Ex-cons, What Was The Hardest Prison Habit To Break After Being Released?

Ex-cons, What Was The Hardest Prison Habit To Break After Being Released?

Episode Transcript

(00:00):
Ex cons of Reddit, what was the hardest prison habit to break
after being released? I was locked up for six years as
a youth. I was a gang member in Los
Angeles and wasn't a very nice person in the late 80s and 90s.
To this day I avoid crowds and open seating areas for eating.
When I go out with my wife to eat at a restaurant, I always
sit facing the room so I can seeeverything and I sit at the edge

(00:23):
of the booth with one leg on theoutside so I can get up quickly,
or on the edge of my chair if I'm seated in a chair.
All the while I am scanning the room, memorizing faces,
categorizing people as threat orno threat.
I listen to as many conversations around me as I can
within earshot, trying to identify potential dangers while
simultaneously following the conversation at my own table.

(00:45):
My preference, of course, is forthere to be no conversation at
my table, just eating quickly and quietly.
Even the act of a waiter or waitress interrupting me mid
meal to ask how things are is extremely stressful because it
disrupts everything else I'm tracking around me.
Obviously this isn't normal behavior so I try hard to make
it all work and look normal, butinside I'm literally waiting for

(01:08):
trouble to arise. Another habit I had was when my
wife and I first moved in together, she didn't realize
that moving around me while I slept was a big deal.
I would be sound asleep and she would walk by the bed and just
the rustling of her pajamas or acrack of her toe across the room
was enough to wake me instantly.If she was close enough to the
bed, I used to grab her and ask what she was doing before I even

(01:30):
fully processed it, usually witha fist cocked back.
Thankfully, this doesn't happen anymore, but the first five to
six years of our relationship were rough.
Where I was locked up, we lived in large dorm rooms with 25 to
30 people per room, and you werea target for anyone who wanted
to attack you while you slept. Naturally, I slept lightly and
perceived any sound as a potential threat.

(01:52):
Story 2. I just spent 19 months with my
fiance who served 10 years in prison, and over that time I
noticed several habits that wereclearly ingrained in him from
his time inside. For example, he tends to wolf
down his food incredibly fast because in prison you're forced
to eat in about 5 minutes. He also has this habit of
knocking on the table when he gets up, a signal back in prison

(02:15):
to show I'm done and leaving thetable.
He has really sharp reflexes andcan respond to the smallest
things in an overly aggressive, in your face way.
I've been working with him on this and other behaviors that
were essential in prison but don't translate well to life
outside, especially in a relationship.
Another thing I noticed is that whenever we watch a program, he

(02:36):
makes really crude remarks, as if he's still hanging out with
all the guys inside. I guess the unspoken rule in
prison is that whoever can cut up the best during a movie or
show gets the most attention. He definitely comes up with some
clever lines, but they're rarelythe kind of comments a woman
wants to hear. He also has a tendency to drag
everything out, wasting time. In prison, there's no choice.

(02:59):
Time is abundant and you're leftwith little else to do.
In the real world, however, timeis limited.
You have work responsibilities and commitments, and sometimes
he spends far too long on minor things without getting to what
really matters. It's as if he's become a hermit
who likes to create little projects to pass the time,
forgetting that now he doesn't have 10 years to burn.

(03:20):
There's also a hyper territorialstreak.
He becomes overly protective of even the smallest possessions.
In prison, that tiny bit of space you have becomes your
whole world, so it makes sense that even insignificant items
take on on huge importance. Outside, however, that same
behavior is unnecessary and can be irritating.
One of the more concerning changes I noticed was a residual

(03:43):
internally hostile attitude towards certain things, what
could be seen as subtle prejudice.
Not that he's unkind, he will stop and help anyone, regardless
of race if they're in need. But the mental habits he
developed in prison about how heviews the world are still
present, and that's something we've had to work on together.
Understanding the culture and pressures of prison helps

(04:03):
explain why he developed these habits.
Still, on the outside, these behaviors are not welcomed and
he has had to consciously unlearn many of them.
It's been a long process, but hehas made noticeable
improvements. Prison leaves its mark, and even
the most kind hearted people canemerge with patterns that make
everyday life outside a challenge.
Adjusting takes patience, understanding, and effort from

(04:26):
both the person and those who care about them.
Story 3. In Pennsylvania, at least in
Philly and the surrounding area,we used to make Chi cheese in
jail. They were essentially a cheesy
noodle dish mixed with whatever meats and vegetables we could
find and usually served rolled up.
It was a small creative ritual that made the daily grind a
little little more bearable, andeveryone who pitched in got a

(04:49):
share of the final creation. I'd make it using cheese puffs,
Cheetos, or something along those lines, along with ramen
noodles, and then whatever otheringredients you or the other
girls had. Usually I'd team up with anyone
willing to contribute to a chichi.
We'd all add something and in the end everyone got a share of
the final creation. This was fairly common since I

(05:09):
didn't always have all the ingredients needed for a chichi
or anything else to mix in meats, sausage, tuna and chili
vegetables. I rarely used any in my chiches
since they were hard to come by on the lunch tray.
Our so-called salad usually consisted of a small handful of
wilted lettuce, a few soft onionchunks, and if you were lucky, a

(05:30):
single slice of tomato that looked like it had seen better
days. Sauce was optional, but always a
big deal. We usually tossed in the
seasoning packet that came with the noodles, though many girls
saved theirs or used only part of it to stretch it further.
Those little packets were a blessing, turning the bland meat
and pasta from the trays into something halfway edible.
We also used hot sauce or BBQ sauce when we could, and

(05:53):
sometimes made honey mustard by mixing 2 packets of mayonnaise
with one of yellow mustard, thenadding one or two packets of
sugar. It sounded weird, but it
actually tasted really good. Cooking, though, was a whole
different challenge. There were no microwaves, so we
used the bathroom sinks for everything.
Cooking, making coffee, brushingour teeth, shaving, even trying
to get drinkable water. It was disgusting honestly.

(06:16):
The sinks always smelled like rotten eggs and no matter how
much we clean them, the smell clung to the walls.
There was just one water fountain for all 80 girls and we
could only use it during the four hours of day room time.
It clogged and overflowed so often that it was broken at
least once a week. They gave us powdered drink
mixes with every tray, breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

(06:38):
But they caused UTI's so I only drank them when I got the grape
1. When it came to cooking, we got
creative. I'd clean out one of the huge
tortilla chip bags from the commissary, the kind that was
worth its weight in gold. I'd pour the noodles and water
inside the bag and use a Tupperware container, another
commissary essential, to hold itwhile cooking or storing food.

