Reentry services should be a bridge to freedom, not a detour back to prison—because every person leaving those gates deserves more than a second chance, they deserve a real one.
Reentry: A Word That Means More Than Just Getting Out
“Reentry.” It’s a word that’s been showing up everywhere lately—on the news, in legislative hearings, in nonprofit mission statements, and especially in the lives of people who have lived through incarceration. Alongside it are words like “recidivism,” “high-risk offenders,” and “community corrections.” These terms may sound clinical or abstract to the general public, but for many, they represent real challenges, lived experiences, and frustrations with a system that seems stuck in a loop.
What Is Recidivism, Really?
By definition, recidivism refers to the tendency of a previously incarcerated person to reoffend and return to prison. It’s often measured by a simple number: the percentage of people who end up back in prison within a few years of release. But that number hides a lot of complexity. For instance, the system doesn’t always differentiate between someone who commits a new, serious crime and someone who returns due to a technical parole violation—like missing a meeting or failing a drug test. Both count the same toward the statistics.
Some groups, such as the Colorado Criminal Justice Reform Coalition (CCJRC), claim to work toward solutions to reduce recidivism and improve reentry outcomes. They advocate for reforms, testify in front of lawmakers, and provide support to those reentering society. And yet, the recidivism rate—nationally and in many states—remains stubbornly high, often cited as above 70%. That’s not new. It’s been that way for years.
So, Is the System Broken?
This leads to a difficult question: if reentry support is improving, why are so many still going back to prison? Is it the fault of the individual? The parole board? The Department of Corrections? Or is it a society that fails to support people who are trying to start over?
In parole hearings I’ve witnessed, the focus is often on individual responsibility. People are asked, Why did you come back? What choices led you here? The answers are often the same: poor decisions, bad influences, addiction, mental health struggles. But what’s rarely asked is: Was this person truly ready to be released? Were they given the tools to succeed? Did anyone consider whether they could function without constant supervision?
The hard truth is, not everyone is prepared for freedom—especially after years behind bars. Some people even find more stability inside than outside. In prison, you have structure, meals, a place to sleep. Outside? You might have nothing. That reality is rarely acknowledged in public discussions about reentry.
The CCJRC Question
You might wonder why I’m being critical of groups like CCJRC. It’s not personal—it’s about accountability. This is an organization that claims to be a nonprofit advocating for change, but it’s worth asking whether their work is truly changing outcomes. One of their most well-known figures, Pam, is herself a repeat offender. She’s been to prison more than once. She knows recidivism because she contributed to it. Her story reflects how hard reentry can be—but it also makes her part of the problem she now claims to solve.
This raises a deeper question: Should those who have caused or experienced recidivism be the ones leading reform? Some say yes—they know the system from the inside. Others argue it’s a conflict of interest, or at least an awkward one.
Moving the Conversation Forward
Ultimately, this isn’t just about CCJRC. It’s about a system that punishes but doesn’t prepare, that releases but doesn’t support, that tracks failures more than successes. Until we seriously examine why people go back to prison—and start telling the truth about the complexity of that question—we will keep recycling the same statistics, the same slogans, and the same human suffering.
Some people are trying to make it on the outside. Some are set up to fail. And some, tragically, are more comfortable inside the walls than outside them.
Reentry is not just a word—it’s a crossroads. And until we treat it as such, reform will remain just another buzzword.
From the Prison Gates to a World They Don’t Recognize
Through my years working in reentry—across multiple states including Colorado, Washington, and Florida—I’ve seen what happens when people try to rebuild their lives after prison. I’ve witnessed both heartbreaking failures and remarkable successes. But if I’m being honest, failures tend to outnumber the successes, or at least overshadow them. And I often ask myself: Why?
Is it really just the fault of the individual? Or are we placing impossible expectations on people who are already starting from behind?
The Weight of Freedom
Imagine spending 20 years behind bars. Then one day, you’re released. You step into a world that’s moved on without you—faster, louder, more digital than ever. You’re handed a smartphone, a bus pass, and a vague suggestion to go find a job. Everything is online now: job applications, housing forms, banking, even medical appointments. But you haven’t seen a smartphone in your life. The world you knew is gone. And now, you’re supposed to catch up overnight?
That’s not freedom. That’s overload.
Many people leaving prison today are not just adjusting to life on the outside—they’re walking into a technological time warp. In prison, time stands still. Outside, it sprints. And for someone who’s been incarcerated for a decade or two, even ordering a meal or using public transport can feel like decoding a foreign language.
Alone in a Crowd
Often, when someone is released, there’s no family waiting for them. Maybe their loved ones moved away. Maybe the relationships didn’t survive the sentence. Maybe the shame and stigma are too heavy. Either way, they walk out alone.
They’re told there will be support. A case manager might assure them that “reentry services” will help. Help with an ID, a job, housing. On paper, it sounds reassuring. And when you’re sitting in a cell, holding onto hope, it sounds like a plan.
But in reality? Many people walk out of those gates with only $100 in gate money—barely enough to cover a week’s worth of living expenses—and a long list of responsibilities they’re now expected to manage on their own.
