Turning the Tide: How a Felony Became My Passport to Freedom
When people ask me about my life, they’re usually fascinated by the adventure and audacity of it all. “Where did you get the strength?” they’ll ask. “Weren’t you afraid?” And sure, it might seem brave when you hear the story in retrospect, but the truth is, I wasn’t brave. I was cornered. I had limited choices, and what I did have felt more like the lesser of several evils than an empowered decision.
In a previous blog, I casually mentioned my run-ins with the law, my 90 days in jail, and how I racked up $20k in fines before I even turned 20. At the time, I breezed over it like it was a humorous anecdote, but the truth is far from funny. Those days were pivotal — raw, humbling, and packed with lessons I didn’t know I needed. Looking back now, I can see how fate had a hand in turning that chaos into a surprising chance at redemption.
Let’s rewind a bit to high school — senior year. I had just wrapped up volleyball season, my classes were easy, and I was restless. I was surrounded by older friends who could do “adult” things like going to bars and buying alcohol. Meanwhile, I was stuck in the purgatory of underage adolescence, itching to grow up faster than life would allow. So, I got creative — and criminal.
The Fake ID Fiasco
It’s funny how some of the most significant events in your life can start with a seemingly innocent idea. At the time, I was deep into volleyball, playing at a competitive level with dreams of joining the Junior Olympic teams. Back then, the age brackets were strict, and tournaments required proof of eligibility — birth certificates, IDs, or anything that could verify you weren’t cheating the system.
That’s where the seed was planted. One day, as I watched a coach meticulously check IDs and birth certificates before a game, a little voice in my head whispered, “What if?” What if I told someone I wanted to play in an older age bracket and needed their birth certificate to make it happen? It was such a small, innocent thought at first, a fleeting “what if” that barely lingered before I moved on to the game.
But the idea stuck. It lingered in the background, occasionally popping up when I felt restless or stifled by my age. I was 18, itching to grow up faster, surrounded by older friends who could do things I couldn’t — go to bars, buy alcohol, live what I perceived as a more exciting, adult life. Meanwhile, I was stuck in high school, where everything felt too small, too predictable, and far too boring.
Then one day, the opportunity practically fell into my lap. I had a friend whose birthday was just the right amount of time before mine to make it work. She was kind-hearted, the type of friend who never questioned my motives, and I knew she’d believe me if I told her I needed her birth certificate for volleyball.
“I just want to play up a level,” I told her, spinning the story with all the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet realized they were committing a crime. “The coach said I’d need your birth certificate to register.”
“Sure,” she said without hesitation. “Anything to help.”
With her birth certificate in hand, I took the first step down a road that would eventually land me in serious trouble. I walked into the DMV, heart pounding but face composed, and handed over the paperwork. It was so easy. Too easy.
The World Opens Up
That ID wasn’t just a piece of plastic — it was a golden ticket. Suddenly, the barriers that had kept me out of the “adult” world disappeared. I could buy alcohol, get into clubs, and hang out with my older friends without the slightest hint of suspicion.
The thrill was intoxicating. I didn’t feel like I was breaking the law — I felt like I’d hacked the system, outsmarted the rules that had kept me tethered to childhood. It was liberating in the most reckless way.
At first, I used the ID sparingly, testing the waters to see if anyone would catch on. But as the weeks went by and no one questioned me, my confidence grew. I started going to bars almost every night, carefully timing my arrival to avoid cover charges. Mondays were the only nights I stayed home — because I needed a break.
I became the go-to person for my underage friends. Need a six-pack for the party? Tasha’s got you covered. Want to hit up the hottest club in town? Let me show you how it’s done. I reveled in the attention, the admiration from my peers who marveled at my audacity.
The Illusion of Control
To me, it felt like I was untouchable. The ID wasn’t fake — it was a real, government-issued document with my photo on it. I knew the information by heart, reciting my new birthdate and address as if they were my own. When bouncers or bartenders asked for my ID, I handed it over with a confidence that left no room for doubt.
But what I didn’t realize was that this illusion of control was just that — an illusion. I was skating on thin ice, and every step I took brought me closer to the edge. At 18, though, you don’t think about consequences. You think about the moment, the thrill, and the story you’ll tell later.
The story I told myself was that I was clever, resourceful, and mature beyond my years. I wasn’t like other kids who used laughably bad fake IDs to sneak into bars. My ID was flawless. I was above the law — or so I thought.
At first, it was exhilarating. I was living like a grown-up — dancing every night, delivering pizzas to fund my escapades, and embracing the carefree arrogance of youth. But with that arrogance came recklessness, and soon I was caught up in schemes I didn’t fully understand.
