Day 0: Freedom Felt Colder Than Prison

Series: Coming Home to Uncertainty

One year ago, I landed in Canada after 2.5 years behind bars.

I thought release would feel like victory. I thought going home would feel like closure. I thought chains coming off would mean peace.

I was wrong.

This series is a day-by-day look back at my first week home — the panic, the cold, the shelter bunk, the uncertainty, and the quiet ways God showed up when nothing else felt stable.

Release doesn’t always mean relief.

Sometimes freedom is just the beginning of a different kind of fight.

Day 0:  Freedom Felt Colder Than Prison
Coming Home to Uncertainty – Part 1: Returning to Canada

A year ago, very late on March 1, 2025, I landed in Canada with no money, no phone, and no ID.

Twelve months later, I can see things I couldn’t see that night. But at the time, all I knew was that I had just been released after 2.5 years — and freedom felt nothing like I imagined.

That morning started in a cell at the Baker County Detention Center in Macclenny, Florida. The facility contracts with ICE. Everyone in my pod was either waiting to be deported or waiting for immigration court. If they had criminal time to serve, that part was already done.

I wasn’t fighting anything. I wanted to go home.

It was a Saturday. Breakfast was around 6:00 a.m. I had been told I was leaving that day, but nobody left on weekends. The other detainees told me not to get my hopes up.

By 10:00 a.m., I believed them.

At 10:30, they called my name.

“Pack it up. You’re going home.”

I had been waiting 2.5 years to hear those words.

Finally.

Two ICE officers drove me to the airport in an unmarked van. They told me that if I cooperated, I wouldn’t be shackled or handcuffed. The condition was simple: I would be escorted everywhere. Even the washroom.

They were professional. Even kind. They bought me lunch at BurgerFi — my first real meal in 2.5 years.

Before I could take a bite, I nearly had a panic attack.

Airports are chaos. Movement in every direction. Noise. Options. Freedom. After years in structured environments, it overwhelmed me. My breathing got shallow. My heart started racing.

Release doesn’t always mean relief.

We flew from Jacksonville to Newark without incident. I stared out the window the entire flight. No phone. No book. Just my thoughts.

In Newark, we waited for the flight to Ottawa. At the gate, the agent called us up. The rear seats normally assigned for escorted removals were occupied.

She paused. Made a call.

Then she looked at me and asked, “Would first class be alright?”

I almost laughed.

In July or August of 2022, sitting in a county jail cell, I had a dream. I dreamt that I was being taken back to Canada and seated in first class. When I woke up, I dismissed it as foolish. That kind of thing doesn’t happen to people in jail.

The officers told me later that this never happens.

But that night, it did.

At the time, I didn’t see it as a grand miracle. I saw it as a quiet reminder: God had not lost track of me.

When we landed in Ottawa, I stepped off the plane wearing only a sweater.

The air hit me immediately. –18°C.

Cold in a way Florida never prepares you for.

Some of that cold, I had earned.

My heart started racing again — not because of the temperature, but because of what waited beyond customs.

Months earlier, in October 2024, I had been told I wasn’t welcome at home. Not legally. Relationally.

My marriage was over.
My old job was gone.
My reputation followed me.

I wasn’t wanted in the United States.

I wasn’t sure I was wanted here either.

No money.
No phone.
No ID.

Jesus said that in this world we would have trouble. I had heard that verse from the pulpit before. I understood it differently stepping into a Canadian winter with nowhere certain to go.

The only certainty I had was this: the Lord had walked with me through prison. He would walk with me here too.

I just didn’t know what that would look like.

At customs, I was separated from my ICE escorts and sent to secondary inspection. It wasn’t dramatic. Just procedural. Still humbling.

I called the John Howard Society. They arranged transportation to the Ottawa Mission.

After nearly three years away, this was my arrival home.

A homeless shelter.

This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s real life.

The intake worker was polite but distant. When I asked about safety, she suggested I was free to try other shelters in the city.

That wasn’t comforting.

They gave me warmer clothes. A winter jacket. A few gift cards. Some bus tickets.

Around midnight, I climbed into a bunk in a dark room full of strangers. I didn’t turn on a light. It wouldn’t have been wise.

The mattress was thin. The air was stale. Someone was snoring three feet away. Another man was muttering in his sleep.

This was home.

Freedom felt colder than prison that night.

I had spent 2.5 years praying for release. I thought chains coming off would feel like victory. Instead, I lay there in a homeless shelter with no money, no phone, no ID, and no one waiting for me.

Jesus said that in this world we would have trouble. He didn’t say it would feel fair.

I stared into the dark and listened to strangers breathing.

I knew God was there.

But certainty didn’t make it comfortable.

**Please note, unless otherwise stated, all images on this site are AI generated and do not resemble any real persons(s). Any resemblance to any person or place is purely coincidental.**

This post is part of the Coming Home to Uncertainty series about rebuilding life after prison.

Next: Part 2 — Day 1: Freedom Didn't Feel Free

View the full series: Coming Home to Uncertainty