Tonight is my last night in this house—my beautiful home of nine years, five of which have been spent under house arrest. It’s surreal to think about how long I’ve been here, confined to this space, yet safe in it. Tomorrow night, I’ll be in a hotel, and the next day, I’ll self-surrender and begin my sentence. But tonight, I’m focused on gratitude.
I can’t help but think back to the month I spent in jail before I was released on bond. Sleeping on a two-inch mattress with a single sheet and a thin wool blanket, there were nights I could barely stay warm, wrapping myself into a cocoon just to make it through. There was no pillow—only my shirts balled up under my head. You don’t realize how much you take a comfortable bed for granted until you’ve spent a month sleeping like that.
After I came home, every single night I climbed into my Tempur-Pedic bed with high-thread-count sheets, a down comforter, and a Tempur-Pedic pillowI thought about that prision cot and I reminded myself how lucky I was. I would lie there, savoring every sensation—the softness of the sheets, the warmth of the blanket, the way the bed cradled my body. And every night since then, I’ve felt that same gratitude, knowing that it could be the last time I’d get to feel that comfort. For five years, I’ve thought to myself before bed how lucky I am to be here, how important it is to savor every moment, especially when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever have it again.
But tonight, as I lie here, I know there’s an end to this chapter. I know that in two years or less, I’ll be back in this bed or one just as nice, with these same cozy blankets, and I’ll feel that same gratitude all over again. That hope and certainty of coming back gives me something to look forward to—something for a long time I never thought I’d have.
It’s not just the bed I’m saying goodbye to tonight. This is also my last night with my best friend, my dog, Guy. He’s been by my side for 13 years, through every high and low, always loyal, always loving. Tonight, I spent an hour playing with him, giving him treats, and holding onto him as much as I could. I can tell he knows something is happening. He’s been crying the last couple of days, sensing the changes and seeing me pack.
My mom will take care of him while I’m gone, and I know she’ll give him all the love in the world. But at 13, there’s a chance he won’t make it until I get out. If the worst happens, my mom has promised to keep his ashes for me so I can turn them into something special—maybe jewelry—so he can always be with me. And if he does make it, I can’t wait to see his shining face waiting for me when I walk through the door again.
This is a tough night. But it’s also a night filled with gratitude. I’m grateful for my bed, for my home, for the time I’ve had with Guy, and for the fact that this isn’t the end of my story. It’s just a chapter, and I know I’ll make it back to this house, this bed, and this life. That hope keeps me going.
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