What started as a small, seemingly harmless idea had spiraled into something much bigger, a reckless game I didn’t realize I was playing until it was too late.
“Helping” a Rich Friend
Looking back, it’s almost laughable how casually the whole thing started — just a flippant remark tossed out in frustration. My wealthy friend, let’s call her Miss “Woe-Is-Me” BMW Wannabe, was whining for what felt like the millionth time about the Volkswagen her parents had so cruelly bought her. The car, a perfectly functional vehicle by all reasonable standards, was apparently ruining her life because it wasn’t a BMW.
I couldn’t take it anymore. My life was a beat-up Dodge Colt with duct tape holding the side mirror together, and she was lamenting her “tragic” plight over a new Volkswagen. So, I snapped. “Why don’t you just crash it and collect the insurance?” I said, rolling my eyes. “Problem solved.”
I didn’t think she’d actually take me seriously. But a few weeks later, she came back, brimming with entitlement and desperation, asking me to actually help her get rid of the car.
At 18, fueled by cocky ignorance and a warped sense of adventure, I agreed. I mean, how hard could it be? In my mind, I was playing some sort of Robin Hood role — helping out the “less fortunate” rich kid with a problem money could solve.
The Master Plan
Calling it a “plan” is generous. There was no planning involved. It was more like, “We’ll wing it and see how it goes.” My only prerequisite was to find someone who looked like they’d done something shady before. Enter my friend, a stripper, who connected me with a guy who exuded “wrong side of the law” energy. He didn’t ask for money, and I didn’t ask for qualifications. He just nodded and said, “I’ll help.”
The car was left for us in the parking lot of a local movie theater, keys conveniently hidden under the floor mat. I arrived with my accomplice, and we got to work — if you can call it that. I ripped out the starter wires under the dash to make it look like a Hollywood-style hotwiring job, which, in hindsight, was pointless since we had the key.
The Execution (or Lack Thereof)
We drove the car up a canyon under the cover of darkness, adrenaline pumping as we prepared to stage the “crime scene.” This is where things went from bad to worse — and then straight into the realm of absurdity.
Step one: spray-paint gang signs. This was supposed to make it look like some nefarious group had stolen the car and vandalized it. The problem? Neither of us knew what real gang signs looked like, so we ended up mimicking random symbols we’d seen on overpasses. Looking back, it probably looked more like a kindergartner’s finger-painting session than the work of hardened criminals.
Step two: smash the windows. Easy, right? Wrong. We learned that night that car windows, especially the back ones, aren’t just glass — they’re made of some sort of unbreakable polycarbonate. After a few swings with the hammer bounced back at us like a cartoon gag, we gave up and moved on.
Step three: strip the car of valuables. We yanked out the stereo, speakers, and wiring, throwing them into the other car we’d driven up. At this point, it was starting to feel like a comedy of errors, but we were committed.
Step four: the grand finale — push the car off the cliff. This was supposed to be the pièce de résistance, the act that would erase all evidence of our involvement. Except, we didn’t think about gravity, physics, or the fact that the car would flip upside down and land on its roof, making it incredibly invisible from the road above.
Feeling triumphant in our incompetence, we left the scene and celebrated with drinks at the bar. I remember thinking, That was easier than I thought. Oh, how wrong I was.
The Fallout
The next day, the car still hadn’t been found. And the day after that. And the day after that. My friend, the same one who begged me to help her, started to get antsy. The insurance company wouldn’t pay out until the car was recovered, and our “perfect crime” was suddenly becoming a perfect problem.
Her impatience turned into irritation — at me. “You got rid of it too well!” she complained, as if I’d been tasked with delivering artisanal car destruction and had overachieved. She demanded I make an anonymous call to tip off authorities about the car’s location.
Reluctantly, I made the call. “Hi, uh, I think I saw a car in the canyon while I was hiking,” I stammered, trying to sound casual. They found the car, and my friend finally got her insurance payout. Crisis averted, or so I thought.
The Party That Ruined Everything
Weeks later, Miss BMW Wannabe got drunk at a party and decided to share the thrilling tale of her car’s demise. I’m sure she thought it was a hilarious story, the kind of thing that makes you the life of the party. Unfortunately, one of the “partygoers” was a cop.
From there, it all unraveled. Investigators connected the dots, and soon my name was on their radar. My accomplice, bless his shady heart, didn’t hesitate to throw me under the bus.
What started as a cocky joke snowballed into a full-blown investigation that ended with me standing in court, facing charges of forgery, conspiracy, and destruction of property. My slapdash attempt at amateur crime didn’t just crash a car — it crashed my entire world.
