Corrections_Today_Winter_2025-2026_Vol.87_No.4

I began pushing for deeper change — real programming, better mental health support, leadership development for frontline staff. I started seeking input from people who’d lived through incarceration and from professionals outside the walls. I leaned into uncomfortable conversations about accountability, race and rehabilitation. I knew change wouldn’t come easily. But I also knew this: surviving isn’t the same as progressing. And real leadership means having the courage to shift from crisis control to culture change.

And I learned this: mental illness is not a crime. Too often, jails become warehouses for people who need care, not punishment. As reformers, we must think about people through a human lens — not just an incarceration lens. Individuals suffering from mental illness should never be isolated without access to services, compassion, and a path toward stability. Our responsibility is to help them live their best lives, not to confine them further into crisis. These lessons don’t just guide how I consult — they define why I do it. Because I’ve seen systems crumble un der the weight of neglect, and I’ve seen them start to heal when real leadership shows up. The scars I carry remind me of what’s at stake — and they push me to help others lead differently. Experience as compass I didn’t set out to become a reformer. I became one because I lived the cost of systems that are broken, outdated, or simply overwhelmed. I became one because I know what it’s like to carry both hope and heartbreak in the same day — and still show up the next morning to do it all again. The scars I carry aren’t just reminders of what I’ve endured — they’re a compass. They point me toward what must change, and how we can change it without losing sight of the people inside the system — on both sides of the bars. Reform isn’t theory to me. It’s personal. It’s built on sweat, on mistakes, on resilience, and on moments of breakthrough that no spreadsheet or policy memo can capture. And that’s what I bring to this work now: not just a plan, but perspective. Not just credentials, but conviction. Because I’ve seen what happens when leadership stays silent — and I’ve seen what’s possible when it shows up. CT

I learned that listening is one of the most powerful tools a leader has.

Lessons carried forward When people ask what jail leadership taught me, I don’t answer lightly. The lessons didn’t come from books or training sessions. They came from pain, from persis tence and from paying close attention to what worked — and what didn’t. I learned that safety and dignity aren’t opposites. In fact, they depend on each other. A facility that runs on fear will never be stable. But when people — staff and detainees — feel seen, respected and supported, account ability actually gets stronger, not weaker. I learned that culture eats policy alive. You can have the best-written directives in the world, but if your cul ture is broken — if fear, mistrust, or burnout dominate — it won’t matter. Change happens when you shift how people feel, not just what they’re told. I learned that leadership has to be visible. Present. Willing to step into discomfort. Reform can’t be managed from behind a desk — it has to be modeled in housing units, roll calls, conversations and actions. I learned that listening is one of the most powerful tools a leader has. I’ve sat with men who told me, “This is the first time someone in authority actually asked what I thought.” I’ve learned more in those moments than in any executive meeting.

Crayman J. Harvey is a highly experienced law enforcement and corrections professional with over 20 years of expertise in facility management, security operations, rehabilitation programs, and public safety leadership. For more information, you can contact him at harveyconsulting43@gmail.com.

Winter 2025-2026 | Corrections Today

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