Finding My Way Back: Social Bonds, Rejection, and the Struggle for Belonging
When I first stepped back into the community after prison I carried both relief and fear. Relief that the sentence was finally over. Fear because I knew that stepping out of prison did not mean stepping into acceptance. Crime and punishment does not end in a courtroom and it does not end at the prison gate. It ends, if it ends at all, in the small and ordinary rhythms of life. And for me, those rhythms were not waiting neatly on the other side.
The rejection came quickly. Job applications that went nowhere once the box was checked. Apartment doors that closed the moment a background check was run. I learned to hear “we will call you back” as code for “you will never hear from us again.” It was humiliating, and worse, it was isolating. Every “no” felt like a reminder that the world still saw me as a number, not as a man trying to change. That rejection can push you back toward the shadows, back toward the same habits that led you inside in the first place.
And yet, what saved me from slipping fully back was not a sudden burst of willpower but the gradual, uneven growth of social bonds and roles that began to take root. Someone offered me a small job that did not require me to hide my past. Someone else offered me a place to stay when every landlord turned me down. These gestures were more than practical solutions. They were acts of inclusion. They were society whispering that there might still be a place for me.
At first the roles felt strange. Inside prison my identity was fixed. I was an inmate, a problem, a statistic. Outside, people slowly began to invite me into other roles: worker, neighbor, mentor, even student. Each role carried expectations, and at first I was afraid to fail at them. But those roles started to reshape me. The act of being relied on, whether to show up on time, to help a friend move, or to speak to a group of students, created a sense of accountability that no parole officer ever could.
The bonds mattered even more. There is something deeply human about not wanting to disappoint those who believe in you. A mentor’s encouragement, a child’s trust, or a friend’s loyalty becomes an anchor in a sea of rejection. When someone sees you as more than your past, you begin to see yourself as more than your past. That is the quiet magic of desistance.
Still, the struggle is not a straight line. Even as new roles and bonds helped me feel grounded, the rejections kept coming. Each “no” for a job or a home chipped at my confidence, but each “yes” from the people who stood by me built it back up. Over time, the yeses mattered more. They tethered me to a future I could actually imagine, not because it was easy but because it was shared.
Looking back, I realize that my journey away from crime was not only about avoiding bad choices but about being given the chance to belong. The theories of desistance talk about turning points, but what really sustains change are the ordinary, everyday affirmations of worth. A handshake from a new employer. A friend calling to check in. A community member opening a door instead of closing it. These moments accumulate, and they make you want to live up to them.
Desistance is not about erasing a past. It is about weaving yourself back into the fabric of a community that once seemed determined to push you out. My story is full of rejection, but it is also full of people who chose to include me anyway. Crime may separate a person from society, but bonds that are fragile, persistent, and deeply human are what bring them back.