Seven years ago, I attended a conference that completely blew me away. A huge room filled with people who all had one thing in common – being convicted of a crime they didn't commit. The conversations that unfolded were unlike anything I had ever experienced. The shared experiences elevated the discussions in ways I never could have imagined.
On the last night of the conference, I met a man named Frank. He had been in prison since he was 16 years old—38 years behind bars for a crime he didn't commit. Frank told me that, in some ways, prison might have saved his life because he had fallen in with the wrong crowd, and his life was spiraling out of control. But on the other hand, he simply didn't commit the crime that took his freedom. When I met Frank, he had been out for about a year, trying to navigate a world that had changed dramatically while he was away.
I struggled to fathom what it must feel like to lose nearly four decades of life experiences. How does one even begin again? The thing he wanted more than anything—his freedom—was finally his, yet there was no instruction manual for restarting life after so long. He had spent decades in an environment where every moment of his day was dictated by others, where personal agency was almost nonexistent. Now, he was on the outside, but where does he start?
Frank lost family members during his incarceration. He never finished high school. He never had a real job. He never married or had children. I don't know about you, but it's hard to imagine having so many of life's major milestones taken away.
Back at the conference, Frank and I talked for a while that last night. At one point, I asked if he liked to dance. His face fell slightly, but he came out and danced with me for a couple of songs before we rejoined the larger group. Later, I learned that Frank had never danced before. It was unimaginable to me. This man had spent decades sitting on the sidelines of life, unable to experience even something as simple as dancing.
Frank and I have stayed in touch. We don't talk often, but our connection that night forged a genuine friendship. He called me the other day, and as we picked up our conversation from prior years, I could hear the weight in his voice. He has now been out for seven or eight years, yet he still struggles every single day.
He hasn't had the life experiences that most people take for granted. He doesn't know how to make everyday decisions, what's important and what's not, or how to discern which people truly have his best interests at heart. For decades, every decision was made for him. There was no point in thinking about preferences or choices—he had none. He ate what he was given, slept where he was told, and coexisted with whoever was in his immediate environment.
Freedom is a strange thing for Frank because it leaves him unsure of what to do. For most people reading this, that feeling is unimaginable. But try stepping into Frank's shoes for a moment.
We decide what to do with our freedom every day. Frank is still adjusting to that reality after years of having authorities oversee his every move.
I worry about him. His “yes” is unsure. His “no” is easily swayed. He isn't grounded in how to navigate life. There is no guidebook for someone like him.
Frank did receive a settlement from the state that stole 38 years of his life. I don't know how you put a number on that, but most states have a formula for compensating the wrongfully convicted. Unfortunately, many of the people who want to be his friends seem to be aware of his financial situation. Money requests come frequently. Some days, Frank is angry about it; other days, he gives it away freely, depending on how he feels.
I don't want his money, and he knows that. Because of that, he feels safe talking to me. Frank takes each day one step at a time. Even after eight years of freedom, he still doesn't know what he doesn't know. He has missed so much that most of us take for granted.
I've encouraged him to change his phone number, find a new circle of people who don't know about his settlement, and seek professional help for his emotional and financial well-being. Every time I speak with Frank, I am reminded that I cannot fully grasp what he has endured. And in those moments, I find myself profoundly grateful for my own freedom.
