Compassion and Hope: A Reflection on My Years as a Texas Prison Guard

Retiring as a Texas prison guard was a relief, yet it left me with an indelible imprint of haunting memories and visceral experiences. The stark imagery of bloody knife fights and the very human suffering I witnessed echoes in my mind, a reminder of the raw reality of life behind bars. But throughout those tumultuous years, one thing remained constant: I never allowed hate to take root in my heart for the offenders I encountered. Instead, I cultivated a deep sense of sorrow for many of them, coupled with the hope that there might still be a chance for redemption.

In my decade of service, I came to understand the unfortunate truth that many of these men and women would not have found themselves incarcerated if life had dealt them a kinder hand. Some were trapped by their own poor choices, others by circumstances beyond their control: a lack of resources to hire capable lawyers, an inability to navigate the complexities of the legal system, or the sheer misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This sparked in me a profound compassion for their struggles.

Having worked in various capacities, including Administrative Segregation and Death Row, I saw the spectrum of humanity that prison encapsulates. There were days that brought extreme challenges: I witnessed despair as I worked to thwart suicide attempts, confronted with the fragility of life in the most hardened of places. I found myself listening to the tortured confessions of individuals whose lives were so ensnared in violence that they spoke of killing with a sense of twisted expectation. Each encounter stripped away the veneer of criminality to reveal the underlying stories of their lives—tragedies, losses, and often, the haunting specter of hope.

I took those stories to heart. In solitary confinement, I found unexpected connections amidst the desolation. I became more than just a guard; I was an unlikely mentor, sharing rap songs that resonated with their reality, speaking the language they understood. Music became a bridge, a way to feed minds that had long been starved for creativity and expression. There was an unspoken agreement that, despite our differences, we were all just people trying to navigate our individual paths through a shared hell.

My years of service were marred by the everyday danger of a job that often felt more perilous than necessary. Overcrowded facilities were reminiscent of Civil War prisons. I remember vividly the chaotic dorms filled with the restless energy of too many bodies crammed into too little space—a dangerous recipe for conflict. I often found myself in situations that tested not only my physical strength but my emotional resilience. My uniform bore the stains of those confrontations, marked by blood, spit, and substances that no one would wish to digest.

Yet through it all, I learned important lessons that transcend prison walls. I realized that even amidst chaos and conflict, my mission was to create a semblance of peace. I made it my personal duty to keep tensions from boiling over, to halt the cycles of violence, and to offer a glimmer of hope to those who believed they had lost everything. From cutters, who self-harmed to cope with their pain, to offenders with backgrounds as diverse as doctors and lawyers, I was reminded that everyone carries their own burdens.

Now, as I sit with my reflections, my heart tells me one thing loud and clear: I never want anyone to experience prison life. It is a world of despair, a place that grinds down the spirit. If you find yourself facing incarceration, remember to do your time; the hope you seek may be buried beneath the rubble of your circumstances.

I often tell offenders, “I can’t do your time, and you can’t do mine, but we are all just doing our time in this world.” This is the reality of existence, whether inside or outside of those concrete walls. Embrace the moments of connection, the opportunities to learn, and the flickers of hope that exist, even in the darkest places. Share your stories, create bonds, and feed your minds—because hope, however fragile, can spark change.

In my journey as a Texas prison guard, I witnessed the worst and the best of humanity. And while the memories may haunt me, they also remind me of the power of compassion. We are all human, flawed, and often tested, but there is always the potential for hope and healing. So if you ever find yourself walking the path of incarceration, remember this: you are not alone, your story is still being written, and the future, however daunting, still holds the promise of light.

Now, do me a solid and read my books and share them with your family and friends this Christmas or anytime-