Lara Love Hardin Quotes

Real power is about using your power to shine a light on other people so they can find their own power.

I know I have a lot more inner work to do. I thought I had to convince the whole world that I am more than the worst thing I have done, the worst person I have been, but really I just have to convince myself.

The worst thing I’ve ever done is build an identity out of the worst thing I’ve ever done.

I thought what I craved was approval and praise, but it’s simpler than that. I craved acceptance. For all the different versions of me I have been, and all the many lives I have lived.

Recidivism was the only financially viable path forward. The only way for the government to win is for the inmates to lose. It’s as simple as that.

Because how we take care of broken people matters. Fundamentally, I believe, it determines our own humanity. And we don’t just sentence someone to a year or five years or ten years—we turn every sentence into a life sentence. Every sentence is a life sentence.

The truth is I’ve only ever had one addiction. The white whale of addictions: escape. From as far back as I can remember there has always been a better place than wherever I am. A better me than whoever I was. Books helped me escape when I was young. Not just because of my precocious angsty-ness and early onset existential crises; they were literal escape.

Writing was always the only way for me to make sense of my childhood, my family, my fears, my emotions, my vast and confusing interior world.

I am telling myself what I most need to hear. That I’m human, and humans make mistakes.

Everyone’s parents loved me, except my own.

When I read, I could pretend I was someone else. I was

stalked all these lives that weren’t mine. Even the sad people in books

Escape was always my real addiction, the one true high. Books were just my gateway drug.

Power doesn’t have anything to prove,

There’s more alcohol at a Little League game than at a Super Bowl party.

If I am only as sick as my secrets, well then, I am in hospice.

But you can’t outrun yourself,

I am just one of seven billion people living their lives. Making big mistakes over and over. Growing and shrinking and growing again.

I have always felt like an actor playing the role of me. My whole life I had pretended to be a beautiful, happy, shiny person in the hopes that would somehow make me a beautiful, happy, shiny person. I fit in everywhere because people love beautiful, happy, shiny people. But the problem with me trying to fit in everywhere is that I have never actually felt like I belonged anywhere. Or with anyone.

I realize suddenly that I’m tired of pretending I am anything other than who I am. People may love me or hate me, praise me or criticize me, reward me or punish me. All I can be is who I am now, and then work hard to become the person I most want to be.

Someone who’s been behind bars already knows that crime doesn’t pay. They’ve lost everything and appreciate the simple joy of having a job. They’ve dealt with prison politics, so office politics present no challenge. They understand power structures. Each is on probation or parole, so they follow all the rules. They’re used to getting up early and working hard for no pay, so they appreciate minimum wage. But most important, every one of them has something to prove. That they are valuable, worthy, and so much more than a criminal record.

always loved school. I played varsity lacrosse and field hockey. I could be friends with the cool kids and the smart kids and the sporty kids and even the stoner kids although I didn’t like to get stoned. I could cross social lines seamlessly and be whoever people needed me to be. I’d like to say it was a gift born of my curiosity about people, but in truth it was more of a response to trauma. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to feel safe. So I needed every single person I met to like me, and if I could make them love and need me, even better.

Spending a week listening to Archbishop Tutu and the Dalai Lama alternate between teasing each other for not acting holy enough, and then crying over the profound suffering that is the human experience, changes me. Every day I walk away with some new nugget about the way I want to live my life—in service to others, accepting that I am always a work in progress, being more compassionate and more forgiving. Living in gratitude. Every day of the dialogues seems like a horoscope—there’s something specific relating to my life that I need to hear.

If you look at any list of the red flags for domestic violence you will find this jail’s operating manual. Embarrassing or putting you down; looking at you or acting in ways that scare you; controlling who you see, where you go, or what you do; keeping you or discouraging you from seeing your friends or families; taking your money or refusing to give you money for expenses; preventing you from making your own decisions; telling you that you are a bad parent or threatening to harm or take away your children; preventing you from working or attending school; blaming you for the abuse, or acting like it’s not really happening; destroying your property or threatening to hurt you; intimidating you with guns, knives, or other weapons; pressuring you to have sex when you don’t want to or do things sexually you’re not comfortable with. Check. Check. And check. The result is a unit full of traumatized and triggered women. And the guards have no idea just how similar they are to the men that, one way or another, landed these women in G block.