(06:58):
Then I'd run the bathroom sink until the water was as hot as it
could get. Sometimes it was barely warm,
especially if the other girls were showering.
Once it was hot, I'd fill the bowl and place the bag of
noodles inside. When the water cooled, I'd dump
it and refill it again, repeating the process until the
noodles softened. Sometimes it took 5 minutes,
other times 35. When the noodles were finally

(07:21):
ready, I'd crush up cheese curlsor whatever I had on hand and
mix them into the noodles, alongwith meats, sauces, or any
extras I could find. Then I'd stir everything
together, flatten it out, and roll it up, cutting it into
slices for everyone who pitched in.
Sometimes I didn't even bother rolling it up, I just served it
straight from the bowl. That's how we managed to create

(07:42):
something that actually felt like a real meal in jail.
Commissary was a blessing in disguise.
I was lucky enough to have amazing parents who always kept
money in my books and made sure I could call home.
Most of what I used came from the commissary and thanks to
that I ate better than most. I was also fortunate to have one
of the higher paying jobs inside.
I'm a Barber and stylist, so I worked in hair care, cutting and

(08:05):
styling for the other girls. I made $17.50 a week, which
might not sound like much, but in there it made all the
difference. It bought me food, clothes,
hygiene items, and most importantly, a small sense of
control in a place where controlwas hard to come by.
Every time I made a chichi, it reminded me that even in the
harshest places, people find ways to make something good, to

(08:28):
share, to laugh, to create comfort where there isn't any.
It wasn't just food, it was a little taste of freedom.
Story 4. I get asked this question often,
largely because of the circumstances I found myself in,
and I've answered it many times,especially for my friends and
family. My goal has always been to help
them understand me, people like me, and the situation in

(08:49):
general. When I was placed an ad seg in
1999, I'd already been incarcerated for almost five
years, including a few months insimilar conditions, though none
carried the looming prospect of spending the remainder of my 25
year sentence there. Those relatively minor stints
were enough to shake me, and I realized early on that I would
need to actively protect my longterm health and sanity.

(09:12):
I quickly determined to focus onroute teens and habits that
could sustain me both mentally and physically.
I read constantly, thanks in large part to some incredible
friends who were college students at the time and
welcomed my curiosity. Their encouragement allowed me
to explore subjects I had never considered before, expanding my
mind and broadening my horizons.What began as a necessity became

(09:35):
a passion, a way to maintain purpose and clarity.
I refused to judge a book by itscover, both literally and
figuratively. In addition to cultivating my
literary interests, I developed a deep hunger for information
about the world still unfolding beyond those walls, a world I
hoped to somehow survive long enough to witness again.
Thanks to my relatively good behavior, I was allowed a small

(09:57):
radio, and I listened intently to NPR and any other programs
that offered something worthwhile.
I also maintained an average of 20 newspaper and magazine
subscriptions, which kept me informed about current events,
politics, and more. This allowed me to engage in
thoughtful, meaningful conversations with my family and
friends during our two hour weekend visits, conversations I

(10:18):
somehow managed to sustain consistently throughout my
entire time inside. I also enrolled in and completed
several correspondence courses, which gave me a sense of
accomplishment, almost defiantlyproving that I could still
achieve something positive and lasting in my life.
Additionally, I developed a modest knack for writing,
whether in correspondence or forcreative expression.

(10:39):
Through this, I reconnected withold friends in new ways, and it
became, surprisingly, therapy for both my family and me,
offering a form of communicationunmarred by the years of
conflict and disregard that had defined much of our interactions
before my incarceration. And finally, I exercised
intensely. My routine served both their
obvious physical benefits and asa vital time sink to structure

(11:03):
my days six days a week, roughly3 hours a day.
I alternated between upper and lower body workouts.
I experimented with exercises I read about in publications I
received, constantly seeking to break up the monotony and
counteract the effects of being confined to such a small space.
Many men around me were in poor shape, their discomfort

(11:24):
palpable, and I feared falling into their shuffling, beaten
down rhythms. I wanted to preserve whatever
semblance of good health I could, giving myself a chance
not only to endure that environment, but to thrive once
I returned to the outside world.In short, I read a lot, wrote a
lot, and exercised a lot. It was all I could do, and I did

(11:44):
it relentlessly. Story 5.
I had to completely change my sense of time after getting out
inside. Time didn't move like it does
here. It stretched, folded, and
sometimes seemed to stop entirely.
I agree with everyone who said they ate super fast, but then we
would slow walk back from the chow hall, taking any excuse we
could find to spend just a few extra minutes outside.

(12:06):
That short walk was one of the few moments that felt close to
freedom. The open air, the faint sound of
wind and the distant sky above the fences.
You didn't rush those minutes because they reminded you of
what was waiting beyond the walls in there.
Life was about surviving long stretches of emptiness.
You had to learn to control timebefore it controlled you.
Every day was the same count after count, meal after meal,

(12:30):
The same faces, the same walls. I started noticing that I
couldn't waste good things by mixing them.
If I had a snack, I ate it slowly, focusing on it
completely. The taste, the texture, even the
sound of the wrapper, it all mattered.
That small moment was mine, and I wasn't going to rush it.
If there was something good on television, I gave it my full

(12:50):
attention. That was my one hour of escape.
I didn't eat while watching, didn't talk, didn't move.
I just let it happen. Because in there you didn't want
good things to pass quickly. You wanted to stretch them out
and make the hours disappear in the process.
Now that I'm out, everything feels reversed.
Time moves too fast. I multitask constantly.

(13:11):
I'll snack while watching a movie, scroll through my phone
while talking, or eat while reading something.
There aren't enough hours in theday.
On the inside, I was trying to make hours and days go away.
Out here, I'm chasing them, trying to fit more into every
second. It took me months to understand
how normal people manage their days.
They rush to work, rush through lunch, rush home, and still feel

(13:33):
like they're running behind. I sometimes catch myself wishing
I could teach them how to slow down, how to just be still.
But then I realized they've never had to learn that skill.
They've never had to sit in silence for hours waiting for
nothing to happen. I've got a good job now, and a
group of respectable friends. My coworkers see me as reliable,
calm, and focused. I blend in pretty well.

