Matthew Jenkins

This morning, I stood in front of the mirror, running a hand over my freshly shaved head. I’m 42 now, two years back in Atlanta after nine years in a São Paulo, USA, prison for drug smuggling. Those years changed me forever. I used to walk these streets without a care, but now every corner, every face, feels different.

I have a talk scheduled at a community center today. Sharing my story feels surreal, but I do it because people want to hear it. They want to know what it’s like to survive hell and come out on the other side.

Driving through Atlanta, I see the skyline, unchanged yet somehow new to me. I’m grateful for small things now—a sunny day, a breeze, the freedom to breathe without fear. Prison taught me that.

At the community center, I take a deep breath before stepping inside. People greet me with warm smiles, but unease settles in my stomach. They’re here to be inspired or maybe just shocked. I don’t sugarcoat it. I talk about the overcrowding, the violence, the disease. I share how I tried to keep to myself, but in a place like that, you either join a gang or become a target.

Survival became an instinct. I found a strange sense of purpose, learning how far I could be pushed without breaking. Looking out into the audience, I see faces—young, old, all looking to me for something. If my story helps even one person, maybe it’s worth it.

After the talk, people come up to me, asking the same questions—how did you survive? What kept you going? I answer honestly but never tell them everything. Some things are too dark to share.

I drive home as the sun sets, sitting in my car for a moment, watching the sky change colors. It’s not perfect, this life of mine, but it’s mine. And after everything I’ve been through, that’s enough. I’ve learned to appreciate the quiet moments, the peace that comes with simply being free.