We Walked The Yard At Shawshank

The Peaceful Prisons Project is turning tragic endings into new beginnings.

“Get busy living, or get busy dying.”

That line from The Shawshank Redemption echoes with a haunting kind of clarity when you’ve stood where it was meant to resonate most deeply. A few weeks ago, I stood with Abbe Marten and Baylen Parada, two of the core leaders of the Peaceful Prisons Project, on the grassy field in Thomaston, Maine, where the original Maine State Prison once stood. The towering walls of Shawshank’s real-life inspiration are long gone now, demolished after over 180 years of operation, leaving behind just a single exterior wall and a memory that still grips the bones of the place.

But like in the film, the echoes haven’t faded. This was the prison that inspired Stephen King’s novella and the subsequent movie that so many of us know. The place where Red, played by Morgan Freeman, scratched his name beneath the joist that Brooks hanged himself from. That spot, and that contrast, have always stayed with me. Brooks and Red were both institutionalized men. Both had lost the best years of their lives behind bars. But while Brooks took his life out of despair and fear, Red stood in the same place and made a different decision. He chose hope. He chose connection. He chose to risk it all to seek out someone who would understand him.

There’s a gravity in that kind of choice. And there was gravity in ours, too. Abbe, Baylen, and I came to Maine not just to visit what had been, but to walk into what is. We were headed to Maine State Prison in Warren, the modern facility that replaced the original, to attend a community barbecue held inside the walls. A barbecue made possible because of Brad Chesnel, a resident at the prison and the Chief Development Officer of the Peaceful Prisons Project (P3). That event would become one of the most meaningful moments in my life.

But before we get there, I need to share how this all came together, and what it means.

Walking Into the Walls Again

I’ve reentered jails and prisons before, first as a returning citizen trying to find a path forward, then as a legal intern under Wisconsin Supreme Court Rule 50 with the public defender’s office, where I conducted eligibility screenings and represented clients in bail hearings, including people I had once been incarcerated with. I’ve stood in front of judges who sentenced me and then stood beside my clients in front of those same judges.

But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for walking into Maine State Prison.

My heart was pounding. I lost focus on the words being said to me. As we approached the facility, “INTEGRITY” was emblazoned above the front entrance, like a silent challenge to the systems and cycles that had so often stripped us of our own.

Abbe asked me if I was okay. Baylen did too. They meant well. But the answer couldn’t be captured in a yes or no.

I wasn’t panicking, I was remembering. And my body remembered more than my mind wanted to. The nervous system doesn’t ask for permission to react. After years of incarceration, violence, and trauma, even walking free doesn’t undo the wiring. Just like in combat, where a loud noise still sends your adrenaline through the roof, the body responds faster than the rational mind can intervene.

It’s the same reason tendons snap even when muscle is ready. You can build muscle in six weeks, but the tendons take six months to adapt. That mismatch is dangerous, and real. It is the perfect metaphor to illustrate why a person may seem alright, but in reality, their biology is in survival mode.

My mind knew I was safe. But my body still braces for war.

At the front doors of Maine State Prison, we were greeted by Michael Fournier, the facility’s Program Director. From the moment we met, there was an unspoken understanding between us, me an infantry veteran and him a cavalry veteran. We both knew what it meant to push through adversity and serve with purpose. It didn’t take long for us to connect on shared ground, and we started talking as if we’d served in the same platoon. Director Fournier is also an avid runner, which meant he immediately understood why I was so committed to hitting my personal record in the MSP weight room. He gave me the green light without hesitation. That “can do” mindset is the mindset of veterans. And in this institution, it reinforced my belief that veterans, especially combat veterans, are uniquely suited to lead in the spaces that need the most transformation. He chatted with me while the food for the barbecue was being prepared, and it honestly felt like I was back on base smoking and joking with another service member.

The 605-Pound Deadlift and Shared Strength (the video is of 585#)

We made our way through security and out to the yard, where the event was set up. Brad had arranged every detail of the barbecue from inside the prison, and he welcomed us with the calm confidence of someone who has spent years doing the impossible with limited tools. Coordinating a community event like this inside a maximum-security facility isn’t just planning, it’s diplomacy. It’s leadership. It’s politics, pressure, and relationship management, all in one.

Before we ate, we toured the facility. The prison gym was cleaner and more well-equipped than some CrossFit boxes I’ve been in. Brad had mentioned a tire I could flip, but I had something else in mind.

I’ve been chasing a 605-pound deadlift for some time now. And on this day, in this prison, I wanted to make that attempt. Not for ego. For solidarity.

