A true peer recovery coach listens without judgment, guides with empathy, and supports with humility—helping others heal not for profit, but because they care.
Back to Square One: The Two Paths After Prison
And here we are again—back to square one, talking about life after prison. Over the years, I’ve seen countless men and women walk out from behind the walls, and I’ve come to realize there are really two kinds of people who emerge.
The first group are the “real ones.” These are the people who remain consistent, who carry themselves outside just as they did inside—without pretending, without putting on an act. They are kind, generous, and grounded. They know their freedom is fragile, and they work hard to protect it by following the rules, staying in their lane, and building a better life. Many of them don’t even talk about prison much, and when they do, it’s often through humor. They laugh at the hard times, trading stories about shared struggles that, in hindsight, have turned into jokes. These are the people you want around you—the trustworthy ones with no hidden agenda, who live in gratitude for their second chance.
Then there is the second group—the pretenders. These are people who spent years behind bars acting like someone they weren’t, crafting a version of themselves that doesn’t survive in the real world. When they come out, their true colors surface. Too often, they lean into manipulation, greed, and deception. They chase money at all costs, cutting corners and taking advantage of others. They exploit the very weaknesses they studied in prison, turning survival skills into tools for con artistry.
It’s not easy to explain this divide, but I’ve witnessed it firsthand. I’ve seen people evolve—sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. And I’ve seen how long-term incarceration can shape someone’s character. Some emerge with resilience, empathy, and humor, while others emerge hardened, manipulative, and opportunistic.
What matters most is this: freedom reveals the truth. Prison may test a person, but the outside world exposes who they really are.
The Untold Truth About Reentry: When Help Becomes Exploitation
I have written before about reentry programs—organizations like Second Chance Center, Redemption, and others—that claim to support people transitioning out of prison. In theory, these groups exist to guide individuals through one of the hardest periods of their lives: reentering society after incarceration. In practice, too many of them are corrupted, mismanaged, or outright exploitative.
Funding that is meant to help those coming home often never reaches them. Money earmarked for transitional housing, counseling, or job placement gets misallocated, siphoned off, or buried in administrative costs. The result? Men and women who need support find themselves stranded, while organizations profit from their struggles.
I could name many names, and one day I will. But for now, politics keeps me from fully exposing certain players, because shining too bright a light could put people’s freedom at risk. Still, when the time comes, I intend to reveal some of the deepest corruption in Colorado—a network that reaches all the way to the governor’s office. It is major, it is systemic, and it is hiding in plain sight.
Take one example: David Coleman, who currently serves as a director of a community corrections program. By definition, these positions require passing a background check. Yet Coleman himself has a history involving serious charges. A reduced sentence by the governor doesn’t erase the fact that he is, legally and by CBI standards, still a criminal. How then was he cleared to lead? Criminals running community corrections—it raises real questions about integrity and oversight.
Or consider the Second Chance Center’s so-called “road map” for returning citizens, which is little more than a copy-and-paste job of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. Instead of genuine, innovative guidance for people leaving prison, we get recycled material dressed up as expertise. And yet, the author sits on multiple boards, presented as a guru of reentry—when in reality, he is more of a con artist benefiting from a broken system.
And let’s not forget the political ties. This network is protected and propped up by certain legislators who turn a blind eye to the corruption. To deny that is to deny reality.
But this article is not about Second Chance Center or about one state senator. It’s about something less discussed but equally concerning: the rise of peer recovery coaches.
Peer recovery coaches are supposed to be mentors—people with lived experience who guide others through reentry and recovery. Done right, this is powerful. But when the wrong people are put in these positions, it becomes another pipeline for manipulation, self-promotion, and financial exploitation. In some cases, peer coaches act more like gatekeepers than guides, deciding who gets access to resources and who doesn’t. Instead of empowering, they control. Instead of serving, they profit.