If they’re lucky, a friend picks them up. If not, they might head straight to a halfway house, shelter, or back to the streets.
Setting People Up to Fail?
We say we want people to succeed. But too often, we hand them unrealistic expectations with minimal support.
Parole officers and community corrections programs operate under intense pressure. Their job is to keep communities safe, and that responsibility is real. But sometimes, the conditions placed on individuals under supervision are so strict, so demanding, that even someone without a criminal record might struggle to meet them.
A single missed appointment, a failed drug test, or a misunderstanding about a curfew can lead to a technical violation—and back to prison. It’s a tightrope walk with no safety net.
And then we ask: Why did they fail?
Who Really Carries the Blame?
We love to talk about accountability in reentry. And yes, individuals must make good choices. But what we rarely talk about is systemic accountability. Did we give this person a fighting chance? Did we prepare them—not just with a checklist, but with real-life skills and emotional support—to live in a world they haven’t seen in decades?
The truth is, many don’t fail because they’re bad people. They fail because we’ve set them up to fail. We’ve handed them a mountain to climb and then acted surprised when they stumble.
A Call for Real Change
Reentry shouldn’t be a trapdoor back to prison. It should be a bridge to a second chance. But that bridge needs to be real—not just a list of services on paper, but actual, functioning support networks that meet people where they are.
We need:
- Digital literacy training before release
- Stronger transitional housing
- Peer mentors who understand the system
- Job placement programs that give second chances
- Mental health and addiction support that lasts beyond 30 days
And above all, we need to stop pretending that success is easy after incarceration. It’s not. But with the right support, it is possible.
The question is: Do we actually want people to succeed? Or are we just checking boxes and hoping for the best?
Revocation, Recidivism, and the Reentry Racket: Who’s Really Failing the System?
I’ve sat through more revocation hearings than I can count—hearings where people on parole are sent back to prison. Each case tells a different story. Some people make that choice on their own, believe it or not. They step back into prison because, for them, the outside world feels more dangerous, more chaotic, and more hostile than the place they just left. It’s not always because they’re criminals at heart. It’s because they’re human—and they don’t feel safe, understood, or accepted in the free world.
And then there are others who go back on technical violations—a missed appointment, a failed drug test, a curfew mistake. Sometimes the violation wasn’t even their fault. A ride didn’t show up. A roommate broke the rules. Someone else messed up—but because their name is on the parole file, they take the hit. That often means months or even years back in prison—not because of new crimes, but because the system says they failed to follow the rules.
Yes, there are also individuals who commit new crimes. And in those cases, we can talk about accountability in a more traditional sense. People make choices, and choices have consequences.
But before we put a period at the end of that sentence, we need to ask something harder:
Where Are the Reentry Services We Keep Hearing About?
In the public narrative, reentry is supposed to be the solution. It’s where the money is flowing. Millions of taxpayer dollars go into “Second Chance” programs, halfway houses, transitional service centers, and nonprofits like CCJRC, WAGEES, and Servicios de La Raza. They claim to be helping people reintegrate—providing support, resources, and guidance. And yet, recidivism rates hover around 72% and have for years.
So I ask again: Where is the disconnect?
These organizations have massive budgets. Some of them boast staff rosters of 100+ people. Directors are making six-figure salaries—like the head of Servicios de La Raza, reportedly earning over $240,000 a year. And for what? For providing a backpack, a bus pass, and maybe a hygiene kit?
This Isn’t Reentry. It’s Optics.
What people coming out of prison actually need is long-term, hands-on, consistent support:
- Real job placement—not a printout of job leads.
- Resume building and interview prep.
- Help getting ID, Social Security cards, and vital documents.
- Assistance with housing—actual housing, not just a list of shelters.
- Transportation that works.
- Guidance on navigating technology, legal obligations, and day-to-day survival in a society that moves at warp speed.
But you know what? That takes time. That takes effort. And frankly, it’s not as glamorous as standing before a legislative committee and talking about “systemic transformation.”
So instead, these nonprofits deflect. They go to the legislature, blame parole officers, blame DOC, blame the prison system—and never take ownership of their own failure to deliver results. It’s a blame game wrapped in feel-good language and padded budgets.
The Cost of Inaction
Every time someone goes back to prison on a technical violation, it costs the state tens of thousands of dollars. But beyond that, it costs hope. Every failure chips away at trust—trust in reentry programs, in justice, and in the idea that change is possible. And when the programs designed to help people are profit-driven, inefficient, or indifferent, the system doesn’t just fail—it betrays.
Let’s be clear: the people coming home from prison are not statistics. They are individuals, each with a story, a struggle, and a shot at something better. But right now, too many are walking back through prison gates not because they wanted to fail, but because the system gave them no real path to succeed.
Time for Accountability
If these reentry organizations want to cash the checks, then they need to own the outcomes. If they’re not helping people stay out of prison, then what exactly are they doing? If they’re not providing measurable results, then why are they funded like they are?
We don’t need more flashy websites or PR campaigns. We need real reentry—the kind that walks with people for miles, not just to the parking lot.
Until then, we should stop pretending that recidivism is all on the shoulders of the formerly incarcerated. Because some of the biggest failures are happening in boardrooms—not just cell blocks.
