The Steps That Define Us 

The walls of a prison stand much taller than they truly are. You can see the light of day but never feel the sun. These walls are more than just physical barriers; they are the embodiment of a system designed to strip away every aspect of freedom. The weight of my sentence pressed down on me, suffocating, making it hard to speak. Days blurred into one another, monotonous and endless. My mind felt just as confined as my body, and I needed something—anything—to anchor myself, to give me a sense of control in a world where I had none. 

One day, as I made my way to the mess hall, I started counting my steps. It wasn’t intentional at first. The path never changed, the movements were automatic, and counting gave me something to focus on. The clang of my cell gate announced the beginning of the daily march. I stepped onto the catwalk, a narrow walkway caged in by chain-link fencing that stretched endlessly along the block. There were eighty cells per tier, stacked five high like concrete shelves. I was on the third tier, trapped between the weight of those above and the shadows below. Through the fencing, I could see lines of prisoners waiting for the correctional officer’s signal to enter the mess hall. When the signal came, we moved as one. 

The entrance foyer to the mess hall was cramped and dimly lit. A small window on either side let in a trickle of natural light, but the room was dominated by the cold, sterile glow of fluorescent bulbs. Eight to ten officers stood at the checkpoint, directing traffic through the metal detector. Once cleared, I entered the cavernous mess hall. Everything gleamed in a dull silver—the bolted-down tables, the benches, the glossy marble floor that reflected the metallic sheen of our confinement. Inmates shuffled forward in synchronized lines, moving toward the food counters in an unbroken rhythm. 

That day, I counted my steps: one... two... seventy-five... one hundred... two hundred. A foolish, insignificant act, yet it gave me something to hold onto. I measured every path I took—127 steps to the mess hall, 225 to the gym, 310 to the auditorium. Counting became my quiet resistance. Each step carried a rhythm, a meditative cadence that allowed my mind to escape, even if my body remained trapped. Walking wasn’t just movement; it became a ritual, a way to reclaim a fraction of control in a place designed to erase it. 

But the numbers revealed a cruel truth: I never walked beyond a certain measure. On average, I took no more than 500 steps a day. To reach 900, I had to be in motion for every available movement—to the library in the morning, the gym in the afternoon, a program or work in the evening. The steps measured my incarceration. The realization deepened my misery, but as the years passed, my practice of counting evolved. It became a method of measuring my freedom, a conscious decision to track where I was going, both physically and mentally. 

When I was finally released in 2020, I carried that practice with me. I thought freedom would be a sudden, euphoric release, but it was overwhelming. I found myself slipping back into the rhythm of counting whenever I felt constrained. The walls of prison had seeped into my mind, shaping how I moved through the world beyond bars. 

Starting my first semester at NYU, I stepped off the R train onto a bustling Broadway street in lower Manhattan. The purple and white NYU flag fluttered against the sunlight, a symbol of a place I had only seen in magazine cutouts and television. As I approached the entrance of the Gallatin School of Individualized Study, I encountered something oddly familiar: scanning my ID and showing it to security. A simple act, yet it carried the weight of memory. In prison, showing my ID was a reminder that my identity was always in question. I couldn’t take more than 125 steps before hearing an officer bark: "ID!" 155 steps—"ID!" 178 steps—"ID!" Now, standing at NYU, the same action resurfaced that feeling of restriction. 

I realized then that the world beyond prison was not as free as I had imagined. Every small limitation pulled me back into that controlled space. But in this struggle to adjust, I found something unexpected: street photography. It became an extension of my practice, a way to move with intention, to observe, to document. As a street photographer, I walked 15,000 steps a day, sometimes more. Through the streets of New York, across the five boroughs, and eventually, in Virginia, Milwaukee, Atlanta, Prague, Vienna, and Budapest, I tracked my steps as a way to map my freedom. 

This passion opened an extraordinary door—a fellowship to visually document the work of SEDOAC, an advocacy organization in Spain dedicated to uplifting migrant home and care workers. When I landed in Madrid, the first thing that struck me was the airport’s ceiling—a vast expanse of undulating blue and white, with warm wooden textures gleaming in the morning light. Having never lived outside the U.S., the reality of moving to a new country filled me with both excitement and fear. But my steps multiplied. In Spain, I averaged 20,000 a day, immersing myself in the art, architecture, and stories of those I photographed. 

One day, my steps led me to Segovia, a medieval city where history and beauty merged in an endless landscape of stone and sky. The ancient Roman aqueduct towered above me, its arches standing for nearly 2,000 years. As I wandered the cobblestone streets, I saw a massive flock of birds swirling above the aqueduct, their cries filling the air. The scene was surreal, almost mystical, prompting me to research Roman augury in an attempt to understand the omen. 

As evening fell, I realized I needed to return to Madrid. The train was leaving in less than two hours, and I was over an hour and a half away on foot. No Uber. No taxis willing to stop. The frustration was familiar, but this time, I was not confined. I had a choice. I could walk.

So I did. The heat bore down, my camera bag and laptop adding weight to my steps. Doubt crept in. What if I didn’t make it? What if I had to stay overnight? But then, something shifted. I could do something about this. I ran. Across empty highways, past rolling hills, through an abandoned churchyard, my heart pounding in my chest. With each step, the fear transformed into exhilaration. I wasn’t just moving—I was free. 

An hour and forty-five minutes later, I reached the train station, breathless and alive. As I boarded the train back to Madrid, I reflected on the journey. From the confined steps of prison to the boundless steps of Segovia, I had redefined what movement meant to me. 

My story is not just about physical steps. It is about the landscapes we navigate, the barriers we face, and the ways we choose to move through them. Counting my steps kept me sane in the most challenging moments and ultimately helped me define freedom on my own terms. 

We all face limitations, visible or unseen. But by focusing on the steps we take each day, we reclaim our power. Freedom is not always a grand gesture or a sudden escape; sometimes, it is simply a matter of moving forward, one step at a time.