This morning, two police officers knocked on my door.
It was expected. A routine six-monthly check – part of the licensing conditions I live under. The lead officer is professional, measured, and in all honesty, quite kind. She brings a technician with her who goes through my phone and my computer. I understand why these visits exist. I respect that the law has reasons for them.
And yet, every time, without fail, I spend the next few hours with my head spinning.
For 362 days of the year, I live a life I’m proud of. I have work I care about deeply, friends who show up, and a genuine sense of forward motion. I don’t spend my days consumed by what happened to me. I don’t sit in resentment. Most mornings, I wake up genuinely grateful.
Then someone knocks at the door.
What hits me isn’t the visit itself – it’s what it represents. The reminder that there is a version of me, on paper, that I don’t recognise. A record that doesn’t match the man I know myself to be. I maintain my innocence. I always have. And I’ve come to accept that the world isn’t obligated to believe me, and that carrying that truth is mine to manage.
But acceptance and ease are different things.
Today I asked about the possibility of having my licence conditions revoked. It’s a normal process, not an unusual request. The officer told me she wouldn’t be able to support it, because – despite not having been present at the trial – she would have to assume the judge reached the correct decision. I understand her position. She’s doing her job conscientiously. I don’t blame her.
And yet.
There is something uniquely difficult about existing in a system that has no mechanism for nuance. No formal space where a person can say: I was found guilty, and I was poorly represented, and I am not who that verdict says I am – without it being read as denial. Without it being used as evidence of something. The only sanctioned response is silence, or compliance, or a kind of performed acceptance that doesn’t reflect the truth of the experience.
I don’t have a solution to that. I’m not sure one exists. What I do know is that pretending it doesn’t affect me would be its own kind of dishonesty.
I spent a few hours after the visit processing – the things that were said, the things that weren’t, the friction I could have avoided and probably didn’t. The anxiety settles eventually. It always does. And then I return to the life I’ve built, the one I’m grateful for, the one that is – genuinely – good.
But I wanted to write about this morning, because this website is supposed to be an honest one.
When we look at the profile of a coach, a therapist, or a healer – we see what they choose to show. A headshot. Some credentials. A carefully worded paragraph about their approach and what they believe. And that’s fine. Curation is part of how we introduce ourselves to the world.
What it doesn’t always show is what somebody has actually been through. The visits they don’t mention. The mornings that derail them. The ongoing work of living with something unresolved, and choosing – in spite of it – to keep going.
I’ve been to prison. I came out maintaining my innocence, and I continue to do so. That is not the whole of who I am – not even close – but it is part of the story. And I’d rather you hear it from me, plainly and in my own words, than discover it another way and wonder what else I wasn’t telling you.
I don’t have all the answers. I’m not sure I’ll ever have complete closure. What I have is a life I’m proud of, a genuine commitment to the people I work with, and a willingness to show up as I actually am – on the days that are easy, and on the mornings that aren’t.
Today was one of the mornings that wasn’t.