Reentry is supposed to be about second chances. But too often in Colorado, it has become a business—a business where the currency is human lives. Until the corruption is called out and accountability enforced, the people who just walked out of prison walls will continue to be let down by the very system claiming to support them.
Who Really Is a Peer Recovery Coach?
The term peer recovery coach has been around for a long time, but only in recent years has it become a buzzword—a “hot ticket” certification that everyone seems to be chasing. The rise of the opioid epidemic, the fentanyl crisis, and the ongoing struggles with addiction and mental health have made peer recovery coaches more visible than ever. But the question remains: who are they, really?
I hold a peer recovery coach certification myself. I pursued it not for recognition, but because I wanted to truly understand addiction, mental health, and the struggles people face every single day. I wanted to learn how people in recovery stay sober, how they navigate treatment, what therapy looks like for them, whether they take medication or not, and how they balance all of that with the challenges of daily life. For me, the certification was about education, empathy, and being able to walk alongside others with a deeper awareness of what recovery truly means.
But the peer recovery world, like many systems tied to the war on drugs, has a dark side. With so much money flowing into addiction services through Medicaid, Medicare, and federal grants, the role of peer recovery coach has become fertile ground for exploitation. Vulnerable people battling addiction are seen not as individuals in need of support, but as dollar signs.
And just as I’ve written before about the two kinds of people coming out of prison, there are two kinds of peer recovery coaches.
The first group are the genuine ones. These are people with lived experience who want to give back as much as they can. They remember what it was like to be at rock bottom, and they dedicate themselves to helping others climb out. For them, it’s not about money—it’s about service, compassion, and making sure no one feels alone on their recovery journey.
Then there’s the second group. These are also people with lived experience, but they’ve figured out how to turn recovery into a business model. They know how to play the system, how to maximize billing, how to take advantage of programs designed to help. They package their prison time and addiction history into a marketable story, but behind the scenes, their focus is less about helping and more about hustling. The sad truth is, some of the loudest voices in this field are the very ones exploiting it.
I nearly fell for one of these stories myself. At first, this individual seemed genuine—someone who had turned his life around and wanted to inspire others. But as time passed, the cracks began to show, and the true colors came through. What looked like mentorship and hope revealed itself to be self-interest and profit.
So who really is a peer recovery coach? The title alone doesn’t tell you much. Some are lifelines, guiding people through the hardest battles of their lives. Others are opportunists, cashing in on a system built on pain and struggle. The challenge is telling the difference—and making sure the people who truly need support are connected with coaches who are in it for the right reasons.
When Recovery Becomes a Business: The Story of “Camden”
This article is based on a true story. It is about a real, existing LLC that provides peer recovery coaching and teaches “7 Habits” classes to people struggling with addiction, mental health, and personal crises. The program works with places like the Salvation Army Harbor Light, promising guidance and transformation. On the surface, it looks like a great outcome—maybe even a miracle for some. But the truth is, there’s no solid data. We don’t know how effective these programs really are, or whether they’re truly serving the people who need them most.
The organization is run by a man I’ll call Camden.
I met Camden several years ago. Back then, he struck me as quiet, thoughtful, and gifted. He seemed humble, the kind of person who had been through darkness and come out with a genuine desire to help others. He had served a long prison sentence, facing charges so serious that he nearly spent his life behind bars. At one point, he even came close to dying after release. His original sentence was so high it amounted to life without parole, but it was eventually overturned. You’d think after surviving all of that, he’d see his freedom as a second—or maybe even third—chance at life. A chance to do good, to help others avoid his path.
And at first, that’s what I believed he was doing. When I met him, I thought: Here is a kind man, someone using his experience to lift others, someone running a business with real purpose. It gave me hope.
But over the years, the story began to shift. The more I learned, the more I listened, the more I realized that Camden’s mission was not what it seemed.
