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“You’ve been through a lot, son.”
My mother’s words hit me like a rubber bat – knocking me flat with the realisation that I’d been to hell and back.
Yet those simple words of validation, spoken a year after my release, nourished me. They recognised my ordeal, and that recognition mattered.
Like many ex-prisoners, I had never stopped to ask: “What have I been through? How did I survive?”
The soul-grinding act of staying tough, of force-coping, carries on long after release. Emotions remain numbed. Expectations shrink. Hope feels like a luxury we can’t afford.
Prison is endured, not processed. The trauma often goes unrecognised and unacknowledged. Many of us hide the damage, even from ourselves. Without validation, we carry it alone – mistaking struggle for weakness, layering self-blame on top of trauma and finding no clear path to relief.
Nobody tells us: “You’ve been through a lot.” Nobody validates the trauma.
Yet this validation is crucial. Without it, poisonous self-talk creeps in: “I’m weak because I feel traumatised by prison.”
No. That’s not true. I survived one of the most stressful experiences a human being can endure. It is completely normal to feel traumatised by it. Prison leaves a mark. We should not ignore that mark. We need to acknowledge the suffering and consciously mark the transition back into life outside. Without this, we risk staying trapped in hypervigilant prison mode.
Learning to self-validate – and ideally receiving validation from others – is vital for mental reintegration. It creates the space to acknowledge and accept what has happened, reducing the risk of being haunted by imprisonment or carrying the sense of ongoing punishment.
It is about granting ourselves permission to process the ordeal, to draw a line between prison and release. Otherwise, we risk lingering in an emotional halfway house – neither fully in prison nor fully free.
We did our time. We made it through. That took strength. Recovery takes time, but it comes easier when we accept that prison was tough – and that it is behind us. The bruises and wounds are real, but scars heal faster when we stop denying their existence.
About a month after my mum first said, “You’ve been through a lot”, she added: “You’ve lost that haunted look.”
She was right. I had allowed myself to grieve the lost time and trauma. I began to come to terms with it, to separate myself from the blurred line between doing time and being out. I reminded myself daily: “I am out. I can make new plans.”
I was finally in the adjustment period – with good days and bad – but my core self and my sense of hope slowly returned.
Yet one niggling doubt remained. I couldn’t quite name it – until one day the words came.
“I let the system treat me inhumanely, and I went along with it. I deserved everything.”
The moment I thought it, I saw how damaging it was. There is something psychologically injurious about feeling as though you cooperated in your own punishment – as if by enduring it you somehow endorsed it.
Giving in to a system that torments you leaves a bitter aftertaste. It makes you feel weak.
Remaining meek and compliant in the face of psychological torture can feel like complicity. But then I realised:
“Yes, you were treated inhumanely – and it’s natural to grieve that. You never had a real choice about ‘going along with it.’. You endured what you had to endure, and you did it with remarkable self-control.”
That endurance is not weakness. It is strength. Surviving does not make you complicit; it makes you resilient.
Now it’s time to honour that resilience. To restore your sense of humanity. To move forward with pride and a renewed sense of self-worth.
Coping with a term of imprisonment is no small feat. It leaves its mark. But you can look that damage in the eye, acknowledge it for what it is and still take pride in having made it through.
After release, you have the chance to draw a line under that experience and, at the same time, validate what you’ve been through in order to fend off the silent haunting of unacknowledged prison trauma.
And, if guilt ever whispers that you “went along with it” too passively, remind yourself: you never had a choice. Blending into the system wasn’t weakness; it was survival. It gave you the best chance of getting out – and that was strength.
“You’ve been through a lot, son.”
My mother’s words hit me like a rubber bat – knocking me flat with the realisation that I’d been to hell and back.
Yet those simple words of validation, spoken a year after my release, nourished me. They recognised my ordeal, and that recognition mattered.
Like many ex-prisoners, I had never stopped to ask: “What have I been through? How did I survive?”
The soul-grinding act of staying tough, of force-coping, carries on long after release. Emotions remain numbed. Expectations shrink. Hope feels like a luxury we can’t afford.
Prison is endured, not processed. The trauma often goes unrecognised and unacknowledged. Many of us hide the damage, even from ourselves. Without validation, we carry it alone – mistaking struggle for weakness, layering self-blame on top of trauma and finding no clear path to relief.
