9/9/25

Mom,

It has been a while. A lot has happened. When you’re the parent of a child with a history of addiction, I can only imagine long periods between updates make you fear the worst. But as you so often reassured me growing up, “Sometimes no news is good news.” In a chaotic environment such as jail, that definitely holds true.

In fact, my best day in jail came in March 2025. It was the day Transform Dane incorporated as a registered, official non-profit. All day long, I said it back to myself, over and over inside cell block 611. Each iteration took my breath away.

I celebrated with our team, who brought it together from the outside. But inside, I celebrated live with other inmates who understood the process more than perhaps anyone ever will. They watched it come together, minute by minute, day by day. They watched commissary dollars come back in the form of pencils, paper, and postage instead of candy, snacks, and soda. They were the ones walking circles through our dayroom for what minimal exercise was available. They had long become accustomed to circular laps past cell C always containing the same sight – Eli on the cot, bent over into a notebook, writing for hours on end. They watched the distribution of coloring pages spread from my own folder to their morning mail. They understood how big “small good deeds” can feel in a place where all else feels forgotten.

That night, we gathered in the DCJ Chapel of 6 West for our weekly Narcotics Anonymous Meeting, one of only two programming opportunities for recovery available weekly. The “Chapel” is only distinguishable as such by a single podium (“altar”) and a woven yarn tapestry on the wall, smaller than a cot’s blanket. The walls are cement brick painted dull yellow. There are no exterior windows, no pews, nothing to distinguish its purpose otherwise. The sole denotation of the sacredness of the space is the thin industrial carpeting covering the bare cement jail floors.

It was there that I announced the good news. I cried without shame, explaining the journey that began with a seg cell and a promise to myself to do more than simply survive it, a promise to plead for forgiveness through action, for bringing humans into that exact place.

I’ve enjoyed birthdays and holidays on the outside, traditionally with increasing levels of intoxication involved. I’ve had accomplishments lauded at triathlon finish lines, letters of commendation, diplomas and “likes” on social media. But none of these forms of validation compare to the absolute sense of pure good that I felt, surrounded by a room full of convicted criminals, in a meeting for addicts.

There were no balloons. There was no cake, music, or drinks; no cards, gifts, or decorations. It didn’t matter. There was, instead, a recognition that the fight to bring humanity and compassion to our own cages was still raging on. In an environment that instills every mechanism to dehumanize, anonymize and de-individualize human lives, every sign of resistance restores us. It was unity amongst “criminals” from all walks of life; it was hope amongst addicts; it was a sense that we could not be forgotten as long as the fight to exist raged on.

It was just a day, but the importance of it was certainly cathartic and emotional to me within the jail. It wasn’t a policy or procedure change. The biggest and hardest battles on those fronts are yet to come. And yet, the idea that with love, support, recovery and community we can all restore and rise together was enough to renew a fight in me that I have not felt in a very long time.

Mom, it transformed a plea and a vision into a movement. For a guy who has spent the last decade praying, pleading, hoping for and imagining content, peaceful sobriety – seeing damage turn into restoration was life-altering. It was the feeling of “changing the system from within” that I once sought within law enforcement, except this time, instead of feeling empty, I felt restored, rejuvenated, and hopeful for the first time in a long time.

Stuck behind bars, I am not going to fix entire lives or repair the problems that brought us to jail. But the small things matter. Even details as seemingly minute as getting coloring pages in a jail have the power to change another person’s whole outlook. The idea that someone outside that you haven’t met cares about you is powerful beyond words in a place designed to make you feel the opposite.

But why are we trying to change people into caring more about themselves and others, by treating them like nobody in the world cares about their entire existence? Is it any wonder the door opens and in the United States, the probability of re-offending is statistically higher than ever and climbing?

On the inside, I’ve learned that there are no “lost causes,” only people who we choose to leave behind. Merely caging people until their release does nothing to help meet any desire for rehabilitation and recovery. I’ve met people inside who have a sincere desire for recovery, but the desire alone is not enough. We must meet people with the tools they need to fight their own way out of addiction’s trap of despair.

Modern incarceration currently most closely resembles a warehouse for human beings. Those who our criminal justice system deems necessary to separate from society for some definite amount of time are placed in a cement room, where options for rehabilitation are sleep and watching TV. As a police officer, it was beyond frustrating to see the same people going in and out without much changing. As a victim, I constantly wondered what would change that would prevent it from happening again. As an inmate, I realized the answer is usually not much more than “pause and hope for the best”.

The vision I look towards is not one of reshaping every detail of crime, law enforcement action or the courts. It is to start handing people with immense periods of confinement tools to manifest their own growth. It is giving freedom to people with virtually none otherwise the choice to participate in reshaping what their exit from our carceral systems will look like.

That’s what I felt shift, inside the DCJ chapel, even just for a short moment on that March day. But when you’re talking about a shift in a building made entirely of bars and concrete, a shift can feel like an earthquake.

Even without a single balloon.

Imagine that, Mom.

Love,
Eli