Instead of a focus on service, I saw the hunger for money. Instead of humility, I saw ambition and greed. Camden had figured out how to tap into Medicaid and Medicare funding, how to profit off the most vulnerable—people struggling with addiction, mental illness, and reentry. What once looked like a lifeline began to look like exploitation.
And what troubles me most is this: many of Camden’s peer recovery coaches are not just people with “lived experience.” They are men who served time in prison with him. On the surface, it sounds noble—lifting up those who share the same past. But in practice, it feels disturbing. It creates a circle of influence that looks less like empowerment and more like a network built to protect the business rather than the people it claims to serve.
Maybe Camden started with good intentions. Maybe he truly wanted to save those who needed saving. But somewhere along the way, the mission blurred into money, control, and manipulation. And the people who lose the most in this shift are the ones already struggling—the men and women in desperate need of real support, not exploitation.
This isn’t just about Camden. It’s about a system that allows recovery to become a business, where the vulnerable are treated as revenue streams, and where “helping” too often turns into “taking.”
Until we demand transparency and accountability in these programs, more people like Camden will rise. And more people in need will be let down by those they trusted to guide them
When a Story Becomes a Sales Pitch: Camden on Soft White Underbelly
Recently, Soft White Underbelly released an interview with Camden—a man who presented his journey from a troubled past as a junkie and thief to what he framed as redemption and success. At first glance, his appearance seemed promising. Soft White Underbelly has built a reputation for raw, unfiltered conversations with people most of society overlooks: gang members, sex workers, homeless individuals, and those battling addiction or trauma. The man behind the platform not only listens—he often helps, offering resources, sober homes, or simply the dignity of being heard.
That’s what makes Soft White Underbelly so powerful. The stories are mesmerizing, unforgettable, and often deeply human. So when I heard Camden was going to be featured, I thought: Maybe this is where we’ll finally hear the truth. Maybe this will be a moment of honesty and depth.
But what we got was something very different.
Camden’s interview wasn’t about redemption. It wasn’t about peeling back the layers of trauma, survival, or growth. It wasn’t even about exploring the lessons of his painful past. Instead, what Camden delivered was a carefully crafted PR pitch.
He spoke of numbers—752 clients, multiple partnerships, business growth. He sold his organization as though he were on a stage, promoting his services and reputation rather than opening his heart. What should have been a deeply personal story became a scripted presentation designed to generate sympathy, credibility, and ultimately, profit.
And that’s the tragedy here. Soft White Underbelly has never been about building brands or businesses. It’s about truth. It’s about stripping away the noise and hearing people as they are—flawed, broken, healing, or resilient. It’s about humanity, not marketing.
The more I reflect on Camden’s interview, the more it feels like a performance. Premeditated. Scripted. A sales pitch dressed up as vulnerability. He didn’t fully open up, didn’t strip down the walls we all build around our hardest truths. He leveraged his past as a narrative tool, not as an honest reckoning.
And maybe that’s the difference between a genuine redemption story and a calculated one. True redemption doesn’t sell itself. It doesn’t need polished numbers or polished lines. It reveals itself in authenticity, humility, and truth.
Camden’s interview left me unsettled not because he has succeeded or because he runs a business, but because it lacked the rawness—the honesty—that makes Soft White Underbelly such a rare and important platform. He had the opportunity to give something real, but instead, he gave us business.
In the end, Camden didn’t tell a story of redemption. He told a story of branding. And for those of us who watch Soft White Underbelly for the truth, that felt like a betrayal.
When Peer Recovery Becomes a Show: The Case of “T-Bag”
On paper, the business model sounds good—even admirable. Hire people with lived experience to serve as peer recovery coaches. After all, who better to guide those struggling with addiction, homelessness, or reentry than someone who has walked that path themselves?
The problem is not the model itself. The problem is who gets hired. Not everyone with lived experience is cut out to be a peer recovery coach. This work demands humility, patience, empathy, and a true commitment to serving others. A good coach must be grounded, non-judgmental, kind, and willing to listen more than they talk. It’s about service, not status. It’s about showing up for people with nothing—people whose entire lives might fit inside a single backpack.
