What happens when transformation breaks into the open?
Prison yards aren’t built for vulnerability.
They’re built for control, separation, and survival.
So when 27 men, one woman, and four of our outside volunteers stood on the San Quentin yard and shared the most personal truths of their lives—stories of childhood trauma, gang violence, loss, and growth—it wasn’t just a team-building event. It was a rupture in the script of what’s considered possible behind the walls.
We called it The Distance We Carry.
And it became something we’ll never forget.
A Relay of Story, Strength, and Witness
Designed by the incarcerated leadership of SkunkWorks, The Distance We Carry is part symbolic journey, part public storytelling, and part ceremony of witness. It takes the shape of a 26.2-mile relay, where each participant carries not just a baton—but the story of their life.
Each person speaks aloud the story of their lives, the hardest decisions they’ve made and why. Another teammate publicly reflects on what they heard. And then the speaker runs a lap, carrying their story in motion.
It’s an embodied act of transformation. A ritual built from Kolb’s experiential learning model, the psychology of peer recognition, and the principles of trauma-informed care. The goal is simple, but radical in a prison context:
To be seen. To be honored. To witness and carry each other’s truths.
Everyone Carried A Story This is One of Them
What follows is one of those stories—shared here with permission, and with deep respect for the man who had the courage to let his truth be carried forward.
“I was never supposed to be born,” Tony Haro began.
“The coyote who brought my mom across the border raped her. That’s how I came into this world.”
He told us about the hatred he received from his stepfather, the beatings, the scars. He told us how he ended up in foster care. How gangs became his family. How the nickname Joker followed him into a bloody street war in West L.A. How it led to a 59-year sentence.
Then he told us about what changed.
God. Growth. The slow realization that he could be more than his past. That programs like SkunkWorks weren’t just about time—they were about transformation.
And afterward, he told us about the moment that broke him.
“After I finished speaking, our volunteer, a young woman, came in for a hug. I had to stop her. I said, ‘No, I’m sorry—we’re not allowed to hug.’
You don’t understand how bad I needed that hug.
But the rules are the rules. And I can’t jeopardize the program.
It’ll always be the hug I never got.”
Why We’re Telling You This
The Distance We Carry isn’t a performance.
It’s a rite of passage. A ritual that helps our team grow as leaders—from the inside out.
It builds what the system so often strips away: dignity, purpose, trust. And it shows—visibly—that people can change. That leadership can come from those society threw away. That healing can happen in public, even under razor wire.
We believe in this work. Not just as an event, but as a blueprint.
And we’re looking for partners who believe in it too.
If you want to help expand these spaces of transformation—
If you believe prison can be more than punishment—
If you know that stories like this deserve to be seen—
Join us.
And if you want to bring The Distance We Carry to a prison near you, reach out. We’re building a future where this kind of healing isn’t the exception—it’s the beginning.
Because sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is listen to a story that was never supposed to be told.