Lifted Up

To the remarkable lady who took the time to encourage me—not just in my writing, but in striving to be a better person—I want to express my deepest gratitude. In the course of encouraging me, you shared something deeply personal: that you once struggled with alcohol, yet you fought through it and emerged years ago with strength and clarity. That confession, so openly offered, means more than words can capture.

You see, I know what it’s like to live under the shadow of alcohol. I grew up with a mother whose drinking spiraled out of control, and it changed everything about who she could be—even with her children. Yet even in the chaos, I remember glimpses of her brilliance. I remember the day I carelessly stepped on a rusty nail and had to be hospitalized. She flew in on a plane just to sit beside me, holding my hand, whispering about how brave and strong I was, and pretending to fuss at the nurses for not giving her “big man” enough attention. I was only five years old, and it was just a little puncture in my foot—not life-threatening. But in that moment, to me, she was as beautiful and powerful as a goddess. She played with the little green plastic army men she brought to the hospital, making shooting sounds from her lips, laughing as we battled imaginary wars together. For that brief, shining moment, she was everything a child could ever wish for in a mother.

Later, when her alcoholism began to consume her, all of that beauty and warmth faded. Her frustration and rage would explode into violence. I remember lying on cold tiles, blood on my skin, and somehow finding the strength to reach out and rub that scar on the bottom of my foot—trying to see her, somewhere beneath the chaos, as the mother I once loved. I forgave her, again and again, holding onto the hope that she could return to that bright, loving person I had once known. But eventually, something inside me broke. My love for her didn’t vanish—it simply ran out. I still longed to feel it, to give it, but the reserves were gone. I wanted nothing more than to escape, and I ran away from home nine times. I never told authorities the full story of our home life because the thought of my siblings being scattered through foster care terrified me more than anything.

My father brought even darker shadows into my life, inflicting abuse that left wounds that ran far deeper than bruises or scars. Loving my parents became a balancing act, a constant struggle to protect my siblings and hold together what little sense of family I could salvage. My older half-sister and I became anchors for the younger children, shielding them in the ways we could, absorbing the pain that wasn’t ours to bear. Childhood for me was a battlefield, but it was also a classroom in resilience, empathy, and endurance.

Now, after 47 years of incarceration, I can still trace the scar on my foot, and it brings me back to that little boy who saw a goddess in his mother, however fleetingly. I can feel again the joy, the safety, the love that once existed, and the hope that even in the most fractured circumstances, glimpses of beauty endure.

I share this with you because your own story—the courage it took to face your struggles with drinking, to overcome them, and to become the remarkable person you are today—resonates so deeply with me. To take a moment from your life, with all its demands and challenges, to encourage a man in prison… that act is a testament to your character, your strength, and your heart. You’ve reminded me, and will remind anyone who hears your story, that it’s possible to confront your darkness and emerge with grace and purpose.

Your encouragement lifts me, bolsters my resolve, and nudges me closer to the person I’ve long aspired to be: not just a writer, but someone who holds on to hope, integrity, and the capacity to grow, even in circumstances that try to strip us of everything. I am proud of you. I am inspired by you. And I hope that anyone who reads this can see the truth in it: no matter the hardships we endure, no matter the scars we carry, the human spirit—our capacity to overcome, to love, and to lift others—remains unbroken.

Thank you. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for reminding me that redemption, encouragement, and strength are possible, even when it seems the world has closed its doors.