It’s Time for Reform: The Truth About Reentry, Power, and the System That Pretends to Help
In America, we supervise more people than any other country on Earth. We incarcerate at record rates. But it doesn’t end when someone finishes their sentence. No—when they come out, they enter another system: parole, probation, community corrections, ankle monitors, drug tests, treatment classes, and check-ins. It’s a second sentence in the community.
And wrapped around all of this is something we’re supposed to celebrate: “Reentry.” A word that’s become the latest buzzword, the newest funding magnet, and a career path for people who used to be incarcerated—people who now claim to be mentors, experts, or heroes.
But here’s the real question:
Who is reentry really serving?
Because it sure doesn’t seem like it’s serving the people who are getting out of prison.
Reentry: Built for Them, Not for Us
Let’s be honest. Most reentry services today are built not for the people they claim to help—but for those who run them. The money, the grants, the contracts—it’s all about power, control, and image.
Take the Second Chance Center, for example. They report millions of dollars in assets. They’re building an apartment complex. Their parking lot is full of $60,000 cars. Yet people coming out of prison still can’t get a consistent job, stable housing, or basic help navigating life after incarceration.
If reentry was truly working, we wouldn’t see a 72% recidivism rate across the country.
We wouldn’t hear the same stories—over and over again—of people being given a bus pass, a hygiene kit, and a pamphlet, then sent into a world they barely recognize after 10, 15, 20 years locked away.
The Reentry Industry: Just Another Hustle?
What happened to making reentry about the individual?
Now, it’s about who can get the next grant, who can testify at the Capitol, who can pose as the face of reform.
Some of the most vocal figures in this space, like directors of major reentry nonprofits—including the Colorado Criminal Justice Reform Coalition (CCJRC)—earn six-figure salaries. For what? For showing up to testify? For writing a few talking points and blaming DOC, parole officers, or lawmakers?
These same people push pointless bills about things like voting rights while ignoring the real issues:
- People can’t afford polygraphs or treatment.
- They’re buried in fines and fees from probation.
- They have no transportation, no ID, no housing, and no one to turn to.
But sure, let’s talk about voting rights—because it sounds good. Because it photographs well. Because it gets applause in committee hearings.
The truth? People don’t care about voting rights if they’re hungry, unemployed, and sleeping in a shelter. They care about eating. They care about survival. They care about dignity.
Who’s Really to Blame?
Parole, probation, and the DOC have their issues—but the deeper betrayal comes from reentry services that were supposed to bridge the gap. Instead, they widened it.
They promise help but deliver bureaucracy.
They receive millions but offer pennies to those who need it.
They dress up like saviors, but operate like gatekeepers—protecting their own interests, reputations, and relationships with power.
And here’s a hard truth: once a con artist, always a con artist. Some of the very people who used to hustle behind bars are now hustling behind nonprofit logos—using their past to build their brand while leaving real people behind.
We need a full reset—not just for prisons, but for parole, probation, and especially for reentry.
We need:
- Transparency in where grant money goes.
- Accountability for outcomes, not speeches.
- Direct support to people returning from prison—not just services that pad someone else’s paycheck.
- Fewer people under supervision, and more community-led, trauma-informed, boots-on-the-ground efforts that care more about humans than headlines.
Until then, we can’t keep pretending the system is working. Because if the people coming out of prison are still falling through the cracks, then those running reentry services aren’t heroes.
They’re just another part of the problem.
So, What Do We Do Next?
The answer is simple: we hold reentry services accountable—just like we hold incarcerated individuals accountable for their actions. If someone gets out of prison and we expect them to follow the rules, stay clean, and make good choices, then the same should apply to those running the organizations that are supposed to help them.
If you walk into Second Chance Center, and you know who’s running it, ask them:
Where is the money going? Why aren’t people getting the help they were promised? Why is your parking lot full of luxury cars while people coming home from prison can’t even afford a bus ticket?
If CCJRC asks you for a donation, tell them:
I’ve seen your tax returns. I know how much grant money you receive. Why are you asking me for money? Why should I give my time to testify for your bill for free while you get a six-figure salary?
If Servicios de La Raza claims to serve the reentry community, ask:
Why do your services seem to focus on just one group? Why aren’t you helping everyone who needs it?
If WAGEES partners with the Department of Corrections, then DOC itself should be held responsible for making sure these services actually work. They shouldn’t just check a box and say, “We provided reentry services.” They should be following up, making sure people are actually getting housing, jobs, and real support—not just a piece of paper with a list of numbers to call.
Speak Up. Ask Questions. Demand Better.
Because here’s the truth: If these organizations don’t do their job, someone else will take their funding. There are plenty of nonprofits eager to step into the reentry space, but we need to support the ones that actually care—the small, grassroots groups that don’t chase headlines but actually put in the work.
Reentry shouldn’t be a business. It shouldn’t be about power, control, or who can build the biggest empire. It should be about keeping people from going back to prison.
So ask yourself: Are you going to keep letting the same cycle repeat itself, or are you going to demand real change?
The choice is yours. The fight is ours. Let’s hold them accountable.
Justice Unlocked. 
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