From a Prison Cell to a Movement: Why Building Community Matters

By Ivan Kilgore

Shortly after going in, I realized I had to do more than just survive. No, I needed to create something that reach beyond these concrete walls. I founded UBFSF from a maximum-security prison cell. That might sound impossible to some people. But when the only thing you have left is your mind and your purpose, you’d be surprised how much you can build.

I’ve learned that building community isn’t about waiting for the perfect time, place, or version of yourself. It’s about seeing people—truly seeing them. It’s about making room for connection, even in the darkest, most unlikely places. It’s about letting people know you care.

When I was inside, I didn’t just want to survive. I wanted to create something that reached beyond those concrete walls. And to do that, I had to learn how to engage with communities on both sides of the system—inside and out. Because if we’re serious about building community, we can’t pick and choose who we include. We have to recognize that we’re all connected, whether we’re on the inside of a cell or walking free on the outside.

Empathy Is the Foundation

Building a real community starts with empathy. It means understanding what someone else is going through—even when their experience looks nothing like yours. Inside prison, I see pain, trauma, and resilience every day. I saw people carrying burdens that no one on the outside could see. And yet, those same people were capable of growth, leadership, and transformation.

I had to learn how to listen—really listen. I had to sit with people’s stories, even when they were uncomfortable or messy. I had to check my ego and meet people where they were. That’s the only way trust happens. That’s how bridges are built.

On the outside, I saw communities affected by incarceration in ways that weren’t always visible. Families struggling without loved ones. Kids growing up too fast. Neighborhoods torn apart by a system that punishes more than it heals. If I wanted UBFSF to matter, I had to build something that could speak to both worlds at once. I had to show people that the lines we draw between “us” and “them” aren’t real—they’re just barriers waiting to be broken down.

Understanding Our Connectedness

Too often, people see incarceration as something separate from their own lives. But the truth is, the effects ripple outward. When a person is locked up, a whole community feels it. Parents, partners, children, and neighbors feel it. Employers, schools, and churches feel it. Whether we admit it or not, we’re all impacted.

So, I made it my mission to create a platform that could address that truth head-on. UBFSF became a space where we could engage both sides—those inside and those outside—and remind people that we’re not as different as we think. We all want safety, dignity, and opportunity. We all want to be seen.

Raising the Bar, Together

That’s why I push people to Rise the Bar. It’s not just a slogan—it’s a challenge. A challenge to reject the limits that society or circumstances try to place on us. A challenge to see past someone’s record or past mistakes and recognize their potential. A challenge to believe that excellence can exist in the unlikeliest of places.

I’ve seen it firsthand. I’ve seen incarcerated men and women rise up as leaders, mentors, scholars, and organizers. I’ve seen volunteers from the outside come into spaces they were taught to fear, only to walk out transformed by the humanity they witnessed. I’ve seen people begin to hope again—just because someone told them they could.

Excellence doesn’t mean perfection. It means pushing past expectations and showing up for each other, day after day. And that’s what community is—people showing up.

People Need to Know You Care

None of this works if people don’t feel like you care. That’s the part you can’t fake. I’ve worked with a lot of people—clients, volunteers, team members, mentors—and the one thing I try to make sure of is this: that they know I care about them as people.

Not just what they can do. Not just how they can help the mission. But who they are. What they need. What they dream about.

When you come from a place like I did, you learn quickly who’s real and who’s not. You learn that connection can’t be bought, only earned. So I try to earn it, one relationship at a time. One conversation at a time. Whether I’m helping someone with a reentry plan or just listening to what’s going on in their life, I try to show up with compassion. Because if people don’t feel that, then what are we even building?

Grace Is Part of the Process

Let me be clear: I’m no saint. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes. And I’ll make more. But that’s part of it. Building community means leaving space for people to grow. It means reserving judgment, even when it’s easy to judge. Because none of us are perfect. And pretending we are only creates distance.

I’ve learned to be honest about my flaws, not just for me, but for the people watching. Especially the people inside who think they have to be perfect to earn a second chance. That’s not how it works. Growth is messy. Change is uncomfortable. But if we give each other room to stumble, we give each other room to rise too.

The Work Doesn’t Stop

UBFSF started from a place of isolation. But it became a community because people believed in it—and in each other. And the work continues every day. We keep pushing, keep connecting, keep building. Not because it’s easy, but because it matters.

We’re not just advocating for prison reform. We’re advocating for people. For lives that have been written off. For communities that deserve healing. For the idea that your past doesn’t get to define your future.

That’s what community is to me. It’s not just a word. It’s a commitment. A promise to care. A willingness to grow together, even when it’s hard. And a belief that no matter where we come from, we all have something to contribute.

So yeah, I built this from a prison

In Solidarity, Ivan Kilgore