By Mark Jordan

Writing has been my salvation. As a federal prisoner, serving time in the custody of the Bureau of Prisons, I’ve often found myself confronted with the darkest parts of my past—pain, trauma, and the choices that ultimately landed me behind bars. But through writing, whether it be for personal reflection, formal publications, or blogging on the internet, I’ve discovered a therapeutic outlet that has allowed me to heal from wounds that stretch back to my childhood. Writing has not only been a form of self-expression, but also a deeply transformative experience that has changed the way I understand myself and the world around me. It has helped me confront childhood trauma, find meaning in my suffering, and ultimately grow as a person despite the restrictions of my circumstances.

For as long as I can remember, words have been a refuge. Growing up, my childhood was marked by chaos, instability, and abuse. There were moments when I felt as if my life was spiraling out of control, that there was no way out of the constant storms surrounding me. But I found that by writing—by putting my thoughts, my pain, and my fears down on paper—I could create order where there was none. It was as if the act of writing allowed me to claim ownership over my experiences, to transform the intangible, overwhelming emotions into something concrete, something I could begin to understand. In a home where emotional expression was often dangerous, where vulnerability could be exploited or ignored, writing became my silent form of communication. I couldn’t always speak my truth, but I could write it.

In prison, writing has become even more essential. The walls around me are not just physical; they are psychological barriers that trap me in isolation and loneliness. This isolation has often forced me to confront demons from my past that I had buried deep, hoping they would never resurface. But as they resurfaced, so did my need for writing. In many ways, writing has served as my therapy in a place where access to mental health professionals is limited. Through journaling, I’ve been able to explore the roots of my trauma—childhood abuse, neglect, and the poor choices that seemed inevitable at the time. In prison, reflection is unavoidable. Every day is a confrontation with who you were, who you are, and who you want to become. Writing helps bridge the gap between these versions of myself.

For much of my life, I never had the tools to fully process what I had gone through. I was angry, confused, and deeply hurt. That unprocessed trauma contributed to so many of the behaviors that led to my incarceration. When you live with unresolved pain, it tends to spill over into everything you do—into your relationships, your choices, and ultimately your future. I made a lot of mistakes in my life, and looking back, I realize now that many of those mistakes were my way of trying to cope with emotions I didn’t understand. I never learned healthy coping mechanisms as a child, so as an adult, I turned to the only ones I knew—ones that were destructive, both to me and the people around me. Writing has allowed me to look back on those choices and see them for what they were: symptoms of deeper wounds that I hadn’t yet found a way to heal.

Prison, in its own strange way, has given me the space to reflect on these things in a way that I may not have been able to on the outside. Out there, life moves so fast, and the distractions are endless. In here, the days stretch on, sometimes unbearably so, but they also provide me with time—time to think, time to reflect, time to write. Through writing, I’ve been able to trace the lines of my trauma back to their origins. I’ve been able to see how the pain I experienced as a child shaped the person I became, the choices I made, and ultimately, the path that led me to prison. But more importantly, writing has allowed me to see that I am not defined by those choices. I am not the sum of my worst mistakes. I am a person in progress, a person who is still learning, still healing, and still growing.

Writing for publication has been another crucial part of this healing process. There’s something about knowing that my words are being read by others that has given me a sense of purpose, a sense of connection to the world outside these walls. When I write for publication, whether it’s about my experiences in prison, my thoughts on justice reform, or the personal struggles I’ve faced, I am not just writing for myself. I am writing for others who might be going through something similar, who might feel the same sense of isolation or despair that I have felt. And in sharing my story, I’ve found that I am not as alone as I once thought.

One of the most therapeutic aspects of writing for publication is the ability to reclaim my narrative. In prison, you are often reduced to a number, a case file, a set of charges. Your identity is stripped away, replaced by the crimes of which-rightly or wrongly- you’ve been convicted. But through writing, I have been able to take back my story. I am not just a prisoner; I am a writer, an advocate, a human being with a past, a present, and a future. Writing has allowed me to define myself on my own terms, rather than being defined by the system that holds me. It has given me a voice in a place where silence is often enforced.

Blogging on the internet, too, has offered a sense of purpose and connection that I’ve long been deprived of in here. The internet, for all its flaws, is an incredible tool for communication and education. Through my blog, I’ve been able to share my thoughts on federal justice reform, prison life, and the mental health challenges that incarcerated individuals face. This has not only given me a voice in a system that often renders people voiceless but has also allowed me to take ownership of my narrative. I am no longer just a prisoner, a number in the system. I am a writer, an advocate, a person with something meaningful to say.

There is also a certain freedom that comes with blogging, a freedom that is hard to come by in prison. When I blog, I am able to engage with the outside world in a way that feels immediate and real. I can participate in conversations about important issues, I can share my experiences in real time, and I can connect with people who are interested in the same things I am. This sense of connection is incredibly important to me, especially in a place where human connection is often limited. Writing has allowed me to build bridges to the outside world, to maintain a sense of community, and to feel like I am still a part of something larger than myself.

The therapeutic nature of writing comes from its ability to give me control in a place where I have so little of it. I cannot control the rules, the schedules, the decisions made by those in authority, or the reality of my incarceration. But I can control the words I write. I can control how I frame my experiences, how I process my emotions, and how I choose to engage with the world beyond these walls. Writing allows me to be vulnerable in a way that is often not safe to be in prison. It’s a place where I can be honest with myself, where I can admit to my fears, my regrets, and my hopes without judgment or consequence.

More than that, writing has given me the ability to reflect on my life with a clarity that I never had before. I’ve come to understand the impact of my childhood trauma on my choices as an adult, the ways in which I repeated patterns that were ingrained in me from an early age. By writing about my life, I’ve been able to step outside of it, to look at it from a new perspective. This has allowed me to take responsibility for my actions in a way that feels constructive rather than self-destructive. I am learning to forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made, not by excusing them, but by understanding the pain that drove them.

Writing is a form of self-therapy, a way to work through the tangled mess of thoughts and feelings that often threaten to overwhelm me. In many ways, writing has saved me from myself. It has given me a way to cope with the reality of prison life, to process the isolation and the loss of freedom, and to hold on to a sense of identity that goes beyond my status as an inmate. It’s a way for me to stay connected to the outside world, to remind myself that I am still a person with a future, even if that future is uncertain.

Through writing, I’ve learned that healing is a process, one that requires patience, self-reflection, and, above all, honesty. I have to be willing to face the parts of myself that are painful, the parts that I would rather forget. Writing forces me to do that, but it also gives me the tools to rebuild, to create a new narrative for my life—one that is not defined by my past but informed by it.

In many ways, writing has become my lifeline. It’s how I stay sane, how I stay connected to the world, and how I continue to grow as a person, even in the most challenging of circumstances. It’s not just about putting words on paper; it’s about reclaiming my story, one sentence at a time. Writing has given me hope in a place where hope is hard to come by. It has allowed me to dream of a future that is better than my past, a future where I am not defined by my mistakes but by the strength I’ve gained in overcoming them.