(13:55):
But there's a part part of me that still reacts differently,
sharper, faster. Especially when something feels
tense or uncertain in a confrontation, I still move
before I think. I'm quick to assess, quick to
act. I've had to learn how to pull
back at the very last moment to breathe before responding.
Most people I know don't even have that kind of reflex because

(14:16):
for them, danger isn't somethingthey expect.
For me, it used to be a way of life.
That's probably one of the hardest things to unlearn.
Inside. Hesitation could hurt you.
Out here, overreacting can ruin you.
It's a strange adjustment, beingin a world where people don't
think in terms of survival. My friends debate, argue, and
get frustrated, but they never think about things escalating.

(14:39):
For me, that possibility still lingers, even when I don't want
it to. Sometimes I'll notice little
things that no one else does. I automatically scan for exits
when I enter a room. I keep an eye on people's hands,
their posture, and their tone. I watch body language without
meaning to. It's like my brain still runs
background checks on everyone around me.
Even when I tell myself I'm safe, that instinct doesn't

(15:01):
switch off. I suppose that's the kind of
awareness that never really leaves you.
The world outside has a strange kind of noise.
Cars, phones, people talking fast, screens flashing.
At first, all that sound made meuneasy.
I used to crave silence because in there, quiet could mean
safety. Now I've had to relearn that
noise can also mean life, that laughter, traffic and music are

(15:25):
just part of normal days. Still, I struggle with what to
do with my free time. Freedom itself feels unfamiliar.
Sometimes I'll catch myself pacing without reason, checking
doors before bed or sitting in the dark thinking about nothing.
Old habits, old patterns. The hardest part isn't
forgetting the past. It's convincing your body that
the rules have changed. But I try.

(15:46):
Every day, I make small choices that remind me I'm out now.
I take slow walks, not because Ihave to, but because I can.
I stop to enjoy a warm meal, a cup of coffee, or a quiet
morning without shouting or noise.
I take deep breaths and tell myself that I don't need to be
ready for anything all the time.I remind myself that safety

(16:06):
isn't about watching everything.It's about trusting something,
even if just for a little while.People ask what the hardest
prison habit is to break. For me, it isn't about eating
fast or scanning rooms. It's about time.
How you feel it, how you spend it, how you trust it Again,
inside, time was the enemy, something to survive out here,
it's something I'm still learning to live with.

(16:28):
Freedom isn't just walking out of the gate, it's realizing you
no longer have to rush or hide from the clock.
Story 6. It wasn't me, but a guy who used
to work for me a few years back.He was one of those quiet,
dependable types. The kind who never caused
trouble, showed up on time, and got his work done without ever
needing much supervision. At first nothing about him stood

(16:49):
out except for one odd little habit that caught my attention.
Whenever things got busy at work, I would often go out and
grab carry out lunch for everyone.
It was sort of my way of keepingmorale up.
Just something to show appreciation for my team when we
were all buried in tasks. Usually we'd gather around the
break table, unwrap our food, and eat together for a few

(17:10):
minutes before jumping back intothe grind.
But this one guy, let's call himMark, had this strange way of
eating. He would devour his entire meal
in less than two minutes. I mean literally 2 minutes flat,
cheeseburger, fries, drink gone.While the rest of us were still
unwrapping our food or chatting about the day he'd already be
done, crumpling up his wrappers and wiping his hands like it was

(17:32):
nothing. The first few times I noticed
it, I thought maybe he he was just in a hurry or had something
urgent to get back to. But he did it every single time.
No matter what the meal was, no matter how relaxed everyone else
seemed, he always ate like the food was about to be taken away
from him. One day, my curiosity finally
got the better of me. I asked him about it.

(17:52):
Hey Mark? I said, half jokingly.
You ever actually taste your food?
You eat faster than anyone I sipever seen.
He looked at me for a second, gave this small half smile and
said, well, boss, I spent seven years in a federal prison.
If you didn't step eat your mealin 10 minutes, you didn't step
get anything. And that 10 minutes often
included the time you spent standing in line to get your

(18:15):
food. He said it so calmly, almost
casually, like he was talking about the weather.
Then he went back to wiping his hands and stood up to throw away
his trash. I didn't really know what to say
to that. OK, then I managed to mumble,
and I never brought it up again.But his words stuck with me.
I started to think about what that must have been like to live
in a place where even eating, one of the most basic human

(18:37):
acts, came with tension, time pressure, and the fear of
missing out on something as simple as a meal.
In that kind of environment, eating wasn't about pleasure or
taste, it was about survival. It's strange how prison changes
a person in ways that most of uswould never notice or
understand. For me, eating was always just a
routine part of the day, something to enjoy, to take my

(19:00):
time with. But for him, it was an ingrained
behavior shaped by years of conditioning.
He wasn't rushing because he washungry or impatient.
He was rushing because deep downhe still lived by rules that no
longer applied. Over time, I noticed other
little things too. He never liked sitting with his
back to the door. He kept his workspace neat,

(19:20):
almost military style, everything in precise order.
He was polite but distant, neversharing too much about his
personal life. Yet he was also one of the
hardest workers I'd ever met. Steady, disciplined, and
focused. It made me realize something.
People talk about freedom as if walking out of prison gates
makes you free again, but that'snot really how it works.

(19:41):
Freedom is physical, yes, but mental freedom takes much
longer. For someone like Mark, every
small habit was a shadow of where he came from.
Eating fast, watching people's movements, keeping things
organized. These weren't quirks, they were
survival instincts that refused to fade.
After that conversation, I neverteased him about his eating
again. In fact, I stopped paying

(20:03):
attention to it all together. But every once in a while, when
I saw him finish his meal beforeanyone else, I couldn't help but
think about what those seven years must have done to him.
Not just physically, but mentally.
Sometimes the hardest prison habits to break aren't the ones
people expect. They're not the big dramatic
behaviors. They're small, quiet things like
scarfing down a cheeseburger in 2 minutes flat because somewhere

(20:26):
inside a part of you. Still believes time is limited
and comfort is temporary. Mark never talked much about his
past after that, and I never asked, but I respected him more
than ever. He carried himself with a kind
of quiet strength shaped by things I could never fully
understand. And while I'll never know
exactly what those years took from him, I could see in those

(20:47):
little habits, in the speed of his eating, the alertness in his
eyes, the way he moved, that he was still in some way living by
the rules of a place he'd long left behind.
Story 7 When I first started dating my ex, I noticed
something strange about the way he slept.
At first, I brushed it off as a quirky habit, or maybe just the
way he felt most comfortable. But after a few weeks, I

(21:09):
realized there was nothing ordinary about it.
Every single night, without fail, he would lie down flat on
his back, pull the blanket neatly up to his chest, and
cross his arms tightly over his torso.
He looked as if he were lying ina coffin.
He wouldn't move the entire night.
No shifting, no rolling over, nostretching.
At first I thought it was just his natural sleeping style, but

(21:31):
as time went on, I started to realize it wasn't just that.
There was a certain tension in the way he slept, a kind of
practice stillness, like someonewho'd been trained to stay
perfectly still for a reason. He wouldn't even breathe heavily
or snore. It was as if his body had
memorized this rigid form and refused to let go.
One night, curiosity got the better of me.

