Originally posted February 20, 2021
A friend once warned me that the hardest aspect of reentry wouldn’t be finding housing or employment — it would be managing the expectations of others. At the time, his words felt abstract, even pessimistic. Now, drowning in a digital ocean of well-intentioned attention, I understand exactly what he meant.
Everyone in my life is genuinely happy about my return home. They want to reconnect, catch up on lost years, share their own stories, and ensure I’m adjusting well. They frequently ask if I need anything, offer help with various challenges, and express their love in countless small gestures. Normally, being surrounded by such care would be an unambiguous blessing.
But the cumulative weight of this attention has become genuinely overwhelming.
My connections span at least ten different digital platforms: phone calls, text messages, email, Facebook, Slack, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, Zoom, and various messaging apps. Rather than consolidating their communications, many friends and family members reach out across multiple channels simultaneously, apparently unaware that I’m receiving their messages in triplicate.
There are times when I’m attempting to maintain five or six parallel conversations across four different platforms, each requiring different response styles and social protocols. The cognitive load of platform-switching while maintaining conversational coherence feels like mental gymnastics performed while juggling flaming torches.
The exhaustion is real and cumulative. By evening, I’m drained not from meaningful social interaction but from the sheer logistics of digital communication management.
The assumption that my technical background makes me naturally gifted at social media management reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of my experience. Yes, I work in technology, but I was incarcerated throughout the entire evolution of social media culture. I’ve had to learn in a few intense weeks what everyone else absorbed gradually over three decades.
While I’m proud of my rapid adaptation, the learning curve remains steep. My phone reports an average of 500 notifications per day — a staggering number for someone who spent 24 years in an environment where unsolicited communications were rare and often dangerous.
For perspective, 500 daily notifications means one interruption every two minutes during waking hours. Each notification triggers a decision: respond now, respond later, or risk appearing rude by not responding at all. The mental fatigue of constant micro-decisions compounds throughout the day.
Working from home while managing home detention adds another layer of complexity to communication management. Since I’m physically present in domestic space during work hours, few people recognize that my computer time represents actual employment rather than leisure activity.
The constant stream of personal messages creates genuine disruption to professional productivity. Coding requires sustained focus and deep concentration — mental states that are incompatible with frequent social interruptions. Each time I shift attention from work to personal communication, I lose momentum that takes significant time to rebuild.
I know these interruptions aren’t intentional attempts to sabotage my productivity. People genuinely want to maintain connection and show support. But the cumulative effect threatens both my professional performance and my sanity.
Recently launching a freelance web development business has added yet another communication channel to manage. Potential clients expect prompt responses, existing clients need regular updates, and professional networking requires ongoing attention. Balancing client communications with personal relationships while maintaining full-time employment creates a three-ring circus of competing priorities.
Each professional interaction requires a different tone and level of formality than personal communications. Switching between casual family conversations and formal client discussions dozens of times per day is mentally exhausting in ways I never anticipated.
I’m beginning to recognize that part of this problem stems from my own failure to establish clear boundaries from the beginning. In my eagerness to reconnect with everyone, I made myself available constantly, responding to messages immediately regardless of timing or context.
This pattern set unrealistic expectations about my availability and response time. People became accustomed to instant replies, making any delay seem like neglect or rejection. I inadvertently trained my network to expect continuous accessibility.
This week, I’m implementing a communication schedule that protects both my work productivity and my mental health. I plan to designate specific times for checking and responding to personal messages, allowing me to batch similar activities rather than constantly task-switching.
I also need to educate my support network about my daily rhythm and when responses might be delayed. This isn’t about pushing people away — it’s about creating sustainable patterns that allow me to maintain all my important relationships without sacrificing my professional responsibilities or personal well-being.
Setting these boundaries feels risky. After 24 years of social isolation, the last thing I want is to appear ungrateful or antisocial. But I’m learning that healthy relationships require honest communication about needs and limitations.
Beyond managing work obligations and social expectations, I need time that belongs entirely to me. Living with family members makes complete privacy challenging, but carving out periods of true solitude has become essential for my psychological equilibrium.
These aren’t antisocial impulses — they’re recognition that after decades of forced proximity to others, I need intentional space to process experiences and emotions without an audience. The simple act of being alone with my thoughts, without any communication devices demanding attention, feels like a form of meditation.
I deeply love everyone in my life and have no desire to distance myself from their care and support. I also love my work and won’t compromise my professional development to accommodate unrealistic social expectations. The challenge lies in finding a balance that honors both sets of commitments.
This isn’t about becoming an antisocial hermit — it’s about learning to manage the social aspects of life in sustainable ways. Twenty-four years of forced isolation didn’t prepare me for the opposite extreme of overwhelming connectivity.
Like every other aspect of reentry, this will require time and conscious effort to resolve. I’m still learning the social protocols of the digital age while simultaneously managing the emotional complexities of reconnecting with people who knew me before my incarceration.
The solution isn’t to retreat from technology or reject social connection. Instead, I need to develop systems that allow me to engage meaningfully without becoming overwhelmed by the sheer volume of interaction.
I’m committed to maintaining all the important relationships in my life while also protecting the space I need for work and personal reflection. This will require honest conversations about boundaries, realistic expectations about response times, and mutual understanding about the unique challenges of my situation.
The goal isn’t to manage my social life like a business — it’s to create patterns that allow genuine connection to flourish without exhausting the mental and emotional resources I need for other aspects of rebuilding my life.
Connection is essential, but so is balance. Learning to navigate this new world means finding the sweet spot between isolation and overwhelm.
After 8,760 days, freedom wasn’t a destination; it was a disorienting journey that began with a single step. One moment, I was saying goodbye to a life defined by gray walls and razor wire; the next, I was navigating a world of smartphones, self-checkouts, and choices I hadn’t faced in 24 years. This is the unfiltered story of that first night.
After 24 years of incarceration, my first week of freedom was a journey through time. From the surreal victory of ordering a pizza with an app to the powerful, tearful reunions with family I hadn’t touched in decades, this is the story of navigating a world that had become alien and finding my place in it once more.
For 24 years, I longed for silence. Now that I have it, it’s a thunderously loud presence that has become essential to my survival. This is a reflection on the constant cacophony of prison, the profound comfort of a quiet room, and the journey of learning to hear my own authentic voice again in the stillness.