-Talking to "The Tank-

“Goodnight buddy, I love you.”
“Always remember, Zion & Daddy forever.”

These are the words I write to my son, Zion, every night from prison before I go to sleep.

Keeping constant communication with Noél and the kids is NOT easy from prison. But we’re slowly finding our way—learning how to stay connected despite the distance and the pain.

Every morning and every night, I do my best to send messages to Noél, Cambria, Willow, Lula, and Zion. Since I’m serving my sentence in a federal prison thousands of miles away, those short messages are really my only way to remain present in their lives.

I want my kids to always know that they are loved and adored by their daddy. I need my wife to realize she’s a superhero and that I admire her bravery more than words can express. I love my family deeply, and being away from them for so long takes a toll on me every single day.

Some mornings, I can feel the dark cloud of depression closing in, suffocating me. Prison tries it's hardest to extinguish any hope left in my heart. But I refuse to let it.

I’m determined to stay connected to my family no matter what this place throws at me. Noél, Cambria, Willow, Lula, and Zion will know that I adore them and love them with all my heart.

Unfortunately, most federal prisoners don’t prioritize their families the way I do. Once they arrive here, many men “cut off” the outside world. The pain of separation becomes too much to bear, so they shut down. To cope, they detach from their wives and kids—until these prison walls start to feel like home. It’s heartbreaking to watch. The shame, the regret, the hopelessness—it all consumes them.

But I will never do this.
NOÉL, CAMBRIA, WILLOW, LULA, AND ZION ARE MY HOME.

The pain of prison is temporary. Someday, I WILL be reunited with my family.

Before I surrendered, I made my daughter Cambria a promise:
I told her I would “help sad dads in prison reconnect with their families.”
And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Any inmate on this compound will tell you—I’m a dedicated father and husband. If you asked my neighbors, they’d say I carry myself in a way that would make my wife and kids proud.

I do NOT gamble.
I do NOT steal.
I do NOT look at pornography.
I do NOT do drugs.

I’ve fully rejected the typical criminal mentality that dominates prison life. My actions now reflect the truth of who I really am. Through God’s grace, I’ve found myself again—and that’s a freedom many men here never experience. I long for my fellow inmates to feel this sense of freedom and peace and will do everything in my power to help them get it.

Feeling proud again is a priceless gift for a prisoner. So many of us drown in our shame and pain every day. I pray every man behind barbed wire discovers that his life still has purpose—that God can heal even the deepest brokenness.

Each night, before bed, I walk down to the dog training room to talk with “The Networker.”  I’m helping him rebuild the pieces of his life and family. I'm so grateful to have this man in my life and I commend him for facing his fears. Helping him and others truly has been one of the greatest honors of my prison journey.

He’s doing the hard work—reaching out to his son, parents, siblings, and the mother of his child. His journey of redemption is painful, but it’s worth it. I can already see the weight lifting from his shoulders. God is turning what was meant for evil into something so beautiful.

Thank you, Lord, for loving all of us broken men—for being the great healer and redeemer who never leaves or abandons us. Thank you for welcoming your son "The Networker" back home with open arms. 

These late-night talks with “The Networker” have become one of my favorite parts of my everyday prison life. There is no judge or jury in our conversations. We are just two men, attempting to pick up the broken pieces of life, that our short sighted decisions created. There’s no judgment or pretending—just two men, speaking honestly about our failures, our regrets, and the hope that’s still alive inside us.

One thing I’ve learned about being a convicted felon: I don’t have to pretend I’m perfect anymore. I have plenty of flaws, but I’m grateful that Jesus died for a man like me. Through His grace, we are redeemed.

Both “The Networker” and I walk around this prison compound with a quiet sense of freedom. We are no longer bound by our shame. Our honest introspection and repentance have set us free—mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. There’s a lightness to our steps now, a peace that only God could give us behind these walls.

That new sense of freedom has started to catch the attention of other prisoners. Word travels fast in here. Guys notice when something different is happening—especially when joy and hope show up in a place designed to crush both.

Last night, while “The Networker” and I were deep in one of our late-night talks, “The Tank” walked into the room. He stood silently by the window, staring out into the dark yard. His presence caught us both off guard. The Tank doesn’t usually join conversations like ours. He’s one of the tougher guys in this place—a man with a hard exterior and a reputation to match.

“The Networker” and I glanced at each other but didn’t say anything. We just kept talking, giving “The Tank” room to listen, reflect, and join in when he was ready. The silence hung for a few moments before he suddenly blurted out, “Hey, are you guys talking about that Michael thing?”

We actually weren’t talking about Michael at that exact moment, but you could hear the weight in his voice. He needed to talk. You could tell something inside him was stirring.

As the conversation continued, “The Tank” opened up more and more. He told us how Michael’s story had been sitting heavy on his heart for weeks. He said he was tired—tired of the same cycle, tired of wasting his life, tired of pretending he didn’t care. For the first time in years, he wanted to change.

Over the next hour, this massive, hardened man—the same one who used to walk the yard like a lion—poured his heart out. He spoke about his broken family, his lost kids, and the shame that haunted him every single day. You could see it in his eyes—the pain, the regret, and the faint flicker of hope fighting its way back to the surface.

It was like watching chains fall off right there in front of us. The weight of imprisonment—both physical and spiritual—was slowly lifting off his shoulders.

“The Tank” was officially leaning into change. God had been working on his heart long before he stepped into that room. We were just witnesses to the miracle unfolding before our eyes.

Like Michael once taught me, it is never too early and never too late to turn your life around. “The Tank” was ready to face his shame, seek forgiveness, and step into the light.

Thank you, Lord, for never giving up on us men behind barbed wire.
Thank you for dying on the cross so that even broken men like us can be forgiven.
We love you, Lord.

The pain of prison still punctures my heart daily, but God continues to give purpose to my suffering.

I am your humble servant, Lord.
Your will be done.

Sincerely,
Brett (A Broken Man Doing His Best to Help Others Heal)