(21:51):
I asked him why he slept like that.
He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, and then
muttered. It's just how I got used to
sleeping. It's safer that way.
I didn't understand what he meant at first.
Safe from what? The way he slept suddenly made
sense. In prison, he said, sleeping
could be one of the most dangerous parts of the day.
You didn't just drift off peacefully, you had to stay

(22:12):
aware, even in your rest. He told me how in crowded cells,
people would take things from each other.
Food, cigarettes, shoes, even blankets, while others were
asleep. And worse, if you didn't keep
your bodyguarded, you could wakeup to something far worse than
missing possessions. So he learned to sleep on his
back, arms crossed tightly, his body in a position that would

(22:33):
let him react quickly if something happened.
It steps. Not like anyone taught you that,
he told me once. You just pick it up.
The less you move, the less attention you draw.
The quieter you are, the safer you stay.
That hit me harder than I expected.
I began to see his sleeping position not as something odd,
but as a sign of survival. Years of living in fear and

(22:54):
constant awareness had trained his body to be ready.
Even in his sleep, for months, he couldn't shake it.
I would wake up in the middle ofthe night, look over at him, and
he'd still be in that same position, arms crossed, chest
rising and falling softly as if frozen in time.
Sometimes I'd place my hand on his arm or shoulder just to feel
him there, but he wouldn't stir.It was eerie and sad because it

(23:16):
reminded me that even though he was free, part of him was still
stuck behind those walls. There were nights when he jolt
awake suddenly, breathing hard, his eyes scanning the room like
he was back inside. I learned not to reach for him
too quickly when that happened. He needed a few seconds to
realize he wasn't there anymore.I just sit up, whisper, and let
him come back to the present on his own.

(23:38):
Living with him taught me something about how deeply
prison life embeds itself into aperson's body and mind.
It wasn't just the way he slept,it was how he ate, how he moved,
how he spoke. He never turned his back fully
to a door. Even when we were home, he'd
always sit facing the entrance, scanning every few minutes
without even realizing it. When we went to restaurants,

(24:00):
he'd choose the seat with the best view of the exits.
He'd eat quickly, not as fast asothers I'd heard about, but
still with a quiet urgency, as though meals were something to
get through, not to enjoy. But of all those habits, the
sleeping one lingered the longest.
Even after months of being home,after countless reassurances
that he was safe, he still sleptlike that.

(24:22):
I sometimes wondered if a part of him even wanted to change it.
Over time though, the walls began to come down.
It started slowly. One night I woke up and noticed
his arm had shifted slightly. Another night he was lying half
on his side. It wasn't much, but it was
something. Eventually he began to roll over
during sleep, just like anyone else.

(24:42):
The 1st morning I saw him sprawled out diagonally across
the bed, arms loose, face buriedin the pillow.
I couldn't help but smile. It felt like a small victory,
not for me, but for him. It had taken months for his body
to unlearn that instinct, for his mind to finally believe he
was safe. That simple act of sleeping
freely, something most people take for granted, was a quiet

(25:05):
but powerful symbol of healing. Sometimes when we talk about it,
he'd laugh and say, I guess I finally stopped sleeping like
Dracula. But beneath the humor, I could
see the weight of what that change really meant.
It wasn't just about how he slept.
It was about how he lived, how he slowly found his way back to
the rhythm of normal life. People often talk about ex cons

(25:26):
and the crimes they committed, but few talk about the habits
they carry long after release, Habits born from fear, control
and survival. To him, crossing his arms and
lying still wasn't strange. It was instinct, protection,
safety. The world outside had moved on,
but his body hadn't. It took patience, time and trust
to change that. Story 8 There's one thing about

(25:49):
my dad that always stands out. It is literally impossible to
sneak up on my dad. He went to prison three
different times and it really shows.
He's a small dude, but I know men twice his weight who say I
wouldn't mess with that guy. He's a crazy mother of fur.
In his first few weeks out of prison for the last time, he and
my mom had to sleep in separate beds.
She'd put an arm around him and he'd throw her across the room

(26:12):
and reach for a Shank that wasn't there.
You enter a room too fast and he'd stand to his feet in an
instant. If you walk next to him he'll
eyeball you every few seconds tosee what you're doing.
Another thing is my dad will getvery quiet at odd times, a far
off look in his eye. I've learned not to say anything
to him when he does this. He gets very irritated if you

(26:32):
break him out of it. I've never tried to ask what
he's thinking about and I'm not sure I want to know.
He has two knife wounds, one in his side under his rib cage and
a slash across his back. Both look badass but also like
they hurt. He got both in the shower and
they are. Or why he's hard to sneak up on.
My conclusion? My dad is a stone cold dude with

(26:53):
a loving heart and an odd sense of humor.
Story 9. I had to completely change my
sense of time. When you're inside, everything
is regimented, measured in moments that feel like both an
eternity and a blink of an eye. Meals, recreation, work,
everything happens at the same time every day and yet it
somehow drags on endlessly. I remember all the people who

(27:15):
said they ate their meals super fast, inhaling everybody bite.
I get it now because that speed was survival.
But then we would slow walk backfrom the chow hall, finding any
excuse for a few extra minutes outside just to feel a sense of
freedom, however small. Even something as simple as
lingering in the sun or watchingthe wind move across the yard

(27:35):
felt like a rebellion against the walls around us.
Inside, I made sure I never consolidated enjoyment.
If I had a snack, I ate it and truly concentrated on it,
savoring every texture and flavor.
If there was something good on TV, I would sit there and watch
it without letting my mind wander.
Time felt like it could stretch or collapse depending on how
much attention you paid to the small things.

