A police officer woke me up, trying to coax me out of my hiding place.

The sounds of screams, breaking glass, and violence had led me to hide in a tiny hole in the wall of our bathroom—my usual place of refuge when things got bad. There I could muffle the sounds and cry myself to sleep.

I refused to take the officer’s hand. Even at that young age, I knew the rules. My family had a strict code of silence, especially when it came to the police.

I was raised in Tucson, Arizona, the youngest of twelve kids. They all tried to shield me from the details of the family business, but it was impossible. Violence, partying, and drug deals were just how we rolled.

Our lives were full of danger and risks. Dad got busted for transporting drugs and went to federal prison for seven years. I grieved terribly for him. We were close despite the violence he often brought into our home.

His absence threw the family into chaos. When he went away, so did the drugs and money. With those things out of the picture, most people we thought cared about us disappeared too. Mom was left to raise us kids alone. She did her best under the circumstances, but she was lost without Dad. He’d provided the only stability she’d ever known, which is ironic because their relationship was so volatile.

Upon his release from prison, Dad was deported to Mexico. By this time, my siblings were grownups and on their own, so Mom and I moved to Mexico to be with him. It wasn’t long before they were fighting again though. When Mom finally had enough, she moved us back to Tucson.

Then my oldest brother committed suicide. I didn’t know how to deal with my emotions, and no one else could help me because they were hurting too. A few of my other siblings were in prison at this time, which added to the trauma. The pain in my heart was more than I could bear.

I had grown up watching everyone around me drink and do drugs, whether they were happy or sad. Naturally, I turned to those substances to help me through my grief. I also started hanging out with the gangs in my neighborhood to escape the pain and dysfunction of my home. The gang became my family.

My first arrest came at 13 for weed and fighting. From that point on, my teenage years are a blur. I was either locked up in juvenile detention, on probation, or on parole. I was in juvie when I found out I was pregnant. The excitement about being a mom kept me out of trouble for a while.

Gerard, the father of my first son, was also my best friend. We both came from broken homes and leaned on each other for support. He stood by me through the first pregnancy. Not long after that, we had a daughter together too.

We tried to raise our kids and be a family, but the baggage from our childhood put a lot of strain on our relationship. We broke up but remained best friends. He even treated my third child as his own, even though he wasn’t his.

One night, Gerard called and asked me to pick him up from a party. It was late and the kids were sleeping, so I told him I couldn’t come. Thirty minutes later, Gerard’s mom called, crying. A drive-by shooting had taken place at the party, and Gerard had been gunned down while helping others get to safety.

Before I made it to the hospital, Gerard passed away. Inside my head, a voice was screaming. You should have gone to get him. Now your kids don’t have a dad. This is all your fault!

The grief and guilt were so heavy, I became severely depressed. Whenever I looked at my kids, I blamed myself for their not having a father. To numb the pain, I started drinking more heavily, taking pills, and doing whatever drugs I could get my hands on.

Child Protective Services stepped in, taking custody of the kids. I got them back for a while, but only because I managed to fool everyone into thinking I was sober. But people soon saw  through my mask. My mom and other family members had to take care of my kids because of my increasingly self-destructive behavior.

The final blow came when Dad died of a heart attack. Those close to me watched me go down for the count. I was the only one who couldn’t see it. Deep down, I blamed everyone for the wrong cards I’d been dealt. My life was like a bad horror film—the monsters of death, grief, and heartache chased me relentlessly.

I wanted to lock myself away somewhere, just like I had as a little girl. So I crawled into the numb, quiet cocoon that heroin and fentanyl provided. Its comfort came at a high price, however, and I did not realize until too late that I was trapped in addiction.

I begged God many times to let me die; I just wanted out of my misery. He didn’t give me what I asked for—thank goodness.

The more I used, the more careless I became. One day, while high, I got busted smuggling drugs across the border. I pretended that I had my act together, but the Border Patrol didn’t buy it. And once they searched my person, the game was over. I had enough drugs on me to wipe out a small army.

The US Marshals booked me into the federal detention facility in Florence, Arizona, and charged me with smuggling narcotics. The jail put me in isolation in the medical unit, where I began the horrific journey of heroin and fentanyl withdrawal. I became a caged, wild animal—crying, kicking the doors, and yelling at the officers. I hurled food trays, cussed, and called the officers names. I was unable to control my emotions, the worst of which was anger.