Nobody tells us: “You’ve been through a lot.” Nobody validates the trauma.
Yet this validation is crucial. Without it, poisonous self-talk creeps in: “I’m weak because I feel traumatised by prison.”
No. That’s not true. I survived one of the most stressful experiences a human being can endure. It is completely normal to feel traumatised by it. Prison leaves a mark. We should not ignore that mark. We need to acknowledge the suffering and consciously mark the transition back into life outside. Without this, we risk staying trapped in hypervigilant prison mode.
Learning to self-validate – and ideally receiving validation from others – is vital for mental reintegration. It creates the space to acknowledge and accept what has happened, reducing the risk of being haunted by imprisonment or carrying the sense of ongoing punishment.
It is about granting ourselves permission to process the ordeal, to draw a line between prison and release. Otherwise, we risk lingering in an emotional halfway house – neither fully in prison nor fully free.
We did our time. We made it through. That took strength. Recovery takes time, but it comes easier when we accept that prison was tough – and that it is behind us. The bruises and wounds are real, but scars heal faster when we stop denying their existence.
About a month after my mum first said, “You’ve been through a lot”, she added: “You’ve lost that haunted look.”
She was right. I had allowed myself to grieve the lost time and trauma. I began to come to terms with it, to separate myself from the blurred line between doing time and being out. I reminded myself daily: “I am out. I can make new plans.”
I was finally in the adjustment period – with good days and bad – but my core self and my sense of hope slowly returned.
Yet one niggling doubt remained. I couldn’t quite name it – until one day the words came.
“I let the system treat me inhumanely, and I went along with it. I deserved everything.”
The moment I thought it, I saw how damaging it was. There is something psychologically injurious about feeling as though you cooperated in your own punishment – as if by enduring it you somehow endorsed it.
Giving in to a system that torments you leaves a bitter aftertaste. It makes you feel weak.
Remaining meek and compliant in the face of psychological torture can feel like complicity. But then I realised:
“Yes, you were treated inhumanely – and it’s natural to grieve that. You never had a real choice about ‘going along with it.’. You endured what you had to endure, and you did it with remarkable self-control.”
That endurance is not weakness. It is strength. Surviving does not make you complicit; it makes you resilient.
Now it’s time to honour that resilience. To restore your sense of humanity. To move forward with pride and a renewed sense of self-worth.
Coping with a term of imprisonment is no small feat. It leaves its mark. But you can look that damage in the eye, acknowledge it for what it is and still take pride in having made it through.
After release, you have the chance to draw a line under that experience and, at the same time, validate what you’ve been through in order to fend off the silent haunting of unacknowledged prison trauma.
And, if guilt ever whispers that you “went along with it” too passively, remind yourself: you never had a choice. Blending into the system wasn’t weakness; it was survival. It gave you the best chance of getting out – and that was strength.
My release date was the 18th of March 2025, and in one month I have accomplished so many things.
Homelessness is often the biggest worry that people have when being released from custody. A lot of people leave prison not sure of where they will live. This section gives a rough outline of how people can look for homelessness services and different types of accommodation.
What helped me was realising that there was nothing inherently wrong with me and that it was my brain trying to cope.
Everyone has the right to dream. To expect. To imagine a version of life where we get to decide who we are – not just live with who we’ve been told we are. That kind of dreaming is powerful. It keeps something alive in us. Something worth fighting for.
I was released about four weeks ago and I was quite stressed. To be completely honest, I didn't really want to leave. The truth is, I loved prison and it became part of my identity.
Getting a job after prison is hard for most people. If you had a job before you went in, you may not be able to go back to it, or you might not want to.
For many of us, the idea of re-entering society after incarceration can feel like standing at a crossroad, unsure of which way to go.
As well as feeling excited about your release, you may also be feeling fearful that something will go wrong so that your release will be delayed, or that you won’t be able to make it once you’re released.
Help keep the momentum going. All donations will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
All donations of $2 or more are tax deductible. If you would like to pay directly into our bank account to avoid the processing fee, please contact donate@abouttime.org.au. ABN 67 667 331 106.
Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
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