Day 1: Freedom Didn't Feel Free

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 1: Freedom Didn’t Feel Free
Coming Home to Uncertainty – Part 2: Learning to Start Over

This is Part 2 of my series, Coming Home to Uncertainty.

This was “Day 1.” My first full day back in Canada.

I woke up around 7:00 a.m. I can’t say I slept much. I was in a room full of men I didn’t know. Different breathing. Different noises. Different trauma. One of them always smelled like alcohol. He didn’t cause problems, but that didn’t matter. After almost three years in controlled environments, sleeping in an uncontrolled one felt dangerous.

I didn’t feel safe.
And I was supposed to be free.

Breakfast at the Mission was surprisingly good. Better than jail. Plentiful. You didn’t have to stay hungry if you didn’t want to. That alone felt strange. I tried to go back upstairs after eating and found myself locked out. I didn’t know the rules yet — no going back to your room during the day. I had to explain myself to staff just to retrieve my bag.

That moment hit harder than it should have.

I didn’t even know where I was allowed to stand anymore.

It was Sunday. I knew I needed to go to church. I didn’t know where, but I knew I couldn’t just wander the streets all day. I had no phone. No internet access until Monday. No money. Just a $50 food card that wouldn’t last long.

I walked out of the Mission dragging a carry-on suitcase that had been donated to me by pastors in Florida — parents whose own son was sitting in jail with me, facing serious time. They had every reason to collapse inward from their own pain, but instead they thought of me.

I remember thinking: they were closer to Jesus than I was. Because if our roles were reversed, I’m not sure I would have been that selfless.

It didn’t take long to realize I didn’t want to be walking around downtown Ottawa with a rolling suitcase. I stood out. I looked displaced.

Later, I realized that suitcase was more than luggage. It was a picture of me. I wasn’t just dragging clothes behind me. I was dragging shame. Regret. Failure. Three years of consequences. I had no idea how to unpack any of it.

I made my way to the CF Rideau Centre before it opened. Three floors. Closed gates everywhere. I walked lap after lap just to stay warm.

And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t belong there.

Everyone else who would eventually walk through those doors would have somewhere to be. A job. A debit card. A purpose. I had none of that. I had no income. No employment. No clear plan. Just a shelter bed and a carry-on full of baggage.

I felt like an outsider in my own country.

It was almost 9:00 a.m. when I left to look for a church. I didn’t expect to find my church home that day. I just didn’t want to be alone.

I walked down Elgin Street. I passed Knox Presbyterian Church — not open yet. Then I came to St. John's Anglican Church. The doors were open. Service at 10:15.

I went in.

People were kind. Older couples. Smiles. A guestbook to sign. I wrote my name down and realized I had no phone number to give. No email address. No way to be reached.

The service was nothing like what I was used to. In prison, chapel leaned Baptist or non-denominational. Simple. Direct. This felt formal. Structured. Religious.

I didn’t feel at home.

But I desperately wanted to.

Someone once told me you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince. This wasn’t it. And that wasn’t an indictment on them — it was just the truth of my heart in that moment. I was searching for something solid. Familiar. Anchoring.

Instead, I felt exposed.

Shame followed me into that pew.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just heavy.

I thought about Psalm 142:4:

“Look and see, there is no one at my right hand;
no one is concerned for me.
I have no refuge;
no one cares for my life.”

David wrote that from a cave.

I wasn’t in a cave.

I was sitting in a church full of people — and I still felt alone.

I left after the service. Had coffee. Shook hands. Smiled. Then stepped back out into the cold.

By mid-afternoon, the emotional weight hit me fully.

Freedom didn’t feel like I thought it would.

I had imagined relief. Instead, I felt numb. Quiet. Almost hollow. Sad. Nervous. Exhausted. Being around so many people in an uncontrolled environment took almost everything out of me. For years, every movement had structure. Every interaction had boundaries. Now there were none.

I didn’t know how to exist in that.

I ended up riding the LRT just to stay warm. I boarded at Rideau Station and sat there staring at nothing, wondering what would become of me.

At one stop, a young family got on. A father, mother, and a little girl about the same age as my youngest daughter. She started talking. I barely registered it. My brain still hadn’t recalibrated to normal life.

Then she asked me my name.

I looked at her parents instinctively. They weren’t worried. So I told her.

I don’t remember what we talked about. I was too numb. But at the end of it, she stood up, smiled, and gave me a high-five.

That was it.

That broke me.

I hadn’t even had confirmation yet that I would see my own kids. I didn’t know what they had been told. I didn’t know what they thought of me. And this little girl — innocent, unaware — treated me like I was just a normal man on a train.

I couldn’t hold it together.

I excused myself and moved to another train car. And I broke down. Completely. Not loud. But uncontrollable.

Because I didn’t feel like a normal man.

I felt like such a loser — not because of my circumstances alone, but because of my failures. I felt like a complete failure. Not just as a father. As a man. I couldn’t provide for my kids. I couldn’t even provide for myself. I was depending on strangers for food and a bed.

That’s not how I had imagined manhood.

By the time I rode back to Rideau Station and walked to the Mission for dinner, I was drained. I checked in. Ate. Showered. Laid in my bunk staring at the ceiling.

Sleep didn’t come easy.

Day 1 was over.

I had crossed a border.

I had walked out of prison.

But freedom didn’t feel free.

It felt cold.
It felt heavy.
It felt uncertain.

And for the first time, I realized something I wasn’t prepared for:

You can be released from a cell
and still feel like you’re wandering in a cave.

**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.

Previous: Part 1 – Day 0: Freedom Felt Colder than Prison

Next: Part 3 — Two Hours of Normal

View the full series: Coming Home to Uncertainty