Getting Caught and Facing Reality
The unraveling began slowly, like the first faint cracks in ice before the whole sheet gives way. When the cops pieced together the story of the Volkswagen’s “disappearance,” my name floated to the top of their suspect list. I was 18 and thought I was untouchable, but the reality was closing in fast.
The fake ID, which had been my golden ticket to a carefree life of bars and parties, turned into an albatross. Not only was it proof that I’d been masquerading as someone else, but it also added a hefty forgery charge to my growing list of crimes. Suddenly, what felt like harmless teenage rebellion snowballed into a legal nightmare.
The Interrogation
When the police came knocking, my world shrank to the size of their questions. My parents, bless them, were as blindsided as I was. Their well-meaning advice? Tell the truth. Cooperate. It sounded noble in theory, but in practice, it was a disaster.
I remember sitting in the interrogation room, feeling small and exposed under the fluorescent lights. The detective’s voice was calm, almost friendly, as he walked me through the events. “Just tell us what happened, and things will go easier for you,” he said. Naively, I believed him.
By the time the session ended, I had signed a statement — essentially confessing to every bad decision I’d made in the past six months. What I didn’t realize then was that I had handed them everything they needed to charge me. In my attempt to “do the right thing,” I had sealed my own fate.
The Courtroom Circus
Courtrooms are nothing like the tidy scenes you see on TV. They’re chaotic, intimidating, and brimming with tension. My case spanned multiple counties, thanks to the separate charges for the fake ID and the car fraud. Each appearance felt like a new layer of humiliation.
By the time I stood in front of the judge for sentencing, I had already been branded a criminal in the eyes of the law. Two felonies and a handful of misdemeanors were laid out like a résumé of my worst decisions. My public defender, a frazzled man who hadn’t even read my case file until the morning of my hearing, barely put up a fight.
When the judge handed down my sentence — 90 days in a local jail for the car fraud — I felt a mix of relief and dread. Relief that I wasn’t heading straight to prison for five years, but dread at the reality of what those 90 days would entail.
Jail: The Longest 90 Days of My Life
Let me tell you, nothing prepares you for jail. Not the movies, not the stories, nothing. The facility didn’t even have a proper women’s holding area, so I was tossed into what was essentially a glorified drunk tank. Four cinderblock walls, no windows, and a flimsy foam pad on a metal bedframe became my world.
The lights never turned off, a cruel reminder of where I was. Privacy was nonexistent. Meals were served on trays with all the charm of a high school cafeteria, only colder and less appetizing. The highlight of my day was breakfast at 5 a.m. — not because the food was good, but because it meant another day had started.
There were no female guards, so I wasn’t allowed outside for fresh air. For 90 days, I didn’t see the sun. My only connection to the outside world was a small TV mounted on the wall, which frequently shorted out if the men in the adjacent cellblock plugged in too many appliances.
Desperate to stay sane, I clung to the few things that gave me a sense of control. I discovered the jail library, a small room with a pitiful selection of books and — miraculously — a stash of jigsaw puzzles. Those puzzles became my lifeline. Piece by piece, they gave me something to focus on, a small victory in an otherwise bleak existence.
When I wasn’t working on puzzles, I threw myself into a punishing routine of pushups and sit-ups. It was the only way to feel alive, to fight the suffocating monotony of my cell.
Facing an Uncertain Future
When I was finally released, stepping out into the sunlight for the first time in three months was almost overwhelming. The world felt too bright, too big, too real. But my ordeal wasn’t over.
I still had one more major sentencing to face — the forgery felony for the fake ID. This wasn’t a slap-on-the-wrist kind of charge. It was the kind that came with the potential for five years in state prison. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life was over before it had even begun.
The weight of those charges hung over me like a storm cloud. I was 18, a convicted felon with $20k in fines and no clear path forward. My friends were planning their futures — college, careers, adventures — and I was staring down the barrel of a life defined by mistakes I couldn’t undo.
And then, fate intervened.
The Call That Changed Everything
Some moments in life are so pivotal, so bizarrely timed, that you can’t help but believe in fate — or at least, in the strange serendipity of the universe. For me, I had just stopped by my parents’ house to grab something, I’d been staying at a friend’s place while my life unraveled in the background.
I wasn’t supposed to be the one to answer the phone that night. My parents were busy, probably dealing with something far more normal than their daughter’s impending legal doom. But when the phone rang, I picked it up.
“Hello?” I said, fully expecting a telemarketer or a wrong number.
“Is this Tasha?”
