know what else to say.

Make no mistake it’s not that I don’t see that prison is a place of oppression. It’s that everyday I wake up I make a decision to see God in these walls, to see God in the bars, God in the boxes, and God in the floors. 

It’s more than just a matter of perspective, but at the same time from whereI stand, I can see the divine in every man.

Numbness:
“There have been so many moments in life where I was the one thing you were begging for. All of those times when it was just you and God and the plea to make it all go away? I showed up for you. I quieted the noise and lessened your pain. But now that I’m here all you’re asking me to do is go away.”

Me:
“I was wrong. But without the chance of meeting you I wouldn’t have ever known it. I thought you were what I not only wanted but needed. And you’re right - I remember every time I begged for you. But when you showed up I realized the loss that came with you. You see I came to see that when you took the bad, the good left too. And if I must choose between feeling too much or feeling nothing at all — I choose to much.

This was the first job I couldn’t see Laura do in person. With every other job she’s had, I could drop in and see her work, watch her interact, and feel connected to it. But when she worked inside the prison, I had to use my imagination. 

I didn’t know who the men she talked about were. I had heard story after story about them, but to me, they weren’t completely real. Neither was the prison itself. Anytime Laura mentioned the tiers, all I could picture was The Green Mile or Shawshank Redemption. She worked “inside the walls” in a separate building I’m still not convinced exists. 

We’d talked about getting a tour while she worked there, but there were never any opportunities available. After Laura left her full-time job at the prison, she continued on in a volunteer role. After attending a Toastmasters meeting there, she said I’d have to go sometime because she knows how much I do not enjoy public speaking, and this program was geared toward just that.

After a while, Laura created The Creative Sentence with the feedback of a few men still inside. This, along with the idea of attending Toastmasters, was enough for me to submit my volunteer paperwork and background check. Even after turning in all the documents, I still didn’t fully believe it would happen. 

Weeks passed with the same answer: “Not cleared yet.” Then, one Monday in May, I got a text from Laura:

“You’re cleared!!!!”

I replied with two wide-eyed emojis. It felt more real, but still not all the way. 

Fast forward to the car ride to the prison that night. I must’ve asked Laura a million questions. “Do I shake their hand like normal?”

“Do I fist bump?”

“What’s allowed, what’s not?”

As a coach, I’m used to a handshake, dap up, bro hug, fist bump, you name it. I wanted to make sure I knew what was allowed and what wasn’t.

I was nervous. Not because I thought anything was going to happen to me (mainly because no one in that group would hurt Laura, honestly, they’d likely protect her if someone tried). I was nervous because I didn’t know what to expect. Nervous because I wanted to make a good first impression. Nervous because I wanted to fit in, to be accepted by people I had only heard stories about. Nervous because my safety was partially in the hands of people I’d never met. Nervous because I didn’t want to accidentally dap someone up and get in trouble the first time I was there.

We walked through the front door and went through security. As the second door slid open, we walked into another room - just like Laura had shared in her stories. I must’ve looked really out of place because I was looking all around, trying to take it in while also following what Laura was saying.

After getting our visitors badges, we walked upstairs to a small classroom that overlooks the main chapel. Time felt like it moved slowly while we waited for the guys to arrive. It was going to be a small group because they were on lockdown, which was perfectly fine with me for my first visit. I had purposefully turned away from the door, so it would be a surprise that I was there. The first few guys came in and said hi to Laura. I slowly turned around, not knowing what to expect.

I was greeted with huge smiles, handshakes and quite a few:

“No way, you’re actually here!”

“You’re real!” 

To which I replied, 

“I wasn’t sure you guys were real either.”

My nerves went away pretty quickly. We sat and talked about The Creative Sentence, the guys asked me questions, and I asked them questions back. Before we knew it, the two hours had flown by and it was time to go. What struck me most was when I asked them what they felt when they first got to prison. Every single one of them said they were scared.

These men aren’t that much different from you or me. They are fathers, sons, brothers, husbands, uncles, and friends. They range from age 18 to 90. Some are actively working on rehabilitating themselves and trying to become better people by learning from their past. Inside the prison walls, just like outside, there are people who are doing good things and those who are not. Many of the differences I saw could be traced back to the chances and luxuries we’ve been given in life. A lot of the men I met grew up experiencing trauma and situations I could never imagine: abuse, addiction, systemic neglect, a lack of love and safety.

The Monday before my mom died, I returned to the prison for The Creative Sentence. We were working through a prompt centered on feelings. Two men shared how they had processed the loss of their own mothers - one through traditional grieving, the other through Native customs.

EP said “I was grieving for a while and at one point, a friend said to me, “Stop crying, your mom doesn’t want to look down on you and see you crying. She is at peace, stop worrying about her, she is okay.” 

That hit me like a ton of bricks. When my mom passed away three days later, all I could think of were the words that EP had spoken that Monday. 

There’s a lot we can learn from people who are incarcerated, just like we can learn from anyone who’s lived a life different from ours. They are people too, their circumstances are just different than what we may be used to. Most of them will return to society and could end up being your neighbor, boss, waiter, mechanic, or colleague. 

It’s easy to imagine that prison, and the people inside it, aren’t real (remember, that was me!). But I can assure you, they are. You can’t just throw away the key and ignore them. That doesn’t make the world a better place. Listen, learn, and show compassion, even when it’s uncomfortable. That’s where real change begins.

In a place where everything has a price—even the risk of being vulnerable—the Create Sentence provides a rare, safe space to express yourself freely and without judgment. 

In just the two sessions I’ve attended, we’ve had some really honest, meaningful talks about deep emotions—the kind everyone feels: anger, guilt, and shame. In those moments, we weren’t strangers—we were mirrors. The same emotions, the same struggles, the same hopes. Vulnerability connected us. 

One moment that stuck with me was hearing both sides of the same story: the absence of a father, and being the absent father. Same pain, different perspectives. That kind of sharing? It’s healing. 

This space reminds me that when we share our stories, our burdens get lighter. And that freedom—to express, connect, and be seen—is everything.