I broke the story on a private prison in South Africa where guards inflicted horrendous abuse. But to really understand what happened, I had to talk to the torturers themselves.

Years of drug addiction, mental illness and incarceration sent my sibling over the edge. A decade later, when I spent a night in jail myself, I finally saw what lit his fire.

I was four when my father was sent away for domestic abuse. I was desperate to see him again—until I finally got the chance.

I wonder now if that was actually the day that saved me.

My second grade teacher’s abusing hands hurt more than I could say. A decade later, I feel as if I’m still being punished for his crime and I’ve told almost nobody until now.

He was coming for my mother, knife in hand. I grabbed her and ran, praying the police would get to our house before he could get to us.

I was only twelve when Dad was sent away—and that was just the beginning.

It wasn’t my first time in lockup, but it was the longest night of my life.

I was seven when a game of catch led to standing in a puddle of blood while my teenage neighbor lay dying. But I wasn’t too young to understand the stakes of “the life.”