When it was time to go to court, my behavior earned me a trip in the restraint chair. I was quite a sight in front of the judge—a malnourished and deranged human being, spit mask and all. I didn’t get released that day, thank God. I wouldn’t have survived for long.

After detox and a two-week stay in the hole for the way I’d treated the officers, I was finally deemed stable enough to be housed with the general population. There, a detention officer approached me, asked my name, and told me she saw a light in me.

“Yeah, okay,” I replied, rolling my eyes. I was little more than a corpse—emaciated and pale from detoxing. How could she say that? Undeterred, the officer asked if she could pray with me. Well, why not?

Later, she introduced me to a group of girls studying the Bible. I was leery at first, but their love and kindness drew me in (John 13:34). These women were on fire about some man named Jesus. Their passion sparked something inside me, and I wanted to learn more.

I started reading the Bible, and the Holy Spirit went to work in my heart. I clung to the promise I found in Jeremiah 29:11—that God has a hope and future planned for His people. I wondered if those plans might be the reason I was still alive.

Looking back, I can see how God was reaching out His hand to me through this officer, inviting me out of the hole I had dug for myself (Psalm 18:16–19). It was strikingly similar to how the officer had extended his hand to me in my youth.

I couldn’t help but acknowledge that God had to be at work. Detention officers don’t usually tell inmates about Jesus and offer to pray with them. This woman had cared enough about me to boldly step out and encourage me when I was at my lowest.

After one year in that detention center, the judge granted me probation. I could not wait to get out of there, make up for lost time, and start making money. I forgot about Jesus and that kind officer before I even stepped out the door.

I searched eagerly for my friend’s car as the officers led me through the release gate. There he was, on the other side of a parked police car. I had barely stepped outside the gate when a cop approached, asked my name, and arrested me for a felony warrant.

You would think I’d have lost my mind and put up a fight, but I didn’t. Instead, I was filled with an odd peace. I had been just a moment away from returning to my old life, and I knew it.

God intervened that day and saved me from myself. I know this because those arrest charges had been dropped without prejudice in 2012, years before. Who but God had resurrected them? I spent the next two years tucked away in prison where I could learn about Him. The superficial relationship I’d had with Him was no longer enough.

I arrived at Perryville, Arizona’s state prison for women, on April 1, 2021. The Holy Spirit wasted no time going to work in my life. Through a Bible study, I learned about Alongside Ministries and met some of its volunteers.

Hearing testimonies from other incarcerated women about how Jesus and this faith-based program had changed their lives stirred something inside me. I decided to apply for the program, and Pastor Ken from Alongside came to interview me. He asked questions about my life and faith, including: “If you were to die today, do you think you would go to heaven?”

I told him I didn’t think so. I’d done too many bad things and hurt too many people.

Pastor Ken explained that Jesus had died on the cross so that I could be forgiven for all those things (Romans 8:1). He described the high price Jesus paid to free me from the guilt and shame I had been carrying. Then he shared how I could spend eternity in heaven instead of hell. Life and hope for the future were available. I just had to choose them.

After our interview, I was accepted into the program and received weekly visits from a mentor until my release from Perryville. The more I learned about Jesus, the closer I felt to Him. But trusting God with my future wasn’t easy.

In a last-ditch effort to control my future, I changed my release plans and applied for a program that wasn’t faith-based. It had a shorter commitment and seemed easier. But the decision tormented me with anxiety until, finally, I surrendered to God’s will. I let go of the controls and accepted Jesus as my Savior and the Lord of my life and resumed my original release plan. The Lord restored my peace.

I am comforted to know that the Holy Spirit was in the details of my life decisions. His peace guided me then and continues to guide me now (Colossians 3:15).

Since the day I grabbed His hand and chose Him, I’ve never had to walk alone—not in prison or free society. God has directed my every footstep (Proverbs 3:6), and has never once led me astray.

Not only that, but He has healed my heart, removed my shame, restored relationships, and resurrected my dreams. I am so glad I chose Him.

God says, “Today I have given you the choice between life and death, between blessings and curses.… Oh, that you would choose life, so that you and your descendants might live!” (Deuteronomy 30:19 NLT). I hope you will.

Patricia Guzman Gonzalez is a daughter, mother, wife, and grandmother of 9. She enjoys writing, reading, and animals. Her heart is dedicated to special needs and recovery ministries, and through them, she brings the love of Jesus to vulnerable people from all walks of life.