Mental Health, Reentry, and The Companies That Get It

The Body Leaves Prison Long Before The Mind Does.

Written By Brett Buskirk: Program Alumnus and Platform Systems Engineer at The Last Mile

There are moments when my chest tightens without warning.


The house is quiet, I’m focused on work, and suddenly my heart is racing. My hands go cold. The rational part of my brain knows I’m safe — I’m at my desk, I’m free, I’m building a life. But another part, the part shaped by childhood trauma and 24 years of incarceration, is convinced something terrible is about to happen. This is PTSD. And it doesn’t ask permission before it shows up.

Mental health struggles are often invisible, which makes them easy to dismiss or misunderstand. You can’t see anxiety the way you can see a broken bone. You can’t point to PTSD on an X-ray. But for those of us navigating reentry after decades behind bars, these invisible wounds are as real as the scars on our bodies — and often far more difficult to heal.

The Weight Returned Citizens Carry

People assume that once you’re released, the hard part is over. I was incarcerated from the age of 18 to 42. In many ways, my life as an adult didn’t begin until I walked out. So I should be fine now, right? But the truth is more complicated. Your body leaves prison long before your mind does.

After 24 years of incarceration, I learned to be hyper-vigilant. I learned to read every shift in mood, every change in atmosphere, because in prison, your survival depends on it. I learned to sleep lightly, to wake at the slightest sound, to always know where the exits are. These aren’t habits you can simply turn off because you’ve been released. They’re wired into your nervous system now, firing automatically whether you want them to or not.

The anxiety shows up in unexpected ways. A crowded grocery store can trigger it. Too many people, too much noise, too many variables I can’t control. Sometimes, the trigger is something completely mundane. I have developed an intense, inexplicable aversion to phone calls and virtual meetings. While the rest of the world sees a Zoom call as a normal part of business, I often feel a spike of panic before dialing in. I don’t know why — perhaps it’s the feeling of being monitored or trapped in the conversation — but a simple ringing phone can set my adrenaline racing.

PTSD is often layered. It’s not just from prison, though those years certainly left their mark. Like so many others, it’s from a lifetime of trauma that started long before we were ever incarcerated. Childhood abuse. Violence. The kind of chaos that teaches you the world is fundamentally unsafe. Prison just reinforces those lessons over years and decades.

The Struggle to Function With PTSD

Here’s what people don’t understand about trying to live a “normal” life while managing PTSD and anxiety: it’s exhausting. Every day requires energy that most people don’t have to expend just to get through basic tasks.

Logging into work. Interacting with colleagues. Making decisions. Sitting in meetings. These are things that, for most people, are just part of the job. For me, they’re often battles against my own nervous system, which is convinced that being around people is dangerous, that making a mistake could be catastrophic, that I need to be constantly prepared for disaster.

There are days when the weight of it feels nearly crippling. Days when I wake up and the idea of getting out of bed, of facing the world, of pretending I’m okay, feels impossible. The rational part of me knows I need to work, to be productive, to keep building this life I’ve fought so hard for. But the traumatized part is screaming at me to hide, to shut down, to protect myself from threats that don’t actually exist.

And that’s the insidious thing about trauma — it doesn’t care about your goals or your responsibilities or your desire to move forward. It operates on its own schedule, following its own logic.

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What To Do When “Normal” Feels Impossible

I’ve learned, slowly and often painfully, that managing mental health isn’t about “getting over it” or “being strong enough.” It’s about having the right tools and the space to use them.

Therapy has been crucial. Having someone who understands trauma, who has the professional training to assist with PTSD and can help me untangle the wiring in my brain, has made a real difference. It’s not a magic solution — I still struggle — but it gives me frameworks for understanding what’s happening and strategies for managing it.

Being outside helps. There’s something about nature, about physical space that doesn’t have walls or locks or crowds, that allows my nervous system to relax in ways it can’t indoors. Hiking, backpacking, just sitting under trees — these aren’t luxuries for me. They’re necessary maintenance for a mind that spent too long confined. The connection between nature and healing is something I explore deeply on my blog, RC Journey.

Spending time with people I trust matters. After years of isolation, of having to be constantly guarded, being able to be vulnerable with loved ones is both healing and terrifying. Learning to let people in, to believe they won’t hurt me, is its own kind of therapy.

But here’s the thing: all of these coping mechanisms require time. They require the ability to step away when I need to. They require the kind of holistic support that defines a genuine Fair Chance Employer — an organization that recognizes that a returning citizen needs more than just a paycheck to survive; we need an environment that allows us to heal.

And that’s where most companies fail returning citizens completely.

When Companies Don’t Get It

The traditional workplace operates on the assumption that employees are fungible units of productivity. You show up, you do your hours, you deliver your output. If you can’t handle the pressure, there’s someone else who can.

This model doesn’t work for people carrying the kind of trauma that comes with incarceration and reentry. When a panic attack hits, you can’t just push through it. When PTSD is triggered, you can’t ignore it and keep working as if nothing happened. When anxiety makes it impossible to focus, you can’t simply will yourself to be productive.

I’ve heard stories from other returning citizens about what happens when they try to navigate mental health struggles in unsupportive work environments. They’re told to “toughen up.” They’re viewed as unreliable. Their need for flexibility is seen as weakness or lack of commitment. They’re expected to perform at the same level as colleagues who haven’t spent decades traumatized, as if trauma is just a matter of attitude.