When I lift, I’m not just chasing strength, I’m remembering what saved me. From age 14 in a juvenile facility to two tours in Iraq to county jails and state prisons, movement has always been my medicine. I used to run Randy Couture-style barbell complexes in the motor pool in Iraq just to drain the adrenaline before we rolled out in our gun trucks on convoys. Lifting heavy wasn’t about vanity; it’s always been about staying alive.

Inside Maine State Prison, it was about showing the men that no matter the clothes I wear or the title I hold, I am still them. And they are me.

As the plates clanged onto the barbell, everyone in the gym pitched in. They loaded the bar, spotted me, cheered. There was no status, no separation, no division.

I pulled 605 pounds that day. And what I felt wasn't just strength, it was shared purpose.

Which Ecosystem Do We Want To Preserve

The environment inside MSP is unlike anything I’ve seen. It’s not just about programming or policy, it’s about people. One resident I spoke to, formerly incarcerated at Rikers, summed it up with one powerful sentence: “They don’t put us in an environment where it’s kill or be killed.”

That stuck with me. In other places, survival comes first. In Maine, thanks to leaders like Commissioner Randall Liberty, there’s space to grow. A former sheriff and a combat veteran himself, Liberty has led the Maine DOC with an understanding that dignity and safety are not mutually exclusive. He’s not guessing his way through this, he’s lived it, led through it, and now he’s implementing it.

Maine’s DOC isn’t perfect, but it’s clear they’re doing something right: they’re putting the right people in the right roles. They’re building systems that actually align with outcomes, not just doctored statistics and sterilized data.

So Why Does It All Matter?

Because this wasn’t just a visit. It was a lesson in what is possible when you build institutions around purpose instead of punishment.

At the barbecue, Brad and the Long Timers Group (LTG) presented Recreation Officer Richie Yvon with an award. It wasn’t a box-checking moment or a formality. It was gratitude for his consistency, compassion, and commitment. I got the chance to speak with Officer Yvon after the event, and what he shared will stick with me. He told me that this job matters to him. That he shows up every day because he knows it matters to the men around him.

It’s easy to be cynical about COs when you’ve spent time on the inside. I know, I lived that mindset for years. But that wall is long gone for me. People like Officer Yvon have helped tear it down. He shows up as his best self in an environment that often rewards the opposite. And in doing so, he’s built something rare: trust. A bridge between officer and inmate. A space where healing is actually possible.

That day reminded me of Commissioner Liberty telling me about a Family Day at the prison, when he allowed families to visit their loved ones on the units themselves, breaking the unspoken barrier between public and prison. It resonated deeply. Because when I was in Iraq, we followed detainee operations built to disorient, to break the will. Secure. Search. Silence. Segregate. Speed to the rear. It was about stripping people of agency.

Prisons often operate in the same way. But Family Day, and this barbecue, were the opposite. They were human. They were restorative.

Peaceful Prison Project

It’s easy to forget that these moments happen inside institutions built for punishment. But they do, because people like Abbe Marten and the Peaceful Prisons Project insist on making them happen.

Abbe is the executive director of P3, a nonprofit that brings immediate, tangible support to the incarcerated and the corrections staff who work with them. She doesn’t have a master’s in clinical social work. What she has is courage. Compassion. And relentless vision.

In a world where behavioral health systems fail at nearly every level, and where mental health administrators are often detached from the people they’re supposed to serve, P3 is different. They build relationships, not just resumes. They build community, not bureaucracy. They bridge the gap between what is and what could be.

It’s not an overstatement to say that they are doing the work most systems refuse to touch. Throughout the day at MSP I laughed internally when I thought about the number of bureaucratic mental health practitioners I’ve known as a client and as an advocate, and I asked myself, how many of them could do even a fraction of what the P3 Executive Director Abbe Marten has done? There are some I love to death (and they are my people), but they are few and far between.

As someone who was once incarcerated, then served in combat, and is now about to become a lawyer; someone who built his life back through routine, discipline, and an unshakable commitment to transformation; I can tell you this:

If we want better outcomes in our communities, we need people like Abbe, Brad, Baylen, Commissioner Liberty, Director Fournier, and Officer Yvon leading the way. We need visionaries and veterans. We need survivors and system-changers. We need people who aren’t afraid to enter difficult places with open hearts and firm resolve.

If You’re Still Reading

Please consider supporting the Peaceful Prisons Project. Visit https://peacefulprisonsproject.org/ to learn more, make a donation, or get involved. Because what we saw in Maine wasn’t a miracle. It was the outcome of people showing up, again and again, with purpose. And it’s working.

Peaceful Prisons Project