But then, there’s “T-Bag.”
That’s the nickname he picked up in prison, though he avoids it now. Today, he wants to present himself as a polished, corporate professional—someone who’s changed, someone with no ties to prison life. But the truth is, the nickname still fits. Because the persona he projects now isn’t authenticity; it’s performance.
I’ve never met him in person, but I’ve seen enough on social media to understand the image he pushes out to the world. What do we see? Narcissism. Chauvinism. Flash over substance. A man in his 30s acting like he’s 17.
Let’s be real—how does someone barely two years out of prison afford a $90,000 BMW M3? How does a “peer recovery coach,” supposedly serving the most vulnerable, pull up to the Salvation Army in a luxury car, shining and spotless, while the very people he claims to mentor arrive with nothing but a toothbrush in their pocket?
Even more disturbing: the expensive vacations. Trips to Hawaii, lavish getaways—funded by what? Personal savings? Or, as some allege, Medicaid dollars being siphoned and double-dipped through clever accounting? People who’ve worked within these organizations whisper about fraud. About numbers that don’t add up. About billing schemes that should, and likely will, trigger an audit.
Because let’s face it: the math doesn’t make sense.
And when the math doesn’t make sense, the people who suffer are those most in need—the ones promised guidance, dignity, and hope. Instead, they’re handed a role model who shows up in flashy cars and designer clothes, a man more interested in projecting an image than offering genuine support.
This isn’t what peer recovery is supposed to look like. It’s supposed to be humble. Grounded. Rooted in service and lived truth.
But with “T-Bag,” what we get is the opposite: someone who has taken the title of peer recovery coach and turned it into a stage for showing off. Someone who embodies greed and ego more than redemption.
And that raises the larger question: if this is the kind of person being elevated and trusted as the “face” of recovery, what does that say about the system itself? How deep does the exploitation run? How long before an audit exposes the truth?
Because at the end of the day, the real T-Bag isn’t just a nickname. It’s a reminder of everything this system gets wrong when money, ego, and greed replace humility, service, and accountability.
Peer Recovery or Medicaid Milking? The Business Behind the Curtain
You might be wondering—how do peer recovery coaches even get paid? The answer is simple: Medicaid and Medicare. Both still cover peer recovery coaching under the categories of mental health and addiction support. If you’re a licensed peer recovery coach, you can even have your own billing number. That means you decide how many sessions a client “needs.” Five sessions? Ten sessions? More? Medicaid isn’t asking too many questions—at least not yet.
But with Colorado facing serious budget shortfalls and mental health funding already being cut, the days of this “golden era” of unchecked billing are numbered. Audits are coming. And when they do, the truth about how much Medicaid has been milked will come to light.
Which brings us back to Camden.
Instead of humility and service, we see expensive vacations to Hawaii, Yellowstone, and other luxury getaways—plastered all over Facebook. Why the showboating? Why the need to prove to the world that you’ve “made it”? If you were truly committed to helping the vulnerable, your life wouldn’t need to be a highlight reel. You’d keep it private. But Camden, it’s clear now—you sold your soul for money.
There’s a saying: a tiger never changes its stripes, it only shakes them off. That’s exactly what happened here. You shook off your past image, but the stripes are still there. You’re the same person you were before prison—just smarter about the hustle.
Inside Salvation Army Harbor Light, where Camden’s organization runs programs, clients themselves whisper about what’s going on. “They’re making a lot of money just milking Medicaid,” some say. People are required to sit through classes that don’t actually address their struggles. The Seven Habits curriculum? Sure, it’s motivational. But for people battling serious addiction and mental health issues, it’s not enough. It’s not recovery—it’s branding. And worse, Camden doesn’t even teach it anymore. He sends in his “minions” to cover for him while he focuses on chasing new business deals.
