I’m not a thief. I’m not a bad person. I’m not perfect either, and I’ve made my share of mistakes. But I have always tried to live with integrity. I’ve chosen honesty over convenience, truth over spin, even when it wasn’t the easy road. I’ve gone without food before asking someone for help. When I was kicked out of my house at sixteen, I stole food out of desperation—snacks from convenience stores, a few bites of Walmart deli chicken eaten while walking the aisles, then disposing of the container like a ghost. That’s not something I’m proud of. It was survival, plain and simple. I know I’m probably the villain in someone’s story—maybe more than one. But I’ve spent most of my life trying to be a decent, responsible, contributing adult. I haven’t always been the kindest, most patient, or easiest person to love. Trauma doesn’t give you a handbook—just scars. But I’ve always owned my flaws. And I’ve always believed in doing the right thing.
So when I was arrested for doing just that, it broke something in me that has never fully healed.
Back in 2013, I was the Director of Nursing at a small Alzheimer’s facility in Texas. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it was fulfilling. The patients mattered. The work mattered. We were a small staff, and everyone wore multiple hats. The Business Office Manager handled everything from billing to HR to payroll. Then, one day, she slipped in a patient’s room and dislocated her knee. She was placed on FMLA for six months, and the company—in its infinite cost-cutting wisdom—refused to hire a replacement.
Instead, they divvied up her duties like party favors. HR from another building would show up every other week to handle new hires and background checks. The rest of us were expected to pick up the slack. We were told to use her system login—yes, her actual credentials—because they didn’t want to pay for additional user access. I’d enter missed punches, leave applications for review, and continue managing patient care as if I didn’t have an entire HR department’s worth of responsibility strapped to my back.
Right before a trip to Wisconsin with my ex, I left three applications on the HR desk—two part-time CNAs and a part-time, as-needed RN. When I returned, I assumed none had been processed, and I didn’t move forward with hiring any of them. Months passed. My administrator continued complaining about our RN hours being over budget. It didn’t make sense. We only had two RNs on the schedule—myself and a weekend nurse. I started wondering if the other building was billing us for their RN time.
Eventually, I asked for access to the L&D report, which technically wasn’t even something I should’ve been able to see. But I needed answers. And what I found made my stomach drop: One of the CNAs from the stack of applications had been inputted into the system as a salaried RN. She had never worked a single shift—but she had been receiving full RN pay for six months.
I reported it. Immediately. No hesitation. I called corporate, explained the discrepancy, and provided documentation. They thanked me. HR confirmed the error. Everyone agreed it looked like a simple, albeit expensive, mistake. I was told I’d done the right thing. I believed them.
A few weeks later, I was asked to go to the police station in Weatherford to give a statement. I cooperated fully, telling them exactly what happened—even down to the fact that we had all been using the Business Office Manager’s login, which had been authorized by corporate. I assumed they wanted to go after the CNA who’d received thousands of dollars in unearned wages. She hadn’t worked. She hadn’t reported the error. That, to me, was theft. I left the station feeling like I’d helped solve something.
Fast forward to 2015: I’m in a QuikTrip, grabbing a drink, when two federal marshals arrest me.
The charges? Conspiracy to commit theft and unauthorized use of personal information. Two felonies. I was in shock. My employer—the same company I had helped by uncovering the error—stood behind me. They promoted me. They told me I did nothing wrong. But none of that mattered.
I hired an attorney. She was kind but blunt. Yes, she could beat the conspiracy charge. I hadn’t stolen anything and they couldn’t prove that I had received one penny. But I had signed a police statement admitting I used someone else’s login. That was enough to be prosecuted for unauthorized use of personal information. It didn’t matter that corporate had told us to do it. It didn’t matter that it was standard practice. It didn’t matter that no one ever said, “Hey, by the way, this is technically illegal.”
The law was the law.
She told me something I’ll never forget: “It’s not about what’s true. It’s about what they can convince a jury of.”
And so, I took a plea deal. Not because I was guilty of theft, but because I was scared of what a conviction would mean for my nursing licenses. The deal offered eventual expungement—seven years after completing probation. That meant weekends in jail, probation from 2017 to 2022, random drug tests, community service, court fees. And a felony record that would follow me like a shadow.
That’s sixteen years of fallout from telling the truth.
Sixteen years of having to explain myself at every job interview. Sixteen years of praying someone would take a chance. Sixteen years of wearing the label “felon” for catching someone else’s mistake. Sixteen years of trying to convince people that I’m not a thief. That I didn’t do this. That I’m not what the background check says.
When it came time to renew my nursing licenses, I was denied. The Board of Nursing didn’t care about the facts. They hear thousands of stories like mine, and I probably sounded just like everyone else. I don’t blame them entirely—they have a responsibility to the public. But it didn’t matter that my employer vouched for me. That I had a spotless record. That I was trying to do the right thing. One red flag, and I was done.
That’s the real reason I left nursing. Not because I burned out. Not because I found a new passion. I was forced out. A profession I had poured my heart into shut the door in my face and didn’t even offer a goodbye.
And here’s the kicker: I have two Master’s degrees. One in Nursing Administration. One in Business. I’ve managed multimillion-dollar operations. I’ve run entire facilities. I’ve built teams and delivered outcomes that others failed to meet. And yet, I’ve struggled to be hired at places like McDonald’s—all because of a background check. Because once someone sees “felony: theft,” they don’t ask questions. They just pass.
No one wants a thief. Even when you’re not one.
It has been a decade of heartbreak. Of clawing for every inch. Of constantly having to prove that I deserve a second chance when I never did anything wrong to begin with. Of knowing that I did the right thing and was punished for it.
Our system isn’t built on justice. It’s built on risk assessment. On expediency. It’s a machine that doesn’t care about nuance. And if you get caught in the gears, it will grind you down.
But I’m still here. Still moving forward. Still telling my story. Because maybe, someday, someone else in my shoes will know they’re not alone.
And maybe—just maybe—we’ll start talking about what justice really means.