Barriers That Don’t Die Easily
Even with my CPSS certification in hand and nearly two decades separating me from the injustice that wrecked my life, I couldn’t escape its shadow.
I wanted to work. Really work. Not just to survive, but to reclaim who I used to be—before the system stole my career, my name, and a part of my sense of self.
I knew applying for jobs in the mental health field meant facing questions, silence, and rejection. But I also had something new: a letter from the Orange County Rape Crisis Center.
Years earlier, during my marriage, something had started to shift. Memories I had buried—or couldn’t make sense of—surfaced through nightmares and intimacy triggers. I reached out to OCRCC, unsure if I even qualified for help. But they didn’t ask me to prove anything. They listened. They believed me. And most importantly, they put into words what no legal system ever had:
Sometimes, the person labeled “perpetrator” is the one who was harmed.
The letters they wrote—one for the Social Work Licensure Board, another for potential employers—became my lifelines. They couldn’t undo the conviction. But they gave me something the courts never did: recognition of truth.
First Steps, First Falls
By early 2022, I had my certification. It was time to return to the field.
I was hired part-time by Cottage Health Care Services in February—my first mental health job in years. It was rewarding, if modest. I worked closely with a few clients and saw the change I could make. Still, I needed more. Full-time work. Stability. Validation.
So when RHA offered me a full-time position as a CPSS in April—on my birthday, no less—I jumped.
Before quitting Cottage, I was cautious. My IPS worker and Vocational Rehab counselor reminded me: “Don’t give notice until you’re absolutely sure RHA knows about the background.”
I disclosed everything. The man who hired me believed in me. He said he’d fight for me. And when he gave me the green light, I believed I could finally move on.
I started at RHA in May.
After Memorial Day weekend, they told me not to meet with anyone. I was called into a private meeting.
“We don’t think this role is the right fit.”
No explanation. Just: turn in your badge.
Later, a coworker told me what I feared—someone had flagged my background. Eighteen years later, the lie was still closing doors.
Breaking Through the Wall
Then, in July, Freedom House Recovery Center hired me. I disclosed everything again. This time, the HR rep glanced at the OCRCC letter and said something I’ll never forget:
“Unless you’re a serial killer, you’re fine.”
She was joking—but not really. It was the first time someone in HR responded with humanity.
I started work in August 2022, assigned to the Mobile Crisis Unit. I would be meeting clients across several counties, often at their homes. Children, families, adults—anyone in crisis.
For the first time, I wasn’t haunted by the past.
No one at Freedom House treated me with suspicion based on the past criminal conviction. I didn’t have to explain or justify my existence. Clients didn’t know, and they were not going to know. I knew it was not relevant what lies Ana told long ago. My supervisor didn’t know. It didn’t matter.
What mattered was the work.
I was good at it.
Really good.
I saw it in how people opened up to me. I saw it in how I could read body language again. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I didn’t feel like an imposter. I wasn’t walking into rooms as a man carrying shame—I was a professional offering help.
A New Kind of Recognition
Sherisse, my supervisor, saw my potential. She knew I had a background in social work. When I asked her for a reference for my application to regain my social work licensure (as an LCSWA), she hesitated—not because she doubted my goodness, but because she hadn’t worked closely enough with me to confidently recommend me for clinical practice.
Still, she encouraged me. I had been working for over a year with her when an important conversation occured.
At one point, she even brought up RHA as a place I might apply again. I paused.
“I had worked there but do you know why they let me go?” I asked her.
She didn’t.
So I told her.
“I was assaulted in 2004 and yet I was the one arrested. I had been convicted of a violent felony.”
She looked stunned.
“You?” she said. “You couldn’t hurt anyone. I’d fight someone before you would.”
That moment—that validation—was something I had been chasing for almost two decades.
I said emphatically, “Thank you.” She was noticing what should have been obvious to everyone including the police back in 2004.
The Weight of Love and Lies
During this time, I tried dating again. I met someone—Codi Renee. She knew about my conviction and still chose to see me. That alone felt rare. I stayed longer than I should have, not because I was happy, but because I didn’t want to lose the one person who didn’t reject me outright.
But even that came with emotional complexity. I wasn’t comfortable. I wasn’t fully myself. And eventually, the relationship ended.
Codi Renee had lumped me in with others who had hurt her. It didn’t matter that I was different. It still hurt.
And yet, there was a moment during all of this—a moment I’ll never forget—when I realized that the people who truly knew me didn’t just believe me. They knew I was incapable of violence.
Sherisse saw it. My clients felt it. I knew it. If it were not for criminal record databases we would have to rely on our instincts just like my cat had.
Moving On
For a little while, I thought I had made it. I thought the past had loosened its grip. I was helping people. I was thriving. I had finally returned to the field that gave my life meaning.
But then came the cuts. Budget changes. Freedom House began dissolving the Mobile Crisis team.
They offered me another job—on the Detox Unit. I thought it was a generic Crisis Unit. If I had known what that job really was, I might have said no. It wasn’t just unfamiliar. It wasn’t therapeutic. It felt like a jail, not a place of healing.
But that’s a story for another chapter.