Most recently, Camden even attended an American Correctional Association conference—the very same system that once held him behind bars. Now he’s posing for pictures with correctional leaders, pretending he’s influencing them. What’s the goal here? Networking for more contracts? Building credibility with the same institutions he once condemned? It’s hypocrisy at its finest.
This isn’t peer recovery anymore. It’s corporate America. It’s branding. It’s money.
And while Camden might have started with good intentions, today those intentions are buried under greed, ego, and self-promotion. Peer recovery is supposed to be about walking with people in their darkest hours, not riding luxury cars to meetings, cashing in on Medicaid, and chasing status at conferences.
At its core, this is exploitation disguised as redemption. And when the audits finally come, when the numbers don’t add up, Camden’s “empire” will look less like a recovery movement and more like a Medicaid fraud case study.
Because real peer recovery coaches don’t chase branding—they chase healing.
Peer Recovery Coaching Behind Prison Walls: A Tale of Two Approaches
Most people don’t realize this, but peer recovery coaching actually happens inside prison walls. You might be wondering: Who are these coaches? Are they outside professionals? Counselors hired by the state?
No—the coaches are inmates themselves.
These are men who take tests, receive training, and are chosen because of their gifts, their insight, and their ability to connect with others. They live in the same cells, face the same struggles, and yet they step into a role of service. They become the listener, the mentor, the bridge for others drowning in addiction, depression, or hopelessness.
Let me tell you about Big Dave.
Big Dave is more than a friend to me—he’s like a father. Every time he calls, it makes my day. I check in, make sure he’s okay, see what’s going on in his world. And let me tell you, his world is heavy. Dave is doing time for a wrongful conviction. He could easily lay in bed, shut down, and give up. But instead, he gets up every day and pours himself into others.
He is a peer recovery coach inside one of Colorado’s prisons. He works with both young men and older inmates—anyone struggling with mental health or addiction. He doesn’t earn much for it—barely peanuts. But for him, it’s not about the money. It’s about sitting down with someone who’s hurting, listening to their mumbling and rambling, offering advice, and simply being a safe presence in a place that breaks most men down.
Sometimes he sees five or six people in one day. Do you know how draining that is, to carry that much emotional weight? And yet, he does it. He doesn’t complain—at least not much—but he admits it’s exhausting. Still, he pushes forward because he knows it matters. That is what real peer recovery coaching looks like.
Now, let’s compare that with Camden.
Camden runs a business on the outside, hiring peer recovery coaches and branding himself as a leader in the field. But his version of coaching looks very different. For Camden, it’s about billing Medicaid, building numbers, expanding his brand, and showing off his “success.” He frames his work as redemption—but redemption with a price tag.
And here’s the difference:
- Big Dave gives. He listens, supports, and carries others.
- Camden receives. He builds his empire on Medicaid billing, Facebook posts, and expensive vacations.
Camden might defend himself by saying: “I can’t help people who don’t want to help themselves.” And while that’s partly true, the problem is that he still bills Medicaid whether or not the help is effective. For him, it’s about the transaction. For Big Dave, it’s about the transformation.
One model is built on humility. The other is built on profit.
So if you want to see what a true peer recovery coach looks like, don’t look at Camden’s Facebook page. Don’t look at his conferences or his branding. Look behind the walls at Big Dave—a man with nothing to gain but the satisfaction of knowing he’s giving others a fighting chance to get through another day.
That’s peer recovery in its purest form.
When Peer Recovery Becomes a Spectacle: Camden, T-Bag, and the Misuse of Resources
Camden has figured out how to expand his influence in ways that look impressive on the surface but leave many questions unanswered. By leveraging other organizations—like CrossFit with Redemption, which is associated with the president of his network—he has created high-profile events, competitions, and sponsorships. On the outside, it looks like innovation. But ask those still behind prison walls, and the reality is very different.