(27:58):
Now, outside, I snack while watching a movie because there
aren't enough hours in the day. I don't have the luxury of
slowing life down in that same way.
But back then, my goal was to make hours and days disappear,
to escape the reality of incarceration, even if only for
a moment. I also learned a kind of
heightened awareness that has stayed with me.
Even in ordinary situations. I tend to react faster and more

(28:20):
decisively than the people around me.
Violence, thankfully, is rarely a tool I need.
But I noticed that my instincts are sharper.
If a confrontation arises, I size up the situation quickly,
understand the threat, and prepare myself mentally and
physically. I can pull back at the last
moment when it's not necessary to escalate, but I know my body
and mind are ready to act if they have to be.

(28:42):
Most people don't have that preparedness, that underlying
sense of calculation and self protection, and it's clear that
they simply don't operate on thesame level of constant
vigilance. Even the smallest things
changed. I learned to appreciate solitary
moments, the quiet time that seemed impossible in the dorm
style living we had. Sleeping lightly became second

(29:03):
nature. Even now, loud noises can
startle me and I sometimes wake up earlier than I need to, ready
for anything the day might bring.
I still notice patterns in people's movements, their tones
and their expressions, a habit borne from years of scanning for
threats, both real and perceived.
At first, this made normal life feel strange.

(29:23):
I couldn't relax the way my friends do.
I had to consciously remind myself that most people are not
going to harm me, that I don't need to be in survival mode
anymore. At work, these habits serve me
in unexpected ways. I have a good job now, and my
friends are respectable and trustworthy.
I don't need to be constantly alert, but I find that I still
move efficiently through challenges.

(29:45):
If something goes wrong, I don'tpanic.
I react quickly, methodically, and decisively.
My efficiency has been noticed and appreciated, even though I
rarely explain where it comes from.
It's a remnant of the structure,the drills, the unspoken rules
of living in a highly controlledenvironment.
The paradox is that while prisontried to strip away my

(30:06):
individuality, it also taught meskills I couldn't have learned
elsewhere, skills that now help me navigate life more
effectively than some of my peers who've never faced similar
pressure. Some habits are harder to
manage, though. Even now, I find myself
compartmentalizing emotions morethan most.
I learned inside that showing weakness could make you a
target, so I became reserved, selective about what I reveal.

(30:30):
I've had to relearn vulnerability, trust, and
patience. But the instincts don't fully
leave you. I've come to understand that the
goal isn't to erase these habits, but to control and
healthily direct them. I use them strategically, not
destructively, channeling that heightened awareness into
positive outcomes rather than aggression or fear.
Reflecting on it all, I realizedthat survival in prison was

(30:53):
about making small moments matter, adjusting your sense of
time, and learning how to control what you could in a
world where nearly everything else was out of your control.
Those lessons have stayed with me, shaping who I am today.
I eat more slowly now. I savor things.
I enjoy my moments of freedom and peace.
And yet, beneath the surface, a part of me remains alert, ready,

(31:14):
and unyielding. Prison taught me how to survive,
and outside, I'm learning how tolive, and to live well, while
carrying those lessons with me. Story 10 I did almost seven
years and have been out for two.I'm 35 from Wisconsin.
Wisconsin has a law called Truthin sentencing.
You do 100% of your time. There are multiple head counts

(31:34):
where the guards make sure everyinmate is accounted for every
morning at 5. AMI felt guilty if I slept past
that time. It took me almost six months
before I could actually sleep past five.
Even now, 6:00 AM feels like sleeping in this habit taught me
punctuality and reliability. I never miss work work and
always show up on time. I was a drug dealer with no work

(31:56):
ethic sleeping until noon. Ironically, that strict schedule
from prison made me more successful than I ever imagined.
I was recently recruited by another company with a 150%
salary increase. It's nice to see a new tax
bracket. In just two years I've become a
model parolee. My life is great.
I married my wife last Septemberand attended therapy for several

(32:18):
conditions that developed duringmy time in prison.
I was diagnosed with general andsocial anxiety disorders and
PTSDA. Few months after release I had a
panic attack. I didn't understand what was
happening. I was literally paralyzed and
terrified. I thought prison had ruined me,
but it actually made me a betterperson in many ways.

(32:38):
I am not praising the Wisconsin DOC.
Guards dehumanized inmates and treated us like garbage with no
hope. Constantly saying you'll be back
but I won't be back. The system relies on people
returning. It's job security for them.
They do everything they can to steal your dreams.
I chose a different path. Prison forced me to step back
and examine my life. I saw who I had hurt, who

(33:00):
supported me, and who abandoned me.
Around my third year, I committed myself to change.
I contemplated ending it myself because my sentence still felt
endless, but I decided to becomethe best human being I could be.
I revolted by behaving, teachingmyself, and staying positive.
Now my life is amazing. I'm surrounded by people who

(33:21):
love and support me. To all the ex cons and anyone
reading this thread, that label is meaningless.
We are human beings with feelings.
We can change. Stay positive, stay hopeful and
never give up. Story 11 Not me, but a guy who
worked for me left a mark on my understanding of how deeply
prison can shape someone's habits.

(33:41):
When things were very busy at work, I would often get carry
out lunch for everyone and bringit back to the office.
On one particular day, I noticedsomething remarkable.
While most people were eating ata leisurely pace, chatting, or
taking a moment to savor their food, this one guy inhaled a
cheeseburger and fries in what seemed like 2 minutes.
It was astonishing, almost a blur.

(34:04):
Curiosity. He got the better of me, so I
asked him why he ate so quickly.His response hit me harder than
I expected. He said, Well, knobs forma.
I spent seven years in a federalprison.
If you didn't eat your meal in 10 minutes, you didn't get
anything. That 10 minutes often included
the time it took standing in line to get your food.
I paused for a moment, taking inthe weight of what he just

(34:26):
shared. I realized then that what seemed
like an odd quirk was actually asurvival habit.
Every motion, every choice in prison is constrained by rules,
scarcity, and the need to protect yourself.
Even something as simple as eating becomes a competition and
a race. Standing in line wasn't just
about waiting your turn. It was about timing,
positioning, and making sure youdidn't miss your opportunity to

(34:49):
eat. 10 minutes was enough to befed, or enough to go hungry for
the day. That urgency carved habits so
deeply into his routine that even years later, in a
completely free environment, he still ate almost as quickly as
he did behind bars. I never said anything to him
about it. After that, there was no need.
The lesson was clear. The habits people develop in

