Freedom is supposed to feel different; it’s supposed to be different. When she walked out of those prison gates, she thought the hardest part was over. What she doesn’t realize is that she’s walking into a world that’s not ready to accept her, a world that’s not ready to understand her.
“Finding a job was the hardest part. I would go to an interview, get hired, work for two or three weeks, and then—‘Hey, we gotta let you go. Your background check came back.’ That happened over and over.”
Another background check led to another rejection. It wasn’t just a job that slipped away; it was another door closed, another reminder that freedom didn’t mean freedom from judgment. She realized—that prison hadn’t let her go. The sentence had ended, but the punishment had not. She was free, but at what cost?
“It makes me just wanna give up because now I’m labeled a felon, so it’s harder for me to get a job and get a place. There are so many places that don’t want to rent or give you a place because you’re a felon.”
She’s a felon, but what else? Or does it not matter what else?
‘What is a felon? I mean—what does a felon look like to you?’
To be a felon is not just to experience prison—it is to carry a permanent mark that no amount of time served can erase. The label doesn’t stay in the past; it follows you everywhere you go, every job interview, every housing application, every social setting, everywhere. It becomes the first and last thing people see, even before they see the person you’ve worked hard to become. In the eyes of society, the mistakes of your past overshadow every effort you make to move forward yet they still expect you to move forward. This is the invisible prison that so many face long after they’ve been released. It’s a punishment that never truly ends, no matter how hard you try to break free from it. It’s the battle felons face beyond the bars.
“Some days, I wished I was back in prison. The stress wasn’t there. You had food, clothes, and a bed. Out here, I’m struggling to save for a car and a house. In there, my mom sent me money, the state paid me, and I was good to go.”
The freedom she fought so hard for was more suffocating than the four constricted walls of prison because at least there, her basic needs were met—food, shelter, and clothes were provided. Outside, the constant struggle to secure these necessities felt overwhelming. The world expected her to pick up where she left off, while simultaneously rejecting her every effort to do so. The structure that prison provided was replaced by a chaotic, unpredictable world, where survival meant navigating a system that had no space for someone like her. The real battle began the moment the gates closed behind her.
“Treat us like we’re human. We’re all human—we just made mistakes. It doesn’t make us any different than you are.”
To be a felon means walking with invisible chains, it’s like trying to walk the same distance as everyone else, but with each step feeling heavier than the last. These chains don’t just restrain your body; they tie down your opportunities, your dignity, and your ability to truly start over. The world sees the label, not the person behind it, and with each rejection, with every door slammed shut, it becomes harder to see how you’ll ever break free. The struggle isn’t just physical—it’s a fight against the way the world chooses to define you.
About the Author
Naaima Mahmood is a 16-year old Pakistani-American high school senior and a passionate advocate for social justice. Born in Pakistan and raised across Saudi Arabia, Dubai, and the United States, she brings a stronbg global perspective to her work. He diverse life experiences have shaped her deep awareness of inequality and privilege.
Naaima is committed to using storytelling as a tool for change, amplifying the voices of marginalized and underrepresented communities, and working to build a more empatheic, inclusive world. Naaima is a former CIC Interfaith Youth Ambassador.
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