July 25, 2025, at precisely 2:07 p.m., my world changed in a way I never could’ve imagined.
That was the moment I walked through the gates of the Federal Correctional Institution Flatiron Satellite Camp in New Jersey.
Let me be very clear: nothing prepares you for that kind of awakening. I wasn’t escorted by guards in shackles or thrown behind bars in some Hollywood-style prison drama.
No, I walked in. On my own. Wearing a fluorescent yellow jumpsuit that made me feel like a caution sign in human form.
As I crossed the threshold of the dormitory and took my first steps into what would become my new reality, I caught a glimpse of myself in the small, scratched mirror held up by one of the inmates.
That image—me, hollow-eyed, clad in state-issued polyester—hit me like a punch to the gut.
The tears came faster than I could stop them. I didn’t care who saw. That reflection, in that moment, made the weight of my decisions, my mistakes, and the road that led me there all too real. It was the clearest, most painful mirror I’ve ever looked into—one that didn’t just show my face, but the wreckage of the life I had built.
The dorm itself? It brought back strange echoes of summer camp—if summer camp had bars, regulations, and a stench of despair. Imagine a cafeteria straight out of a public school built in the 1970s—same linoleum floors, the same clatter of trays, only now the food is joyless and served with indifference.
The bathroom, though, deserves its own horror novel. The closest thing I can compare it to is an abandoned gym locker room from a forgotten high school—grim, damp, smelling of mildew and regret. You don’t go in there without flip-flops and prayer.
It’s been just over a week now, but I can tell you this much: when people say “prison sucks,” they aren’t just talking about the bars and the bunks.
It’s not just the loss of freedom—it’s the erosion of your dignity. It’s realizing how many basic human rights we all take for granted on the outside.
A pillow that isn’t made of rubber. Soap that isn’t government-issued sandpaper. The freedom to choose when you eat or even what direction you walk in. Here, everything is regulated, stripped down, dehumanized.
I’m in what they call a “camp”—a minimum-security facility that, in theory, should feel less harsh than the prisons you see on TV. But let’s not kid ourselves: a cage is still a cage, even if it doesn’t have bars.
I now live among 47 other men, mostly fellow white-collar offenders, a few caught up in the dragnet of drug-related cases. We each carry our own stories, our own falls from grace, and yet we are now all wearing the same uniform, eating the same meals, following the same monotonous schedule.
Every day is an exercise in patience and mental endurance. You quickly realize that time doesn’t move here—it drips. Slowly. Painfully. The routine is soul-numbing. Wake up, count, eat, line up, repeat. You begin to understand why some men talk to the walls or pace like caged animals. The silence here is loud, and the noise never stops.
But even in this grim, surreal place, something caught me off guard—the facility itself. FCI Flatiron Camp is, bizarrely, one of the strangest and most oddly fascinating places I’ve ever seen.
It’s part institutional compound, part industrial relic, surrounded by patches of overgrown grass and concrete paths that lead to nowhere. No one on the outside ever thinks about what these places look like, let alone who’s inside. After all, we’re the “scum,” right? Society writes us off, labels us, forgets us.
Well, I refuse to be forgotten.
I came here with a mission—one I hold as closely as the pocket Constitution I brought with me.
That little booklet isn’t just a reminder of the rights I still possess as an American citizen—it’s a statement of defiance. I may be serving time, but I’m not surrendering my voice. I’m not going to be silent about the way dignity is quietly stripped from the incarcerated.
I will not allow my fellow inmates—or myself—to forget that we are still human beings, still Americans, and still protected under that sacred document.
In this place, hope is no longer a vague ideal. It becomes your lifeline. Hope takes on new shape and meaning when everything else has been taken from you. I cling to it—not out of weakness, but because it’s all that’s left. I’ve begun to feel like I’m fading, like the George I knew is slipping away.
That’s been the hardest part. Not the routine, not the bed, not even the loss of freedom—but the slow disassociation from the man I once was. You start to forget what the world feels like when you’re not constantly being watched, measured, or judged.
But I haven’t given up. I won’t. Because this moment in my life, as bitter and brutal as it is, will not define the whole story. It’s only a chapter. And like any good book, the best chapters are still unwritten.
So I write this now not to ask for sympathy—but to share the raw truth of what this place is.
What it does. And what I’ve come to understand about myself, my country, and the system we live under.
Because if there’s one thing prison has taught me—it’s that even behind these walls, your voice still matters.
And mine isn’t going anywhere.