(35:10):
prison are not merely quirks. They are adaptations to extreme
circumstances. Survival requires speed,
efficiency, and sometimes ruthlessness, even in the
smallest daily acts. The way he ate a simple meal
wasn't just fast. It was deliberate, controlled,
and efficient. He had learned to optimize his
movements, to minimize wasted time, and to anticipate

(35:31):
potential obstacles. Those lessons?
Never really go away, they linger as deeply ingrained
behaviors long after release. Watching him that day, I began
to reflect on the countless other habits ex cons must carry
with them, often without anyone realizing it.
From hyper vigilance in public spaces to the instinctive need
to conserve every resource, prison molds a person in ways

(35:54):
most of us cannot imagine. It's not just about learning to
survive a dangerous environment.It's about reshaping your sense
of time, priorities, and even what you consider normal
behavior. The urgency to finish a meal in
2 minutes may seem trivial to someone who's never been
incarcerated, but it's emblematic of a much larger
reality. In prison, every second counts

(36:14):
and hesitation can have consequences.
I thought about other areas of life where these habits might
manifest. Someone who has spent years
rushing through meals might alsoprocess information differently,
make decisions more quickly, or respond to confrontations with
instincts honed in high stakes situations.
That same efficiency that servedhim inside can be both a

(36:35):
strength and a challenge outside.
On the one hand, it allows for quick thinking and decisive
action. On the other hand, it may make
slowing down, savoring moments, or adjusting to a more relaxed
environment and feel unnatural. It also made me consider how
deeply personal these adaptations are.
No2 experiences are exactly alike, and every habit carries

(36:57):
with it a story of survival, strategy and necessity.
For this guy, eating fast wasn'tjust about food, It was about
controlling what little agency he had in an environment
designed to strip him of control.
It was about asserting some small ownership over his life,
however constrained that life may have been.
That perspective changed how I viewed his actions.

(37:18):
What looked like a strange or rude behavior was actually a
reflection of resilience and learned discipline.
Years later, I still remember that lunch vividly.
It became more than just a moment of curiosity.
It was a reminder of the unseen challenges people faced after
incarceration. Habits formed in prison are not
always visible to outsiders. They can be subtle, like the

(37:40):
speed at which someone eats, or profound, affecting how someone
navigates the world. And these habits are often
misunderstood. People might see them as
eccentricities, impatience, or even rudeness without
recognizing the context that shaped them.
I also thought about how societyresponds to ex cons.
We expect people to reintegrate seamlessly, forgetting that

(38:02):
survival in prison requires requires a set of skills and
behaviors that do not simply vanish once the gates open.
Eating fast is just one small example.
There are countless others. Hyper awareness in public,
difficulty trusting others, careful calculation in every
social interaction, and the ability to make split second
decisions in high pressure situations.

(38:23):
These are habits hard earned under extreme circumstances, and
they don't disappear just because someone is back in the
free world. That day, as I watched him
devour his meal with practiced efficiency, I gained a small but
important insight. We can't judge post prison
behavior solely by conventional standards.
What may seem excessive or unnecessary is often rooted in

(38:45):
years of training for survival in an unforgiving environment.
And if anything, these habits deserve recognition, not
judgement. They are evidence of resilience,
adaptability, and the remarkableways humans adjust to endure.
So yes, he ate a cheeseburger and fries in 2 minutes.
But that 2 minute meal told a story that went far beyond

(39:05):
lunch. It spoke of seven years of
discipline, adaptation, and survival.
And it reminded me of how much we can overlook when we fail to
consider the experiences that shape people.
I never said anything more to him about it, but I will never
forget the lesson that lunch imparted.
Story 12. That's something our society
rarely talks about. Once these individuals get out,

(39:26):
many don't last long before theytake their own lives.
It's freaking sad. Here's what gets me.
You commit a crime, get caught, can't afford a good lawyer, so
you go to prison. You serve your time, keep your
nose clean, and eventually you get out.
You're square with the house, right?
Time to start fresh, build a newlife, a new future.
Nope. You have a publicly available

(39:48):
criminal record that instantly disqualifies you from almost any
job beyond the lowest rungs of the job market, and even most of
those won't hire you. Maybe you lie on the application
and get lucky because your workplace doesn't run background
checks. If you're on parole, your parole
officer may visit your workplace, check in and speak
with your supervisor. Kiss that job goodbye.

(40:08):
OK, so you start your own business, cool, but don't count
on small business loans or government funding.
You can't trade securities either, just in case you were
dreaming about setting up a hedge fund.
Want to live in a decent apartment or rental home in a
safe area? Good luck.
Rental applications ask about your criminal history and most
places won't let you in. Well screw this.

(40:30):
Thinking about moving to Canada for a fresh start?
Sorry, the US, Canada, the UK and Australia share criminal
databases. You can't even go on vacation.
At least there's food stamps, welfare and public housing,
right? Well, not always.
Depending on the state, you could be barred from these basic
social programs. The same goes for federal grants

(40:51):
and student loans. You can't get a decent job,
can't live in a decent area, anddon't have access to ways to
improve your life. So what's left?
Screw it and go back to selling.And everyone wonders why
recidivism rates are through theroof.
Story 13 Constantly looking overmy shoulder has been, without a
doubt, the hardest prison habit for me to break.

(41:13):
And honestly, I doubt I ever fully will.
It's not just the physical act of being alert all the time,
it's the way it reshapes your mind, your expectations, and
even how you experience life itself.
When you spend time in the system, every moment is
measured, every interaction is evaluated, and every sliver of
hope is tempered with extreme caution.

(41:34):
You learn quickly that nothing is guaranteed.
Dates get moved, promises aren'tkept, and the smallest flicker
of hope often leads to disappointment.
The conditioning becomes so deepthat it doesn't simply disappear
once you walk out of the facility.
It stays with you, embedded in your thought patterns, your
instincts, and even your relationships.
While I was incarcerated, I developed a constant tension

(41:56):
between pessimism and what I call cautious optimism.
You're taught, often painfully, not to get your hopes up.
You wait for court dates, plea deals, or sentencing only to see
your plans shift 50 times beforethe ink dries on any official
paperwork. Each time you think something
positive is about to happen, it slips away and you're forced to
recalibrate your expectations. That repeated conditioning

(42:19):
trains your mind to avoid attachment to outcomes entirely.
You learn that celebrating too soon is dangerous.
It can lead to disappointment, frustration, and sometimes even
danger. In the environment you're in.
This mindset becomes so ingrained that it becomes
automatic, a lens through which you view every event in life
long after you've been released.I see this most clearly in my

(42:42):
personal life. When my wife told me we were
pregnant, I already suspected itfrom her symptoms, but even
then, I couldn't fully allow myself to feel excited.
In prison, you learn to temper all emotions, because expressing
too much joy, fear, or anger canmake you a target.
Those habits linger. So even though I was happy, I
couldn't allow myself to get carried away.