According to inmates I’ve spoken with, most never even hear about these competitions. They don’t receive benefits, new equipment, or additional support. Meanwhile, Camden and his inner circle—including T-Bag and his entourage—spent thousands of dollars traveling to CrossFit Games, attending weekend events, and promoting themselves on podcasts. All this while the mental health and addiction needs inside the prison remain underfunded and under-supported.
T-Bag, as many know, is narcissistic, self-absorbed, and more focused on his image than genuine service. His outfits at these events—pinkish tracksuits, white sneakers, oversized sunglasses—make him look like a caricature of corporate flamboyance. It’s almost comical, yet deeply concerning. A peer recovery coach should not be a spectacle; their work is quiet, humble, and invisible. It’s about listening, supporting, and guiding vulnerable populations—not attending elite competitions and posting photos for personal branding.
This raises serious questions: how did T-Bag even qualify as a licensed peer recovery coach? Clearly, he must have impressed a committee with an essay or credentials—but licensing should reflect character, empathy, and the ability to serve, not charisma or self-promotion. Yet now he functions as Camden’s right-hand man, running what increasingly looks like a hierarchical, profit-driven operation.
Some of these individuals are on parole; some have served decades-long sentences. Everyone deserves a second chance. But what does a second chance mean if those entrusted with guiding the vulnerable cannot manage themselves? What makes someone a good peer recovery coach? Empathy, humility, patience, and dedication—not flashy cars, expensive vacations, or Instagram posts.
At the end of the day, the appearance of success is overshadowing the mission of peer recovery. Resources meant to support mental health and addiction services are instead being diverted to self-promotion. Inmates continue to struggle, while those outside the walls build an image.
True peer recovery coaching is invisible. It is selfless. It is service. And unfortunately, the spectacle surrounding Camden and T-Bag reminds us that too often, profit and personal branding have replaced purpose.
Conclusion: True Peer Recovery vs. Profit-Driven Exploitation
The system behind peer recovery coaching can be complicated—and sometimes, corrupted. Camden’s organization, for example, hires many workers as 1099 contractors while offering W2 positions with benefits to others. How they pay their recovery coaches—and whether taxes are properly reported—remains a question. It’s easy to speculate that the flashy lifestyles, expensive cars, and lavish vacations could be funded by exploiting Medicaid and Medicare billing.
But here’s the important point: everything eventually comes out in the wash. Internal audits, investigations, and oversight are inevitable. Budget cuts in Colorado and increasing scrutiny over Medicaid spending mean that organizations like Camden’s are operating in a shrinking window of opportunity to maximize profits at the expense of those they are supposed to serve.
This isn’t just about one organization. There are others operating similarly, misusing funds meant for vulnerable populations, particularly people struggling with addiction and mental health issues. It’s a stark reminder that taking advantage of those who are most vulnerable is unacceptable.
True peer recovery coaching, on the other hand, is entirely different. It’s slow, steady, and people-focused. My own teacher and mentor in peer recovery, Eric, embodies what this work should be. He listens, hears, and guides with patience and understanding. He doesn’t need flashy cars, social media clout, or business branding—his impact is measured in the lives he touches, the trust he builds, and the hope he restores.
Peer recovery is about service, not profit. It’s about people, not publicity. And it’s time for organizations and individuals who have lost sight of that mission to be held accountable.
Disclaimer: The content of this publication is based on personal observations, professional experiences, and publicly available information. All opinions expressed are solely those of the author and do not reflect the views of any affiliated institutions or organizations. This publication is intended for informational and educational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice. Any statements regarding individuals, agencies, or events are made in good faith and are supported by factual evidence or personal witness accounts. The author has taken reasonable steps to ensure accuracy, but makes no guarantees regarding completeness or future developments. Any resemblance to persons or situations beyond what is expressly stated is purely coincidental. If any party believes that any content is inaccurate or misrepresented, they are encouraged to contact the author for clarification or discussion.
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