The road traveled twice

On December 22, 2011, I was sentenced to 41 years to life for burglary, vehicle theft and transportation. This was not the first time I made bad choices and harmed my community. I was a third-striker. After long arduous appeals, my sentence was amended to 25 to life.

On May 16, 2024, I was found suitable for parole. The life I lived no longer held me captive. I felt freer—just having told my story. I had to recognize where I came from and what I had done in order to heal the hurts I had endured, as well as make amends for the terrible decisions I made growing up. During the recollection of my past, I had to acknowledge I made some choices, but some events were out of my control.

It was not an easy journey. Yet the greatest gift was taking accountability for my actions and truly recognizing how I can make amends moving forward. Today, I give back by being of service to those struggling in their addictions. I am an active sponsor to my community and always share my experience to give the population the feeling of solidarity. I believe that when someone feels they’re not alone, they can continue to try.

Having to take the time to prepare mentally for the biggest interview of my life meant that I had to go backwards. I had to make connections to who I was, where I learned to make choices. I realized how selfish and devoid of genuine emotion I was. Created in the environment in which I was raised. I was definitely not my own person. After freeing myself of the chaos, I had to learn to be grateful for those experiences. This was the only way I could gain freedom on the inside. It is not often that someone gets a third chance; therefore, I will always remember the road I have not traveled to get where I am.

Preparing for the Board of Parole Hearings and awaiting the decision of my fate and accountability, I ran the tape back on my life.

***

I remember the late-night knocks as the place I resided was a revolving door for my parents’ friends. I remember when mama used to rub my ear to fall asleep when I was afraid to go to bed. Nightmares would haunt me; I believed I was always in danger. I remember firefighter Di Napoli, a man passionate about saving the lives of others. His big voice and playfulness during a tour to the firehouse in my small desert town. He was an inspiration to my little girl’s dreams. The big red truck is a fascination to my unease and neglect. I remember being burned, learning how to cook, and my mama rushing me to cold water. The trauma turning to laughter: a memory that brings love. I was five when I knocked my mom’s tooth out playing a game. I remember being scared of the yelling that was sure to come from my stepdad. Except there was no yelling, both parents laughed as I cried, praising me for being daddy’s strong little girl.

I remember the absence of my parents when they abandoned me at a cousin’s in another small town. The town was familiar but dark, no stoplights, neighbors a distance away. I ran away to the streets and drugs, engaging in unhealthy relationships to fill the voids of insecurities and loneliness. I remember the taste of burning fire as my breath was taken away from the first time I injected meth into my veins.

I remember the feeling of rejection the first time his fist hit me in the face: the bruises, scars, and the settling for less. I remember the cold steel within my palm as I thought about the grief and loss. Abandonment and death welcoming me but too cowardly to pull the trigger.

I remember the look in her eyes as she begged for her life. I remember the cold air as I helped pack the stolen goods and hopped in the back to flee the scene. She was beaten and taken advantage of for stereo equipment, jewelry, DVDs and drugs. I remember not feeling at all, as I ran with denial of the harm I caused. I remember the frigid steel bracelets placed upon my wrist as she identified me through video.

I remember the look in my mother’s eyes, crying for where her baby girl has gone. I remember the hard bang of the gavel as it slams onto the judge’s podium. I remember fear engulfing me as I entered the gray stone and barbed wire.

I remember the phone calls and the tears shed through the years I spent in my selfishness. The nights I tried to sleep through the pain of missing my loved ones. Never once did I consider them. The days dragging with only one visit from my dad. I remember the lies I had to tell to keep his secrets my own. Everything learned a lie. I remember learning the truth, “he is a paid informant.” Everything I idolized turning to betrayal.

I remember the frost exiting the concrete box. After five years, I would get a new chance. I remember the late nights worried my dad would die in his sleep, battling the cancer that was ravishing his body. I remember the preacher’s Elvis impersonation at the little white chapel in Vegas as my ex-husband and I said, “I do.”

I remember the heartache, stress, and overwhelming fears of loss and failure. I remember the lack of money, food, and urgency, Addiction clawing its way back into my life and losing it all.

I remember the sharp pain and red-stained palm as the window shattered. I remember the sound of the clutch pull as I drove away. I remember the pain in my chest as the red dots painted the stolen car. I remember my mother’s scream raiding the air; I remember the black tar asphalt hot against my cheek as I was wrestled to the ground.

I remember seeing the tears once again fall down my mother’s cheek as the judge said, “Guilty.” I remember the warm, salty tears landing on my lips, traveling the same road I once came before.

I remember, after serving 15 years on a 25 to life sentence, hearing the commissioner say, “I am proud to be the one to find you suitable today.”