There's a bitter irony in dedicating your life to helping others transition from incarceration when you're struggling to make that work sustainable. As a formerly incarcerated speaker and reentry consultant, I've found myself caught between a calling to serve and the harsh realities of trying to build a life in this space.
The Prison Speaking Circuit: Purpose Without Pay
Every time I walk through those prison gates now as a free person, my heart races with purpose. I know the faces looking back at me from those plastic chairs in the gymnasium – I was once sitting there myself. They need to hear that change is possible, that there's hope beyond those walls. But here's what most people don't realize: many prisons have zero budget for speakers.
"We'd love to have you come speak," they say, "but we can't offer any compensation."
The drive might be two hours each way. Gas money comes out of pocket. A whole day of work lost. Yet how do you say no when you know your story might be the spark someone needs? When you remember how desperately you once needed to see living proof that transformation was possible?
The Consulting Paradox
Then there's the reentry consulting world, which comes with its own form of exploitation dressed up as opportunity. Companies approach you, eager to tap into your connections, your credibility, your hard-won relationships with institutions and community organizations. They see the value in your lived experience – but often not enough to compensate it fairly.
"We'll give you 5% of any contracts we secure through your introductions," they offer, as if that's generous. Or worse: "Think of all the exposure this will bring you!"
You become the bridge they walk across to access lucrative contracts and grants, but somehow there's never enough budget to make you a real partner. They want your authenticity, your street credibility, your compelling personal narrative – but they want it at a discount.
The Emotional Toll
The exhaustion isn't just physical or financial. It's the emotional labor of constantly reliving your past trauma to make it palatable for others. It's watching organizations profit from your pain while calling it "partnership." It's feeling like your lived experience is valuable enough to open doors for others but not enough to earn you a seat at the table.
Some days, the weight of it all makes me want to walk away. To find some ordinary job where I'm not constantly navigating the complex dynamics of being both a success story and a struggling entrepreneur. Where my worth isn't measured against my past. Where I don't have to choose between serving my community and sustaining myself.
Finding Balance in the Struggle
But then I'll get that one message from someone who heard me speak, who's now thriving on the outside. Or I'll see a program I helped design actually changing lives. And I remember why I started this journey in the first place.
The solution isn't stepping away – it's stepping up. Speaking out about these challenges. Setting boundaries. Demanding fair compensation for our expertise and connections. Building our own tables instead of waiting for seats at others'.
To my fellow formerly incarcerated advocates: your experience has value. Your connections have value. Your insights have value. Don't let anyone convince you that exposure pays the bills or that your past mistakes mean you should accept less than you're worth.
And to the organizations and institutions who claim to support reentry: it's time to put real resources behind your rhetoric. If you truly believe in second chances, show it by investing in the people who are doing this work. Our lived experience isn't just a compelling narrative for your grant applications – it's expertise that deserves professional compensation.
The path of a formerly incarcerated speaker and consultant is a challenging one, walking between two worlds while trying to build bridges between them. But maybe by speaking these truths, we can start to build a more equitable foundation for this vital work.
Kardell
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