My story begins in tragedy, but it is not one of defeat. It’s one of survival, resilience, and an ongoing plea for justice in a system that failed me again and again.

I was born into abuse—sexual, physical, and emotional, beginning as early as age two. Incest was normalized in my home and extended family, and this trauma continued unchecked until I was 15, when my mother, at the urging of a church pastor, finally reported the abuse to authorities in Charleston, South Carolina.

Instead of being protected, I was treated as a criminal. I was removed from my home and placed into the Department of Juvenile Justice alongside one of my brothers, while my five other siblings went into foster care. I was then sent to a group home specializing in youth sex offenses — even though I was a victim first. After completing the program, I was sent back into the same abusive home.

That decision changed the course of my life. I was just 17—traumatized, vulnerable, and doing everything I could to escape. I tried to move in with my older brother in California, where I could start fresh, but DJJ and my mother blocked me, saying I had to remain in their custody until I turned 18.

A month later, I reoffended. Not because I wanted to. Because I had nowhere safe to go.

I was arrested again and charged as an adult shortly after turning 18. I was offered a plea deal—15 years suspended to 3 years, followed by 5 years probation—and I took it, desperate to move forward. I earned my GED while incarcerated. I was released in 2010. But instead of freedom, I was held again under South Carolina’s Sexually Violent Predator (SVP) Act—a civil commitment that put me in a maximum-security facility for over four more years.

I fought my case all the way to the South Carolina Supreme Court—and finally, in 2015, they ruled in my favor. I was released.

I moved to Arizona with hope in my heart. I rebuilt everything: I got a job, enrolled in community college, transferred to ASU, got my own apartment, found love, and became a devoted father to my son. By 2021, I was thriving. I thought the worst was behind me.

Then came a knock on the door.

Tempe police accused me of failing to register as a sex offender. I was blindsided. My juvenile case, long since overturned, was being used against me again—this time by a different state. Flyers went out to my community mischaracterizing my history as if I were a predatory adult. I lost everything: my job, my apartment, my relationships, and my support system.

I followed every order they gave me. I registered. I reported. I tried to find housing. But each time I did, the state’s actions ensured I would lose everything again. I’ve now been charged multiple times with failure to register—while being refused access to any resources or support for how to comply when homeless or evicted. Probation ended in August 2024. But they backdated a violation in December—and I was arrested again after Christmas, this time held for 34 days in Maricopa County Jail.

I now wear an ankle monitor. I suffer from panic attacks and anxiety that make even walking outside a challenge. I haven’t seen my son in over a year. I’ve been labeled, restricted, and publicly humiliated for mistakes that began with being failed as a child. And through it all—I have never given up trying.

I am not my past. I am a father, a hard worker, a student, and a survivor. I’ve paid more than anyone should ever have to pay. And now I am asking for something that has always been withheld from me:

A chance at life. A chance to move forward. A chance for justice.

I’m asking for help—legal, emotional, financial, or simply someone to listen and care. Please help me tell my story. Help me get legal representation. Help me be seen as more than a file or a label. I’ve been through hell and back, and I am still here. All I want is peace, and the opportunity to raise my son, work, and be a part of a community that sees me for who I am—not what I was forced to become.

What I’m asking for is a chance to live—not just survive. I’m not looking for pity. I’m asking for help to meet my most basic needs so I can keep trying. 

With your support, I can: 

- Get phone service to apply for jobs and stay connected 

- Afford food, transportation, and daily necessities 

- Find housing stability 

- Seek legal or mental health support as I work toward long-term healing 

I’ve reached out to legal organizations, nonprofits, churches, and advocacy groups. 

Most haven’t responded, and I understand—they’re overwhelmed. But I’m still here, still trying, still hoping someone will see that I’m more than a record, more than a mistake, more than a survivor—I’m a person. If you’ve ever believed in second chances, please believe in me. I want to live a life with purpose, but I need help to get there.

Thank you for reading this and for seeing me. Even if all you can do is share this story, that alone means the world.

Thank you for caring.