(43:03):
My brain had been trained to maintain cautious optimism.
I had to be sure the pregnancy was progressing safely before I
allowed myself to feel the full weight of joy.
Even when our daughter was born,the reality of the situation,
the full emotional release, didn't hit me until I held her
in my arms and knew she was healthy.
The cautiousness had become partof me, a permanent filter

(43:24):
through which I experienced life.
This pattern doesn't just apply to major life events like having
a child. It extends to every milestone,
getting engaged, planning a wedding, buying a house or
achieving a personal goal. My wife often tells me she
wishes I'd been more outwardly excited about becoming a father.
She doesn't always realize that my lack of visible enthusiasm

(43:45):
isn't indifference, it's the prison conditioned habit of not
getting my hopes up until there is certainty.
For years, this cautious lens has affected how I participate
in life. I scan the environment, analyze
every detail, and anticipate possible problems before
allowing myself to relax. While my wife brings warmth,
stability, and love, I still find myself operating under the

(44:08):
subconscious rules instilled during my incarceration.
The conditioning effects trust as well.
In prison, you learn that anyonecould be a threat and trust is a
currency you cannot afford to spend freely.
That mindset bleeds into post prison life.
Even in safe environments, I sometimes find myself scanning
rooms, analyzing behaviors and categorizing people as threats

(44:30):
or safe. It's exhausting and emotionally
taxing. Yet the habit persists because
it kept me alive in a system where naivety could have serious
consequences. The skill that one once ensured
survival now complicates ordinary interactions and makes
it difficult to relax fully or enjoy the spontaneity of life
outside. While many people assume that

(44:51):
adjusting to freedom is a simplematter of leaving the facility,
it's far more complicated than that.
Prison doesn't just punish your body, it rewires your mind.
The hardest habits to break aren't physical, they're
psychological. They manifest as hyper
vigilance, pessimism, cautious optimism, and a relentless need
to anticipate disappointment. They shape how you experience

(45:12):
happiness, trust, and even love.I have been home for over 7
years now and I have been with my wife for 6 1/2.
Her presence in my life has beentransformative.
She motivates me to continue working on myself and to break
away from the lingering influence of the system.
Yet, despite her love and support, she will never fully
know how much joy she brings me.Because my cautious optimism

(45:35):
masks my emotions, The prison habit of constant alertness and
tempered hope has left to permanent imprint, one that even
the most loving relationships cannot fully erase.
The reality is that some prison habits are lifelong.
They don't vanish simply becausethe physical constraints of
prison are removed. For me, constant vigilance,

(45:55):
pessimism, and cautious optimismare enduring echoes of my time
behind bars. They are reminders of a past
where hope was a fragile luxury and survival depended on mental
fortitude. Breaking these habits is less
about elimination and more aboutlearning.
Learning to coexist with them while striving to live fully in
the world outside. Story 14 One of the hardest

(46:17):
habits I had to break after leaving prison was my completely
altered sense of time. In prison, every minute is
regimented, every hour accountedfor, and every day is broken
into rigid segments. When you live like that for
years, it fundamentally changes how you perceive time, and it
doesn't just vanish the moment you step outside.
I had to relearn what it meant to have unstructured hours, to

(46:39):
enjoy moments without calculating, relating how long I
could safely linger, and to let life flow without always looking
for the next move or the next threat.
In prison, you eat fast. You don't savor meals.
You inhale them because there's always someone behind you,
always a line forming, always the next headcount looming.
Everyone done time knows what I mean.
Those few minutes in the chow hall aren't really yours.

(47:01):
Yet somehow, we'd find small ways to stretch time.
We'd slow walk back from the chow hall, loitering just enough
to feel a few extra moments of freedom outside the walls,
pretending we weren't technically breaking the rules.
Those tiny fragments of control over your schedule become
precious. After release, I realized I was
still trying to stretch hours and minutes even when I didn't

(47:23):
need to. I also had to relearn how to
enjoy life without hyper focus. In prison, if you had a snack,
you had to fully concentrate on it.
No multitasking, no watching TV while eating, no distractions.
If there was something decent towatch, you watched it fully and
carefully. Because moments of pleasure were
fleeting and often regulated. Post release, I found myself

(47:45):
still applying that same principle internally, trying to
slow down and make hours feel longer, savoring every small
moment like I was still under lockdown.
Eventually I had to adapt. Now I snack while watching a
movie, but it took years to untrain my brain from treating
every small pleasure as a finite, precious commodity.
Another prison habit that was nearly impossible to shake was

(48:08):
my constant state of vigilance. In prison, you never fully
relax. You are always scanning,
listening, categorizing, and predicting who is a threat, who
is reliable, who could hurt you if given the chance.
These skills keep you alive behind bars, but they don't just
disappear when you walk out the gate.
Even now, years later, I react to confrontations more quickly,

(48:29):
decisively, and efficiently thanmost people around.
I can assess A tense situation in seconds and pull back just in
time, but the muscle memory of being constantly prepared for
violence never fully fades. It's a double edged sword.
It keeps me alert and self protective, but it also makes
ordinary situations like arguments at work or crowded
spaces feel far more stressful than they should.

(48:53):
Even social habits carry over. In prison, you quickly learn not
to consolidate enjoyable things because if you do, you might
lose them. You eat your snack in isolation.
You watch that episode of a showfully, or you don't watch it at
all. You compartmentalize everything,
food, conversation, relaxation, because combining pleasures is
risky or frowned upon, and the small moments of comfort are all

(49:15):
you have. After prison, I noticed I still
struggle to multitask pleasure. I don't binge watch television
while eating meals, and I still have to consciously remind
myself it's safe to mix enjoyment because my instincts
still operate as though I'm behind bars.
It took years to realize that outside prison, I can actually
let myself enjoy multiple thingsat once without consequence.

