The Second Chance Chronicles w/ Chaddrick Thomas

  By Chaddrick Thomas They gave me 91 years. Ninety-one. Not because I couldn’t change. Not because I was beyond redemption. But because they wanted to make an example out of me. Because somewhere along the way, our justice system stopped asking what’s enough—and started asking, “How much can we take before they break?” This System Doesn’t Just Punish—It Consumes It’s not about justice. It’s about spectacle. About showing the world what happens when you step out of line. About feeding the myth that long sentences equal safety. But I have a question: How much time brings the person back who’s gone? How much time heals the wounds? How much time is left after 30, 40, 50 years for a person to even live? And most importantly— How much time is enough for a man to change? Nobody Asks If You’re Still Human—Only If You’re Still a Threat They don’t care what you’ve done since. They don’t ask if you’ve educated yourself. If you’ve mentored others. If you’ve taken accountability. If you’ve tur...

  By Chaddrick Thomas They want the story to end with the violence. The moment the trigger was pulled. The fight. The fear. The mistake. They want that to be the closing chapter. But I’m still here. Still growing. Still healing. Still writing. So how can that be the end? They Want Finality, Not Complexity The justice system deals in absolutes. “Guilty.” “Violent.” “Threat.” There’s no room for questions like: What led to that moment? What trauma shaped that reaction? What healing has happened since? They don’t want the full picture. They want the mugshot. The headline. The sentencing sheet. But I am not a single moment. None of us are. What They Call Closure Is Just Silence They say long sentences bring justice. They say punishment brings peace. But really, they just don’t want to deal with us anymore. It’s easier to bury a person in prison than to face the society that shaped them. It’s easier to label someone a criminal than to ask what kind of world made violence feel like survi...

  By Chaddrick Thomas They don’t just fear our violence. They fear our transformation. Because if people like me can change—can heal, can lead, can build— then everything they said about us was a lie. Redemption terrifies the system. Because it threatens the foundation it stands on: the belief that some people are permanently broken. To Keep the Cage Closed, They Have to Keep the Narrative Alive They call us “violent offenders” long after we’ve served our time. They write our names in ink, but our charges in bold, capital letters. They say: “He may have started a business, but don’t forget what he did.” “She got a degree? Great. But we can’t erase the past.” “Sure, he’s mentoring youth now—but he’s still a killer in our eyes.” What they’re really saying is: “We need you to stay who you were… so we can feel right about how we treated you.” Redemption Forces Accountability—And They Don’t Want That If I can change, then maybe I never needed 91 years. Maybe I needed counseling. Maybe I...

  By Chaddrick Thomas Violence is everywhere. In our headlines. In our prisons. In our schools. In our foreign policy. But somehow, we’ve convinced ourselves that some violence is righteous, and some is criminal. The only difference? Who’s holding the power when it happens. The Double Standard Is By Design A protestor breaks a window, and the whole city goes on lockdown. But an officer kneels on a man’s neck for 9 minutes and gets a press release saying “incident under investigation.” A teenage boy throws a punch and gets tried as an adult. But a politician signs off on airstrikes that kill entire families and gets reelected for being “strong on national security.” The message is clear: Violence is only legitimate when it serves the state. Legitimacy Is a Lie Wrapped in a Uniform They call it law enforcement. They call it national defense. They call it public safety. But it’s all just packaged violence. And the people who deliver it are protected, praised, and paid—while people lik...