Some companies pay lip service to mental health — they’ll have an employee assistance program or offer therapy through insurance. But when you actually need to use those resources, when you need to take time for an appointment or need a mental health day, suddenly there are questions about your dedication. Suddenly your career trajectory is in jeopardy.

For returning citizens, this kind of environment can be catastrophic. We’re already dealing with stigma, with gaps in our resumes, with the challenge of rebuilding lives from scratch. If we can’t find workplaces that understand mental health isn’t optional, that trauma is real, that recovery takes time, we’re set up to fail.

The Last’s Mile’s Approach To Mental Health

Working for The Last Mile (TLM) has been different. Fundamentally different.

TLM understands that employment is only the starting line. True success requires rebuilding a life while managing the very real mental health challenges that come with incarceration.They understand because many of the people working there are alumni themselves. They’ve been where I am. They know what it’s like.

When I need to take time for therapy, there’s no judgment. When I need to step away because anxiety is making it impossible to focus, I can do that. When I need to work from a hiking trail because being outside is the only way my nervous system will settle down, that’s understood and supported.

This isn’t charity or special treatment. It’s recognition that mental health is as real as physical health, and that people recovering from trauma need space to heal. But it’s also just smart business. Because of this support, I am a significantly more productive, hard-working, and loyal employee. The payoff for the company far outweighs the investment in my well-being.

The difference this makes is hard to overstate. Knowing that my employer understands mental states like PTSD and I won’t be penalized for taking care of my mental health, removes an entire layer of anxiety. I’m not constantly worried about being “found out” or judged as weak. I can focus my energy on actually doing my job and managing my mental health, rather than exhausting myself trying to hide my struggles.

TLM also actively helps Returned Citizen alumni access mental health resources. They connect us with therapists who understand incarceration trauma. They create spaces where we can talk openly about what we’re dealing with. They build a community of people who get it, who can support each other through the hard days.

This kind of support creates better outcomes for everyone. When people have the support they need to manage their mental health, they’re more productive, more engaged, more creative. They bring their whole selves to their work instead of using all their energy to keep their struggles hidden.

How to Reconstruct Your Life After Prison

Reentry is hard enough without having to pretend you’re not struggling. There’s the practical stuff — finding housing, rebuilding credit, relearning how the world works. There’s the relational stuff — reconnecting with family, forming new friendships, learning to trust people again. There’s the professional stuff — building a career, proving you’re more than your past, navigating workplace dynamics you haven’t experienced in decades, if at all.

And underneath all of it, constantly, is the mental health work. The therapy appointments. The panic attacks. The nights when sleep won’t come because your brain is convinced you’re back in a cell. The moments when you have to excuse yourself because you’re suddenly, inexplicably terrified for no reason you can articulate.

Doing all of this while working for a company that doesn’t understand or support mental health needs is like trying to rebuild a house while someone keeps knocking down the walls you’re constructing. It’s possible, maybe, but it’s unnecessarily difficult and the structure you end up with is precarious at best.

Working for a company that actually gets it — that understands trauma is real, that recovery takes time, that mental health isn’t a weakness — makes reconstruction possible. Not easy, but possible. It gives you the foundation you need to actually build something stable.

What Managing Reentry Looks Like in Practice

A Fair Chance culture means therapy appointments during work hours without having to make up excuses about where I’m going. It’s colleagues who understand when I say I’m having a rough day and need some space. It’s a work culture that values presence and contribution over performative productivity.

It’s the ability to work remotely when I need to, to be in environments where I can manage my anxiety rather than being trapped in an office that triggers it. It’s having the flexibility to take a mental health day when I need one, not as a last resort when I’m completely broken down, but as preventative maintenance.

It’s knowing that when I’m honest about my struggles, that honesty won’t be used against me. That my trauma history is seen as part of my story, not a liability or character flaw.

This kind of support has been pivotal in my reintegration. Not just helpful — pivotal. Without it, I don’t know that I would have been able to navigate the first few years of reentry while managing PTSD and anxiety. The combination of practical support and genuine understanding has made it possible for me to both take care of my mental health and build a meaningful career.

Moving Forward With PTSD After Prison

I still struggle. Therapy helps, but it doesn’t erase trauma. Time outside helps, but it doesn’t cure PTSD. Connection with loved ones helps, but it doesn’t eliminate anxiety. These are things I’ll likely be managing for the rest of my life.

But having the support to manage them makes all the difference. It’s the difference between constantly being on the edge of crisis and being able to actually work toward stability. It’s the difference between surviving and building something that resembles the life I want.

Companies that want to support returning citizens need to understand this. Hiring us is important, but it’s not enough. Creating environments where we can thrive despite our trauma, where mental health is treated as seriously as physical health, where flexibility and understanding are built into the culture — that’s what actually makes successful reentry possible.

The Last Mile gets this. They’ve built it into their model, not as an afterthought but as a core principle. And it works. Their alumni succeed not just in spite of our trauma, but because we’re given the space to heal from it while contributing meaningfully to our work.

The mind really is the hardest cell to leave. But with the right support, it’s possible to find freedom there too — slowly, painfully, one day at a time.

Written By Brett Buskirk: Program Alumnus and Platform Systems Engineer at The Last Mile