I have been to prison seven times, and each time has felt harder than the last. The physical and mental torment is difficult to describe. I carry deep guilt toward my family, especially my parents, and I regret my choices. I want to go home, but I can’t, and that leaves me anxious and restless. People outside rarely understand what prison life is like—the hardship, sorrow, self-blame, and suffering can only be known by those who have lived it.
This is how I ended up here: because of a difficult family background, problems at school, and the friends I kept, I came into contact with drugs and eventually went to prison—what I think of as the “suffering of incarceration.”
My first imprisonment happened after a relapse. I was controlled by a group of so-called friends who sold drugs. I even helped them traffic drugs, but before I received any payment, I was arrested.
When I was young, I joined the triads partly because of how media glorified them. Movies made members look stylish, powerful, and protected—like joining meant no one could bully you. They also portrayed “brotherhood” and loyalty as if members would help each other no matter what.
In reality, those images are fiction created to sell stories. What triads value most is money, not loyalty. Every time I was arrested for trafficking drugs, none of that “brotherhood” appeared.
In reality, those images are fiction created to sell stories. What triads value most is money, not loyalty. Every time I was arrested for trafficking drugs, none of that “brotherhood” appeared. No one visited. No one paid for a lawyer. They watched me confess and face the consequences alone. Some younger members even had to pay protection fees in prison—so where was the loyalty?
I joined because I was already addicted to drugs, and they were the only ones who could supply me. At first, they gave me drugs for free, but it was a trap. Once I was dependent, the “free” supply stopped and they charged me—unless I did what they wanted. They used me to traffic drugs so they could profit while I carried the risk and the sentence. I share this because I want young people to understand the truth and not be harmed by what they see on screen.
the Harsh reality of prison
During the first three months, I hit rock bottom. I stayed alone in my room, dazed, waiting for night to come. I barely spoke, had no appetite, and wandered around like a zombie. I tried to sleep constantly so time would pass faster and I wouldn’t have to face anyone.
Outside, I always had friends around—playing games and using drugs to numb daily troubles, especially work stress. Inside, there are no drugs to quiet my mind, so I’m left with my thoughts, trying to hold myself together.
When I was younger, I lived as I pleased. In prison, I must follow every instruction, as if my life is completely controlled by others. The shame of losing freedom—and of losing control of myself—cuts deep. At first I slept day and night to escape withdrawal and the pain; when I slept, the suffering turned into dreams. When I could no longer sleep all the time, I relied on whatever medicine was available to ease the discomfort. Only then did I truly understand how precious freedom is. I used to think my aunt stopping me from doing things meant I had no freedom. I didn’t realize what real loss of freedom meant until I was here.
I also know my poor social skills may have contributed to where I am. My parents were busy working and couldn’t take care of me much. I grew up lonely, rarely talked to others, and didn’t learn how to communicate well.
Not seeing family is one of the worst pains. I have a four-year-old son. My mother could bring him to visit, but she refuses because she fears I will negatively affect his growth. I can’t even see him for a moment, and that pushes me to the edge emotionally.
I miss my son and family so much that I often can’t sleep. Each morning feels like a knife in my heart. I feel guilty toward my child for losing a parent’s care at such a young age. As a father, I can’t accompany or protect him, and knowing that he has to endure this is unbearable. This guilt and self-blame is my greatest daily torment.
Even basic survival is harder here. Before prison, I ate a lot. In prison, food is limited, and I feel hungry every day. It’s another kind of suffering—physical as well as mental.
Now, every day here feels like another day wasted, another day less to live. I feel myself aging quickly, and I’m desperate to leave, go home…
Prison also requires daily work, and cleaning is seen as the least desirable job. I do it reluctantly, and every time I pick up the tools, I feel humiliated, like I’ve lost my dignity. Outside, I could choose what to do. Here, I have no control over my work or my life, and that constant loss of autonomy wears me down.
This time feels different because I’m nearing 50. When I was young, even a harsh sentence didn’t scare me—I thought I had time to rebuild after release. Now, every day here feels like another day wasted, another day less to live. I feel myself aging quickly, and I’m desperate to leave, go home, and take care of my son and my elderly mother.
My mother is very old, and everyone must face death someday. I fear she may leave me before I’m released. I haven’t been home for a long time, and I worry her health may not hold. I miss her deeply and feel anxious about her fragile condition.
TAKE HEED
Prison life moves painfully slowly. Even when I have work, it can feel like time has stopped. The length of each day and the weight of regret can push me toward breaking down. In the quiet of the night, I can’t help but cry, longing to regain my freedom.
That is why I want to warn young people: don’t break the law. It can destroy your entire future. A criminal record makes it extremely difficult to find a job. And freedom—especially the freedom to choose—may seem ordinary until it is gone. Without the chance to make your own choices, life feels tainted. Just as someone who has never been hungry doesn’t know how to cherish food, someone who has never lost freedom doesn’t understand its value.
People say, “If not free, better to die,” and I understand why—losing freedom can feel more frightening than death. Here, freedom is a luxury. I remember how I once traveled anywhere I wanted; now I’m trapped, and each day feels like a year.
Many inmates call this place “hell,” and I agree. Prison is hell on earth. They aren’t wrong. And if hell is where wrongdoers are tortured to repay the harm they’ve done, then this is where I am paying for my sins. The pain in my heart is beyond words. I am determined never to commit crimes again, and I ask others: don’t do illegal acts. Otherwise, you may fall into an earthly hell like this.
I urge everyone to stay vigilant about the people around you. Warn friends and family to be cautious of strangers—and even current friends—who may try to lure others into drug use. This is not something to take lightly.
Many people dream of being rich and believe the fastest path is the best one. But that mindset is dangerous: one wrong decision can lead to irreversible consequences.
When I could no longer get free drugs and had no money, I felt desperate. I started trafficking to pay for my addiction. Over time, the routine felt “easy”—flexible hours, quick cash, and more money than a normal job. For a while, it seemed like a guaranteed way to get ahead. But sooner or later, you get caught.
Only now do I understand that the gains are never worth the losses. Prison time earns you nothing. The longer the sentence, the more you lose—years of honest income, opportunities, and freedom. The “easy money” is an illusion, and the price is far higher than people imagine. Chasing quick money only delayed me from building a stable life through legitimate work.
I deeply regret not valuing my renovation job and working diligently. I was tempted by quick riches and didn’t recognize how serious the consequences would be. My arrest damaged my life, my family, and everything I had worked for.
In prison, I suffer harsh punishment and constant regret. I now see how precious legitimate work is: it provides stability without fear of arrest. I’m determined that after release, I will live honestly. What matters isn’t having “fast” money—it’s having sustainable, lawful work and keeping your freedom.
After I admitted my mistakes to my boss, they promised to keep me employed after my release. That brought me to tears and strengthened my resolve to change.
Please don’t touch drugs—not even once. I’m a warning of what can happen: addiction can destroy your family, your freedom, and your future. When I’m released, I want to give back by volunteering, writing, and raising awareness about the harm drugs cause. More people need to know the truth: the only safe choice is to stay away.
Note: This letter has been translated and edited from its original in Chinese. Switch language to read the original letter.