(49:37):
Even the most mundane things carry traces of prison
conditioning. Standing in a crowded room, I
find myself scanning faces, memorizing movements, and
predicting behavior. I position myself strategically
wherever I sit, making sure I can leave quickly if needed.
I pay attention to everyone's conversations, not just the ones
at my own table. Even the simple act of a waiter

(49:58):
interrupting me mid meal can feel jarring because it breaks
my internal rhythm, the rhythm Ilearned to survive.
The cumulative effect of all these habits is subtle but
profound. I have a good job now, friends I
respect, and a stable life with my wife.
Yet the imprint of prison remains in my reactions, my
thought patterns, and my instincts.
I've learned to rein in some of these behaviors, to adjust my

(50:21):
perception of time, to enjoy moments without over analyzing
them, and to relax enough to trust that danger is no longer
constant. But other habits, constant
vigilance, cautious optimism, hyper focus on small pleasures,
remain. Breaking these habits is not
just about convenience or comfort.
It's about reclaiming your humanity.

(50:42):
Prison teaches you survival, butit doesn't teach you how to live
fully outside its walls. The hardest habit to break for
me was that constant sense of calculated anticipation.
Always watching, always ready, always waiting for something to
go wrong. That conditioning doesn't end at
the gate. It lingers for years, shaping
your reactions, your choices, and even your enjoyment of life.

(51:04):
And maybe in some ways, it nevercompletely leaves you.
But slowly, with time, support, and patience, you learn to bend
those habits toward life rather than survival.
You can still be cautious without being paralyzed,
vigilant without being paranoid,and savor your moments without
feeling like they might be takenaway.

(51:24):
The process is long, it's exhausting, and it's ongoing.
But it's the closest thing to freedom you can have after doing
Time Story 15. Not me, but a guy who used to
work for me had a habit that really stuck from his time in
prison. When our workplace got busy, I
would often order carry out lunch for everyone and bring it
back. Most people ate at a normal
pace, chatting and enjoying their meals, but this one guy

(51:47):
would devour a cheeseburger and fries in literally 2 minutes.
I remember watching him once andthinking, how can anyone eat
that fast? Curious, I finally asked him why
he ate so quickly. He looked at me dead seriously
and said, well, I spent seven years in a federal prison.
If you didn't finish your meal in 10 minutes, you didn't get
anything. That 10 minutes often included

(52:09):
the time it took just to stand in line and get your food.
That one statement explains so much about his behavior in
prison. Meals weren't just about eating,
they were a race against the clock, a survival skill.
Eat too slowly and you literallygo hungry.
Over time, that urgency becomes instinct, a hard wired habit
that doesn't just disappear whenyou leave.

(52:31):
Even years after being released,he still carried that habit with
him. It wasn't just about speed, it
was about efficiency, precision,and a kind of quiet vigilance.
When he ate, he focused entirelyon the meal in front of him.
No distractions, no chitchat, nosavoring the moment.
It was a habit that made sense inside the walls of a prison,
but looked strange, almost mechanical, in the outside

(52:54):
world. He told me later that he tried
to slow down, but his body and mind had been trained for years
to move fast and stay alert. Even now, in social situations
where most of us would casually enjoy a meal, he instinctively
scans the environment, eats quickly and finishes before
anyone else. It's not rudeness.
It's a deeply ingrained habit ofsurvival.

(53:16):
This story really drove home forme how the hardest prison habits
to break aren't always obvious. They aren't just things like
routines or chores. They're survival mechanisms,
instincts that helped you get through harsh conditions.
And for many ex cons, those habits stay with them long after
release, shaping the way they live, work, and even eat.
Story 16 Prison changes you in ways you don't fully realize

(53:40):
until you're out. Even two years after my release,
I still carry the weight of aggressive posturing.
That's what prison is, constant hyper vigilance and, perhaps
worse, the relentless need to appear indifferent.
You could be sitting with your friends laughing or watching TV
when the slightest misstep or a sudden movement could shift the
entire mood of the room in an instant.

(54:01):
Every emotion you show has to beinstantly buried and at a
moment's notice you have to be booted and suited.
Sometimes I'd return to my unit and see blood smeared on the
walls from a fight I'd missed. You didn't look at it, eyes
forward, indifferent. Emotion is weakness.
Even when panic gripped me secretly I had to bury it and
act like a cold jerk. I got into one fight.

(54:23):
We pounded each other in the gymarea and if you judged by others
reactions, it was like nothing was happening.
Many quietly walked away while others stood there emotionless.
Had it gone wrong for me, I could have been OFT in front of
200 and 50 people and nobody would have done a crap.
That is true loneliness, the kind most people in the outside
world cannot imagine. Screw it.

(54:44):
Even when I ran a high fever at night in a cramped cell with six
bunks, I could have died in my sleep.
The guards would only have noticed.
At the count there were 12 guards on duty for 1500 inmates.
Think about that. If someone wanted to mess with
you, you'd be hamburger meat before a guard arrived.
That was just the reality. Tension was constant.
Respect for everyone was non negotiated.

(55:06):
You stayed alert, jacked and walked with your shoulders
squared in the weight area. I've seen John Cena looking
swastika tatted Aryan men politely ask Terry Crews looking
Black Power guys for weights andthe same respect was returned.
Simple as that. Your fortune depended on your
back and your words. Surprisingly, this created an

(55:26):
oddly smooth system. Once you earned your bones, your
respect, life moved like clockwork.
Friction was minimal because everyone knew the smallest spark
could ignite an inferno. I could tell countless stories,
but the point is, this raw, genuine brute value has no
currency outside prison. People scoff at you if you're
the size of their thigh. I get cut off in grocery store

(55:49):
lines. People glare from across the
room. All of that crap behavior could
have gotten you hurt in prison and it's incredibly hard to
leave it behind. I'm an educated white kid from a
rural area and I was thrown intoa metropolitan prison.
Before prison, I had no aggression in me.
My wife, who has stood by me through it all, says I'm still
gentle and kind, but my prison mannerisms linger.

(56:12):
She constantly reminds me not tomake intense eye contact, not to
cross my arms so often. It's subliminal and I'm slowly
improving, but it has been one of the hardest habits to shake.
Moral of the story, don't go go to prison kids 1.
Poor decision can change your life forever.
Aggressive posturing is the hardest habit to break after
leaving prison. Thank you for watching.

(56:34):
If you enjoyed this video, be sure to give it a thumbs up.
Subscribe and hit the bell icon so you never miss an update.