I would sacrifice my life for theirs, but I couldn't stop using drugs for them. I don't know how to reconcile those two truths.

I loved fully until someone hurt me, and then I just pretended to love while remaining vigilant for the next bout of pain.

But she's a mess. I was a mess too. Like recognizes like.

I wanted to be loved. I wanted to feel safe. So I needed every single person I met to like me, and if I could make them love and need me, even better.

Sometimes, the path of forgiveness doesn’t look anything like we think it will.

I know I am his mom, and there is no ticking clock, or law, or judge, or social worker who can change that.

The system is illogical in its design, broken in its execution, and guaranteed to fail those it allegedly serves.

how high the barriers are to rejoining society after incarceration, and how much harder it becomes under the weight of gossip and judgment.

I thought what I craved was approval and praise, but it’s simpler than that. I craved acceptance.

Every sentence is a life sentence.

had become her mother. And in the last weeks of her life, I had to put aside all our history and be present for her in a way she could never be present for me.

The insides of my arms are little pursed mouths and the needle in my bag is a snake, rolling and flapping against the sides of my handbag, rattling, making me want to shoot up water just to fake my arms out. And the single fang is iron, making black burns where it touches, but it is a good burn. I need that burn.

There is no other person I’d rather be than who I am. And no other life I’d rather live than the beautiful mess of a life I’m living.

Awakening by Mark Nepo. It’s

I have done lots of good in my life, and I have also done lots of bad. One doesn’t negate the other.

The truth is I’ve only ever had one addiction. The white whale of addictions: escape. From as far back as I can remember there has always been a better place than wherever I am.

The two holy men see the possibility of joy in every hard moment, and I want to live like that.

It’s easier for me to think the Dalai Lama doesn’t like me than to face the fact that deep down, despite where I am and who I’m with, I’m still not sure if I like myself.

worry about people judging me because I am constantly in judgment of myself.

you have to be willing to face the harm you’ve caused someone, be willing to make amends, and accept that a person may choose to end the relationship even if they choose to forgive you.

If I am only as sick as my secrets, well then, I am in hospice

I’m vain enough to want to look my best for my death.

I have definitely deprioritized mani-pedis during my criminal phase. Who knew jail would be open toe?

I stare at her in real life and feel vindicated, because in my mind anything Oprah approves of the culture approves of. And Oprah approves of me.

I am officially a ghostwriter, and finishing any chapter feels like being high, only different. The edges are full of confidence, and that makes it nothing like the high of opiates, which were only outlined in glittery fear and false bravado. This feeling will return every time I finish writing a chapter for the next eight years—a feeling I will chase like I used to chase drugs.

better place than wherever I am. A better me than

white whale of addictions: escape. From as far

pain only feeds on pain, not joy, so I try to find joyful moments, things to be grateful for right now. When Thanksgiving comes, I try to be grateful there’s an ice cream cup on my tray and not focus on the fact that it is the first holiday I have ever spent without my children.

I lay in my bunk bed and try to trace my life back to the moment when I stopped letting a vision for my future pull me and started letting pain push.

Ray is right. It is the first of many lessons he will teach me about gratitude and freedom. “I walk every day simply because I can,” he says. “I eat dessert first because I don’t ever want to be too full to enjoy something sweet and delicious. “I stand in the rain because you never know when you won’t be allowed to feel the rain on your skin. I don’t ever worry about the weather.

On death row, you die alone. In prison, you die alone. In prison you can’t be with the ones you love as they are dying. You were there. You weren’t locked up. You took care of her while she passed; be grateful for that.

My own emotions embarrassed me so I kept them private. Vulnerable wasn’t a look I was willing to wear.

Maybe she hated me for all the complicated reasons we hate people who are more like us than we can admit.

