Moving to a new location, although I had visited there regularly, held its own set of challenges. Starting anew was appealing, but I was carrying the weight of knowing I was the primary breadwinner for our family, and it wouldn’t be easy getting back on our feet. I was on probation for five years, which paralleled the time I had to pay back restitution of $30,000. Quite generous on the judge’s part but, then again, I was broke. Unlike the preceding years, cutting a $500/month check to the Fed seemed like a monumental task.

Coupled with carrying shame and guilt, the new start was inviting but also scary. Did I have what it would take to make this happen? Could we realistically establish this new beginning in a new community without incident, or even exposure, to what I had done? My new employer was aware of my crimes. The opportunity to come to Lancaster was initiated by a long-time friend who knew my story and wanted to help. And that he did.

But the underlying question of how to re-enter society with this hanging over my head was not an easy one to answer. Three months in prison wasn’t anywhere near the kind of sentence that my fellow inmates faced, but it felt like three years. I can’t explain that entirely but can see why many of my incarcerated equals became institutionalized and ended up as repeat offenders. We were all men trying to figure out our value to society and those around us. A daunting task.

Henry David Thoreau wrote in Walden, back in 1854, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.” There’s so much truth in that statement. Ironically, we used this quote on the front page of our marketing materials at Lear McNally, the organization where my partnership ultimately led to this debacle—appealing to an innate human sensibility toward anguish, and even promoting it. We thought we knew how to do something about the anguish of humankind.