Finding Happiness in Maximum Security Prison
“I wish I could say I lived my life on the straight and narrow. But I’ve made some bad choices in my past. When I was a youth, I was convicted and sentenced to life in prison.”
John, a heavily tattooed prison inmate, looked in his mid-30s. His head was shaved. Tattoos of skulls peeked out of his collar and covered his neck all the way to the bottom of his chin.
He sat across from me inside a concrete room at a maximum security prison, while guards stood along the side of the room. I was a volunteer for Defynorcal.org, a program that provides career coaching to prisoners.
John spoke in a warm, gentle voice. He was eager to find out about life on the outside.
In maximum security prison, he had no access to television or the Internet. His only form of communication with the outside world is a monthly delivery of postal mail.
“I got in prison before smartphones came out. I heard that on the streets, people are now all using smartphones. Is that right?”
“Yep, that’s right,” I confirmed. “Pretty much everyone has a smartphone these days.”
“Wow.” He paused.
He goes: “And, I heard, people think the smartphones are not really good for them. Is that what’s going on?”
“That’s true too. Many people got addicted to their smartphones. They’re always on their phones, even when they’re eating, or walking down the street, or in bed.”
“Wow.” His eyes widened. He looked stunned by the odd fact that most of us in the free world are addicted to little devices known as smartphones.
Then he smiled wryly, as if expecting me to say I was just kidding.
He continued: “I have this ideal picture of how things are out there. But I’m not sure if it’s true. You see, in here, people are rough. People here are just— harsh on each other. I picture people out there are nice to each other. Like, if they pass by you and they might say ‘Hello.’ Or, maybe they’d open a door for you.”
“That’s true,” I said, “That happens often out there.”
John’s jaw dropped. His light brown eyes brimmed with excitement.
“Wow!” He exclaimed. “If I were living on the streets, and if every day somebody would say hello to me, that’d be all I need. Every day, I’d be happy.”
“I struggled with depression.” He explained.
“Did you take medication?” I asked him.
His eyes widened again. “Oh! I didn’t know there’s medication for that.”
Right, I thought, you don’t have good healthcare.
He shook his head, “I’ve never tried medication for depression.”
He sat quietly for a minute and looked at me. Then he goes, “Does the medication help you get in touch with your emotions? So you can feel more of your sad feelings?”
“It’s the opposite, actually,” I answered. “Depression medication suppresses the sad feelings. It makes people never feel those feelings. It just locks people in a happy mood all the time.”
John’s forehead furrowed as he thought. He then explained how he overcame his depression:
As a child, John grew up in an abusive family. He eventually ran away from home. To survive, he joined a gang. To gain their acceptance, he did what they told him. We never talked about his crimes, but skull tattoos often mark a murderer. He was a teenager when he was convicted to life in prison.
When John arrived in prison, he did what most inmates do — he joined a prison gang. While locked up, though, he began thinking. And reading. And feeling.
He found out about self-help programs offered in prison and signed up for one. The program led him to practice feeling his emotions. He started getting to know himself, and what he needed. Soon, he was enrolled in as many self-help programs as he could. He repeated a CBT program so many times, he was made a teaching assistant.
Then, after years as a gang member, he decided to leave. Getting out of the gang was an extremely dangerous path to choose, but it was what he thought he needed to do.
John spoke about how he changed.
“Growing up, I didn’t know how to handle my emotions. I’d take my anger out on people. In prison, I worked on my feelings and learned now how to handle them. Now I can respond to my emotions in a healthy way.
I am not like the person that I used to be,” he explained. “And the funny thing is, when I changed, I noticed that the people around me started changing too.
I’m not really a religious person. I’ve become spiritual. Every day, I’m learning how to improve myself, as the universe unfolds.” He paused, and then added, “if you believe in that stuff.”
“I’m on a life sentence. But since I was convicted as a youth, in 2026 they’re giving me a hearing. There’s a chance that they’ll reduce my sentence then.”
By 2026, John will have been in prison for 25 years.
John tilted his head up and looked into the air with a hopeful smile. He continued:
John could’ve been worried that he’ll never have a career, never have a stranger say hello to him, never taste the free world, but he’s not. He finds meaning in what he has: his ability to treat people well.
I had a well of respect and admiration for John. Pointing to the space between us, I said:
“This feels like what life should be all about. Just seeing each other for who we are, as human beings. This experience, right here, is what makes me feel alive. This is what’s meaningful to me.” My voice was quivering.
I saw tears beginning to swell in John’s eyes.
In that moment, a rush of love and belonging poured over me.
“Yeah, this. This is special.” John said and took a deep breath.
And so, we sat there, quietly looking at each other, both holding back tears.
Living in society, with all its privileges, I rarely felt this level of human connection to someone I just met. In a maximum security prison, I recognized myself in John — needing love and belonging, confronting our deepest suffering, striving to better oneself.
Sitting with John, I felt more gentle, more alive, and a little more human.
Finding Happiness in Maximum Security Prison
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