I used to work in underground coal mines, and down there I experienced a similar sense of camaraderie to what I later encountered in prison. Both were surreal, artificial environments where people depended heavily on one another. There was a strong need for cooperation and mutual support.

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When the mines closed, it meant the end of that harsh, cut-off world. Yet many of the men still missed it. The very place they had once complained about going to each day was also the place where a powerful sense of belonging had existed.

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When people talk about institutionalisation, the emphasis is usually on dependence on systems: the structure, the routines, the fact that meals, laundry and daily logistics are organised for you. But I think something just as important is often overlooked: the social environment.

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This is an example of how prison life can provide some meaning – we have camaraderie, and at times, support. Through this, we remember that prison isn’t wasted time – prison is and was your life.

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Prison time becomes most psychologically damaging when it is treated as ‘non-life’. When you view it as nothing but wasted time, shame takes over. When there’s no conceivable upside, then the years feel like they’ve been erased from your story.

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One important lesson I’ve learned is making prison part of my life story instead of seeing it as a chunk of life that’s been stolen from me, has made it much easier to live and get on with life now that I’m out.

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So the question becomes: how do you stop prison years from becoming a black hole in your life story? How do you make sure those years still count?

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Reclaiming Your Real Life from Prison

A common belief inside is this: “My real life stopped the day I was sentenced.” That’s where the damage begins. Identity freezes, growth feels pointless, planning feels naive. Shame fills the vacuum.

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It’s understandable. Prison disrupts almost everything that normally structures life: relationships, work, time itself.

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For people serving long sentences, prison isn’t just an interruption. It’s the environment you will live in for years, sometimes decades. Pretending those years aren’t real only deepens the negative impacts.

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The healthier move is refusing to cut a section of your own life out of your story.

Even on long sentences, you still possess something important: Your mind, your ideas, your ability to think and talk and understand the world.

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Prisons are full of fascinating characters who think differently, push against systems, and have lively takes on the world.

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Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had happened inside.

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Once a group of us were sitting around talking about life, joking, telling stories, going deep into ideas. For a while the walls seemed to fade away. We could have been anywhere. What did we have in that moment? We had ourselves. We had each other. And we had the freedom of our minds. That kind of social freedom matters more than people realise.

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I look back fondly at those moments, because in a world dominated by uneventful dullness, they were such radiant times of hope. They were something to be cherished and enjoyed. Precious moments. Moments I didn’t want to end. We were all happily engaged with each other’s company. That’s real, good life.

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For those still inside, especially on long sentences, one question can change your mindset: If these years are shaping me, how do I want them to shape me?

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You may not control the length of your sentence. You don’t control the institution. But you still influence the person you are becoming within it, and that does matter. It’s about reclaiming yourself within these unkind walls. Your character, your personality, your curiosity, your ideas. Those are the real core of who you are. And nobody can take those away.

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Prison and Shame

Many people leave prison with a lot of shame about their past. They avoid mentioning it and feel exposed if it comes up. They treat those years like contamination. The problem is that secrecy often strengthens stigma, and avoidance feeds shame.

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A better approach is gradual acceptance. Instead of trying to erase every memory from prison, allow yourself to remember moments that mattered. A useful conversation. A lesson learned. A conflict handled better than you might have years ago.

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The goal isn’t nostalgia, it’s perspective. Over time, those years stop feeling like a black hole and start feeling like a chapter. When you stop fighting your own history, you free up energy. Energy you can later put into rebuilding work, relationships, and confidence.

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Integration isn’t about pretending prison is or was good. It’s about refusing to erase yourself.

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Prison time counts, however difficult or alien it may be – because it is lived. And anything lived still belongs to you.