How to Be Free

Introduction

“He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing in life.” —Muhammad Ali

The words "Parole Denied" sat at the top of the paper I held in my hand, mocking me with this second denial. Sitting on the edge of my bunk, my perch for eighteen years, I was caught in what felt like an endless loop of confinement and disappointment. I had grown up here, transformed from rebel to writer, witnessed some friends die, some lose their mental grip, and others leave and come back. Would they ever let me out of this place?

My body tensed as I held back tears. Emotions rolled through me in waves—sadness flowing into the familiarity of anger, the kind that threatened to overtake the little hope I had left. I had ticked every box, followed the Department of Corrections' criteria for release, and evolved in ways no one would have imagined possible. In my first five years there, I had been labeled the worst of the worst, but now I was a mentor, tutor, and writer. Back at square one, it was like being sentenced all over again.

But as I sat there, enveloped in the familiar hurricane of disappointment, a realization slowly dawned on me: I had a choice. This moment, as heartbreaking as it was, presented me with two options. I could succumb to depression, let it drag me down into that dark place of hopelessness from which there seemed no escape, or I could stand firm on the hope that had already carried me over many troubled waters and use this setback as an opportunity to prepare myself for the next hearing and, ultimately, for my freedom.

As Marcus Aurelius wrote in Meditations, "The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way." This perfectly captured the transformative work I'd been engaged in for years—the work of freeing the mind, body, and soul. It was work that challenged me to embrace the present moment as both a gift and an opportunity. It's work we all have the capacity to do.

My parole denial was an obstacle to my freedom, but within that moment lay the path forward.

I came out of that moment with renewed focus and determination. When the yard opened, I called my dad and broke the news to him. Then I walked the yard with a friend from the neighborhood and talked about what I was going to do when they released me.

When the third parole hearing finally arrived, I stood before the board not just as a man seeking freedom but as one who had already freed himself internally. I was battered and bruised but still standing. The moment I received the paperwork stamped "Parole Granted," it was not just a release from physical confinement but a validation and manifestation of the journey I had undertaken. It was finally time for me to return to my city, community, and family. In that moment, I realized I'd been in prison before I'd ever been arrested and that I'd broken free long before the parole board saw fit to release me.

I had defied the odds, narrowly escaping the expected outcome of a kid serving a seventeen- to forty-year sentence for murder. It had been two decades since I'd last walked on free soil, unburdened by handcuffs and shackles. Despite scars from an officer nearly breaking my arm, an unhealed anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) tear from another encounter, and a bad back, my sanity, spiritual well-being, and integrity remained largely intact. Still, I struggled with feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness—vulnerabilities that could have been imperiled by release.

As I write, that was fifteen years ago, and the battle with those imprisoning voices has been a long war. Freedom isn't just a paper stamped by the parole board—it's a gift we unwrap every day through our choices and actions.

Today, through my work as an author, speaker, and entrepreneur—things I dreamed about both during my incarceration and after my release—I have met countless individuals grappling with their own relentless inner and outer imprisoning voices: prisons of grief, anger, shame, and the inability to forgive. At book signings, after keynote speeches or fireside chats, people share how my story helped them get through a divorce, get over the suicide of a child, or take the next step in their career—people of every race, creed, and gender expressing deep gratitude for being released from something that was holding them back. Regardless of our individual journeys, survivor's remorse, trauma, and guilt are common struggles that stand in the way of becoming the individuals we aspire to be. Everyone has a hidden prison.

That's precisely why I wanted to write this book—to offer skills that can help people break free from the emotional, psychological, and metaphorical prisons, both seen and unseen, that confine them. While some of us have experienced physical incarceration, many others find themselves trapped by circumstances, serving time handed down from a difficult childhood, horrible work experiences, heartbreak, and traumatic events or confined behind invisible bars that exist in their minds.

Now, as I sit here in my office, I look at my life, the people I love, the experiences I am blessed to have, and the way I move through the world with presence and awareness, and I feel my heart aligning with something greater: love, joy, purpose, and healing, for myself and for others. I have finally become all the things I once imagined myself to be years ago: an artist, an entrepreneur, a father, and a husband.

WHAT’S IN FRONT OF US IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN WHAT’S BEHIND US.

On June 22, 2023, just a day after my fifty-first birthday and thirteen years since my release from prison, my brother Alan and I were invited to the Porsche Driving Experience in Carson, California. We arrived at a large modern facility fronted by a vibrant assortment of Porsches, both new and impeccably preserved vintage models reminiscent of the scaled-down race cars we had played with as kids. If there was a paradise for gearheads, grease monkeys, and car enthusiasts, this was unquestionably it.

By a stroke of luck, my instructor happened to be a fellow Michigan native, and his welcoming charm reminded me of home. We quickly caught up on all things Detroit and Michigan before stepping outside to check out the two cars I would be driving. The first was a sleek yellow 911 GT3, a beautiful beast that blended track- focused capabilities with street- legal practicality. The second was a beautiful burgundy 911 Turbo that did zero to sixty in 2.7 seconds and had no problem pinning my body to the seat.

I hopped into the passenger seat of the yellow 911, and we set off onto the track. We practiced oversteering exercises, going over techniques to recover from a spin. The key was keeping your eyes on where you wanted to go rather than what you were afraid of hitting. Then we switched seats, and it was my turn to navigate the short water-slicked track. After a few spinouts, I finally mastered the maneuver, and I was allowed to launch the Porsche as fast as I could. But the real point of the exercise was still ahead of us.

We headed over to the main track. Covering the rearview mirror, the instructor told me, “I own this mirror, and you have to trust me.” Sensing my hesitation, he went on to explain his experience as a professional and stunt driver for over fifteen years. He had encountered every possible scenario on the track and witnessed the consequences of drivers fixating on what was behind them rather than focusing on their intended path. He emphasized that my sole objective on the track should be to concentrate on where I wanted to go. As I took off, a small voice said to me, “Your past doesn’t define your path!”

If I genuinely desired to push my heart to the edge by driving this car to its limit, I had to trust my instructor, knowing he had already done all the groundwork.

That is what I’m asking of you: to trust me, knowing that I, too, have already done the groundwork. I have overcome trauma, grief, guilt, and physical incarceration. I have succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations of what was possible for me. I have beat the odds, overcome heartbreak, and developed a deep and profound understanding of the power of forgiveness, both of myself and of others. My hope as we embark together on this journey toward personal freedom is that you will allow me to take the mirror while you take the steering wheel.