There’s a lot of talk these days about therapy. Counseling. Programs. Sessions. Worksheets. And I’m not knocking any of it. I’ve sat across from counselors. I’ve filled out the forms. I’ve answered the questions I was ready to answer and dodged the ones I wasn’t.
Therapy has its place.Therapy helps you name things. Therapy helps you understand patterns. Therapy helps you see where the damage started.
But here’s the part nobody talks about.
What happens at 2 a.m. when the unit is quiet, the lights are dimmed, and the thoughts come in heavy?
What happens when the counselor isn’t back on the tier until next week?
What happens when you don’t even have the words yet just pressure in your chest and noise in your head?
That’s when a man finds out what he’s really built on.
Because pain doesn’t schedule itself around appointments.
The Nights Nobody Prepares You For
Prison has a way of stripping distractions down to nothing. No running. No numbing. No pretending you’ll deal with it “later.” Later never comes in here. Only now.
There are nights when the past shows up uninvited.
Nights when regret hits harder than anger ever did.
Nights when you replay every bad decision like it’s happening in real time.
And talking isn’t always an option.
Sometimes you don’t trust your own voice yet. Sometimes you don’t want your pain overheard through concrete and steel. Sometimes you don’t even know what the problem is you just know something inside you is breaking open.
That’s when I learned something important:
A man needs an outlet that doesn’t require explanations.
I Wasn’t “Creative.” I Was Just Surviving
Before this place, I would’ve laughed if you told me I’d use creativity to keep myself sane. School never did anything for me. Writing assignments felt pointless. Art class felt like a waste of time. I was a hands-on, move forward, don’t look-back type of man.
Rules annoyed me. Sitting still annoyed me. Being told how to express myself annoyed me.
And then life cornered me.
Behind these walls, you don’t get to outrun yourself. You either confront what’s inside or it eats you alive.
I didn’t discover creativity because it sounded healthy. I discovered it because I needed somewhere to put what I was carrying.
The First Time I Let My Hands Speak
I remember one afternoon in the dayroom. Nothing special. Same noise. Same routine. Same tension humming in the air. I was restless in a way that had nothing to do with boredom.
I grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper not to write anything meaningful, just to move my hand. Lines turned into shapes. Shapes turned into something I couldn’t explain. I wasn’t trying to make art. I was trying to breathe.
For the first time in a long time, my thoughts slowed down.
That’s when it hit me:
This wasn’t about talent.
It was about release.
Creative Expression Isn’t About Skill It’s About Control
Men don’t talk enough about how powerless emotional pain can make you feel. Especially men who’ve been taught to be in control at all times.
Creative expression gave me something prison couldn’t take away: choice.
I could decide what went on that page.
I could decide when to start and when to stop.
I could decide what stayed inside and what came out.
That matters more than people realize.
Because when everything else is decided for you count times, doors, movements having one thing you can shape with your own hands is grounding.
More About: Creative Expression
Different Tools for Different Nights
Not every night hits the same. Some nights are heavy. Some are sharp. Some are numb.
Over time, I found different ways to work through different states of mind.
Writing became a way to organize chaos. Not poetry. Not pretty sentences. Just truth on paper. Raw. Unedited. Sometimes angry. Sometimes ashamed. Sometimes grateful.
Sketching helped when words felt too exposed. A pencil doesn’t ask questions. It just moves.
Photography, when I had access to it before incarceration, taught me something important that stayed with me in here: paying attention. Looking closely. Finding meaning in small details most people walk past.
That skill transfers. Even in prison. Especially in prison.
Why This Matters More Behind Bars
In here, you can’t rely on old coping habits. There’s no escaping through substances. No distractions that last. No easy exits.
You either face what’s inside or you harden in ways that follow you home.
Creative expression became a form of independent counseling for me. A way to process things I wasn’t ready to say out loud yet. A way to check in with myself honestly.
Not everything needs an audience. Some healing is private.
A Real Prison Moment
There’s a sound in prison that only people in here recognize. Late at night, when everything settles, you hear keys echoing somewhere down the tier. Slow. Measured. Final.
The first time I noticed it, my chest tightened. That sound meant another night done. Another day gone. Another reminder of time I couldn’t get back.
Instead of letting that sound spiral me, I started writing when I heard it. Just a few lines. What I felt. What I remembered. What I wanted to do better tomorrow.
Over time, that sound stopped being a trigger and became a signal.
Time to check in. Time to unload. Time to stay human.
This Isn’t Replacing God It’s Meeting Him There
I don’t believe creativity replaces faith. I believe it meets faith halfway.
Some prayers aren’t spoken. Some prayers are built. Drawn. Written. Created.
When I didn’t have the words to pray, I still showed up. With my hands. With my attention. With my honesty.
And God met me there.
Not in perfection but in willingness.
You Don’t Need Supplies. You Need Permission
A lot of men think creativity requires equipment, training, or permission. It doesn’t.
You can start with:
- a pen
- a notebook
- your hands
- your breath
- your body
Movement is creative. Writing is creative. Building something small is creative. Even organizing thoughts is creative.
The point isn’t to impress anyone.
The point is to survive with integrity.
What I’d Tell Any Man Struggling Right Now
If you’re reading this and you’re barely holding it together, hear me clearly:
You don’t have to explain your pain to earn the right to release it.
You don’t have to be “good” at anything to benefit from it.
You just have to start.
Ten minutes. One page. One sketch. One movement.
That’s not weakness.
That’s discipline.
A Message to My Kids
If my children ever read this, I want them to know something:
Their father didn’t heal by pretending he was strong.
He healed by learning how to be honest.
I learned how to sit with discomfort instead of running from it.
I learned how to turn pain into understanding instead of destruction.
And that matters more to me than any title I ever held.
For Other Men Rebuilding Their Lives
You don’t need to become someone else.
You need to reconnect with who you were before the damage hardened you.
Creative expression isn’t about art.
It’s about staying reachable to yourself, to God, to growth.
Therapy helps you understand the wound.
Discipline helps you keep it from reopening.
This is one of the tools that kept me standing when nobody was available at 2 a.m.
Final Word
When everything is taken, creation reminds you that you still have something to give.
You may not control your timeline.
You may not control your circumstances.
But you can control what you do with what’s inside you today.
That’s not therapy.
That’s ownership.
And ownership is where real change begins.