I froze. My instinct was to hang up. What now? Another court summons? A debt collector? But the voice on the other end wasn’t stern or accusatory — it was cheerful.
“This is Deb the coach from the University of Alaska, Fairbanks. We’ve been reviewing your volleyball record, and we’d like to offer you a scholarship to join our team.”
For a second, I thought I was being pranked. My record? The one that ended when I dropped out of junior college? The one buried under a mountain of legal troubles and bad decisions?
But the coach kept talking, oblivious to the chaos swirling around my life. They didn’t know I had dropped out, that I was a felon awaiting sentencing, or that I had just spent 90 days in a jail cell. To them, I was a promising athlete, a scholarship-worthy student.
It felt surreal. Here I was, standing in my parents’ kitchen, surrounded by the weight of my failures, and someone was offering me a lifeline.
I thanked them, promised to consider the offer, and hung up the phone. My mind raced. This wasn’t just an opportunity — it was a way out, a chance to rewrite the narrative I had so thoroughly botched.
The Hail Mary in Court
When the day of my final sentencing arrived, I walked into the courtroom with a mix of desperation and determination. My parents were there, sitting quietly, their worry palpable. My public defender was, as usual, ill-prepared. The odds were stacked against me.
But I had the Alaska offer in my back pocket, and I was prepared to fight for it. When it was my turn to speak, I stood up, heart pounding, and addressed the judge directly.
“I know I’ve made mistakes,” I began, my voice shaking. “But I’m asking for a chance to turn things around.”
I explained the scholarship offer, how it was an opportunity to start fresh in a place as far removed from my troubles as possible. Alaska wasn’t just a geographic escape — it was a clean slate, a chance to prove I could be more than the sum of my bad decisions.
“I’ll be over 2,000 miles away from the influences that got me into trouble,” I pleaded. “I’ll focus on school, volleyball, and becoming someone better.”
The judge leaned back in his chair, studying me. I don’t know what went through his mind in that moment, but for reasons I’ll never fully understand, he decided to take a chance on me.
Instead of the five-year prison sentence I was bracing for, he put me on probation for three years. “You mess this up,” he warned, “and you’re coming back here to serve every day of that sentence.”
I nodded, tears streaming down my face.
Shipping Off to Alaska
When I boarded the plane to Alaska, I felt like I was leaving one life behind and stepping into another. The farther I flew from my old life, the lighter I felt. The sprawling wilderness below seemed like a metaphor for the uncharted territory I was entering.
Fairbanks was a world away from everything I knew — literally and figuratively. The cold was brutal, the people were different, and the isolation was both daunting and comforting. Here, I wasn’t Tasha the felon or Tasha the screw-up. I was Tasha the volleyball player, the student, the kid trying to make good on a second chance.
Probation was still a shadow hanging over me, but my officer was surprisingly understanding. He didn’t require monthly check-ins as long as I stayed on the straight and narrow. He even approved my out-of-state travel for volleyball games.
For the first time in years, I had a sense of purpose. I threw myself into practice, games, and classes, determined to prove — to myself, to the judge, to everyone — that I could rise above the mess I had made.
A New Beginning
Looking back, that phone call was nothing short of divine intervention. Had I not been the one to answer it, had my parents picked up instead, I might never have heard about the scholarship. I might have gone to prison instead of Alaska, and my life would have taken an entirely different path.
Alaska wasn’t just an escape — it was salvation. It gave me the time, space, and structure to rebuild myself. It wasn’t easy, and I still carried the weight of my mistakes, but it was a second chance. And sometimes, that’s all you need.
Turning a Sentence into a Second Chance
Alaska became my salvation. I threw myself into volleyball, school, and work. Summers were spent on fish slime lines, gutting fish to pay off my fines. I dug myself out of the mess I had made, one grueling day at a time. By the time I graduated, I was a new person — still a felon, but with a fresh perspective and a plan.
The job market in the U.S. wasn’t an option for someone with my record, so I turned my sights abroad. Russia, with its allure of adventure and anonymity, became my escape. Over the next decade, I rebuilt my life, eventually clearing my record and landing high-level roles in finance.
Lessons from the Brink
When people hear this story, they often say, “Weren’t you terrified to leave everything behind?” The truth is, staying scared me more. The thought of being trapped by my past, labeled a criminal, and boxed into a life of limited possibilities was far more frightening than hopping on a one-way ticket to the unknown.
If there’s one thing my journey has taught me, it’s that no matter how deep a hole you dig yourself into, there’s always a way out. It might not be easy, and it might not be conventional, but it’s there. Sometimes, it takes a little audacity, a lot of humility, and a touch of fate to find it.