I want to be better than she was to me so she can be better than she was to me.

my ego, my denial, and my shame prevented me.

think often about what Oprah told me about real power—and my takeaway was that it’s not only having your name on the door but using your power to shine a light on other people. I will always have a soft spot for the underdog, the ones living at the margins of life, the addicts, the criminals, and anyone who wants to transform their suffering by using their own stories to inspire others. I’m grateful for all the people who lifted me up while I was at my lowest, and I try to pay it forward wherever and whenever I can.

choke on my scrambled eggs and take a sip of water. The number one rule of fight club is I don’t tell our authors about my past. Doug is to my right at the small table in a hotel restaurant in Montgomery, Alabama, across from the offices of the Equal Justice Initiative. Bryan Stevenson, one of the country’s leading social justice activists and lawyers, and one of the authors we represent, sits across the table, and we’re catching up and having a nice breakfast before meeting Anthony Ray Hinton for the first time. Hinton had spent thirty years on Alabama’s death row for a crime he didn’t commit. We flew to Alabama at Bryan’s request, to meet Mr. Hinton and potentially help him with his book. I want desperately to be his cowriter. I take a deep breath. Montgomery’s air is humid, thick with its history of slavery and oppression and the fight for civil rights. I wasn’t prepared to talk about my crimes, my incarceration, my shame, and my work with others in recovery and incarcerated women who are reentering society. But I understand why Doug has asked me to share my story. While almost a year in Santa Cruz County Jail doesn’t compare to thirty years on death row, I know the pain of being alone. I know the sound of a door closing that you have no power to open yourself. I know about being judged. I know Ray before I’ve even met him, and I know that of all the books I’ve worked on, this is the book I was meant to do.

look like my head will burst. It’s all a whirlwind because Gayle has to get back on the air for her next segment, and Oprah has to go be Oprah. We’re just about to leave when an assistant to Oprah comes in and invites Doug and me to lunch with Oprah and Gayle and Ray and Lester.

them rather than embitter them. “I forgive,” Ray says, “because I’m not giving the State of Alabama one more second of my life.

I know I have a lot more inner work to do. I thought I had to convince the whole world that I am more than the worst thing I have

Real power is putting your name on things. Real power is about using your power to shine a light on other people so they can find their own power.

Life is strange and heartbreaking and wonderful, and it can change on you in an instant.

There's no doubt our 'justice' system is broken. There's no doubt that as a society we ask people to pay far beyond what their criminal sentences ask of them. It's a truth we all need to examine. Because how we take care of broken people matters. Findamentally, I believe, it determines our own humanity.

The irony is that probation was originally intended as an alternative to incarceration. In the mid-1800s a man in Boston convinced a judge to let him keep another drunken man in his care so he could rehabilitate him before sentencing. When the State of New York introduced probation in the early 1900s, one of the magistrate's arguments for creating a probation system was that it could be 'punishment without disgrace, and effective without producing embitterment, resentment, or demoralization.' Disgrace, embitterment, resentment, and demoralization is just another Monday in the modern world of probation.

The barriers to becoming a productive member of society are huge for just about anybody who's been incarcerated. As a condition of probation or parole you have to have a job; to get a job you have to check the box that says you have a criminal record, which excludes you from getting a job. In order to show up to work every day you need somewhere to live; to find somewhere to live, you must have a job. The system is cobbled together out of catch-22s. I learn if you've been incarcerated, you're ten times more likely to be homeless, and if you're homeless, you're eleven times more likely to become incarcerated.

I drive the winding road through the towering redwood trees that buffer Santa Cruz from Silicon Valley and take three deep, sharp, rapid inhales until no more air can fill my lungs, and then I blow the air out slowly through my mouth. I learned this trick from a trauma doctor on Instagram whose name I forget. I hope I’ve remembered the breathing technique correctly and that I’m self-regulating and not hyperventilating, but who knows.

There’s only time left for me to read Mpho Tutu’s opening prayer about forgiveness called “The Prayer Before the Prayer.” I want to be willing to let go, to forgive. But dare not ask for the will to forgive, in case you give it to me And I am not yet ready. I am not yet ready for my heart to soften. I am not yet ready to be vulnerable again. Not yet ready to see that there is humanity in my tormentor’s eyes Or that the one who hurt me may also have cried I am not yet ready for the journey. I am not yet interested in the path I am at the prayer before the prayer of forgiveness Grant me the will to want to forgive. Grant it to me not yet but soon Can I even form the words? Forgive me? Dare I even look? Do I dare to see the hurt I have caused: I can glimpse all the shattered pieces of that fragile thing That soul trying to rise on the broken wings of hope But only out of the corner of my eye. I am afraid of it. And if I am afraid to see How can I not be afraid to say: Forgive me? Is there a place where we can meet? You and me The place in the middle where we straddle the lines Where you are right and I am right too. And both of us are wrong and wronged Can we meet there? And look for the place where the path begins The path that ends when we forgive.