From the Streets to Faith: A Story of Survival, Change, and Redemption

I wasn’t a believer. I just needed something to focus on.

I grew up on the streets of Los Angeles, shaped by circumstances few would choose and many would struggle to survive. Both of my parents were heroin addicts. My father taught me how to endure prison “like a man,” as if incarceration were an inevitable rite of passage. My mother was shot and murdered. My childhood passed between foster homes that could not hold me and streets that demanded I grow up far too fast.

By the age of ten, I was already running the streets and learning how to survive on my own. Eventually, I was placed in the MacLaren Home for Boys—a place marked by deep trauma, where abuse was disturbingly common. Given my upbringing and experiences in the juvenile system, gang life felt like a natural progression. Prison did not surprise me; in many ways, I had been prepared for it.

I was eventually sent to a high-security prison reserved for gang members. At that time, I never once considered God. Faith felt like weakness. I lived as a soldier for my gang, immersed in crime, violence, dishonesty, and heroin addiction. Survival was the only rule. I married a woman who had grown up in the same environment, and together we lived the only life we knew.

Everything began to shift when I took a trip east and stopped briefly in Idaho. Something about the place stayed with me. On the way back to Los Angeles, I made a decision I never expected—I wanted a different life. My wife and I packed up and moved to Idaho Falls.

From the beginning, the people stood out to me. Their kindness felt genuine, unfamiliar, and deeply disarming. I had never been around people like that before, and simply being near them felt good. One day, while watching television, I saw a story about a woman whose life had been destroyed by identity theft. It shook me. For the first time, I realized that my actions hurt real people. I had always told myself that banks absorbed the damage. That illusion broke. I told my wife I was done with crime.

Around that same time, a shoulder injury led me back to opiates. Before long, I found myself in trouble with the law again—this time in Idaho. When I was locked up, I braced myself for withdrawal. Detoxing from opiates is usually brutal. Expecting the worst, I picked up a Bible simply to distract myself from what I thought was coming.

I wasn’t a believer. I just needed something to focus on.

Along with the Bible, a copy of the Book of Mormon was available in my cell. I began reading it—and something unexpected happened. I didn’t get sick. No withdrawal. No collapse. I kept reading, partly out of curiosity and partly out of disbelief. I was drawn to the war chapters and started wondering what kind of power this book carried.

Having grown up around racism my entire life, I am deeply opposed to it. At one point, I believed the book was racist and threw it across my cell. But later, I decided to ask God directly about it. When I picked the book back up, the first verse I read was from 2 Nephi, which declares that God invites all to come unto Him—black and white, bond and free, male and female—and that all are alike unto God.

That moment changed everything.

I began attending LDS meetings in jail. Other inmates told me I was crazy, but I’ve never been easily swayed when I feel something is right. If that makes me stubborn, I’m okay being stubborn for God. I expected a long sentence, but instead, the judge gave me a chance. To me, it was another miracle.

After my release, I reached out to the missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I wanted to be baptized immediately, but real change takes time. I worked to give up cigarettes and coffee—coffee remains the hardest—and eventually, the day of my baptism arrived. It was sacred and unforgettable.

The support I received in my ward in Ammon, Idaho—from the missionaries to church members and even my probation officer—was overwhelming in the best way. But my story does not end with a simple happily-ever-after. Shortly after I baptized my wife, she returned to her addiction and chose to leave our marriage.

I spiraled. I locked myself inside my house for three days and drank. When my bishop came to my door, I told him to leave. When the missionaries came, I told them to make an appointment next time. Then members of the ward—some with military backgrounds—showed up. One told me he would break the door down if I didn’t open it. I realized things could go very wrong, so I opened the door. They gave me a priesthood blessing, and somehow, I found the strength to stand back up and return to church.

I wasn’t a believer. I just needed something to focus on.

Since then, life has not been smooth. I still make mistakes, particularly in relationships. I relapsed hard at one point and drove myself to the hospital. I chose honesty—with my probation officer, my employer, and myself. Today, I have been sober for nearly four months. I am in a recovery program, I attend church, and I am still working on quitting cigarettes and coffee. I welcome every prayer offered on my behalf.

The people in my ward continue to welcome me. I know Jesus wants me there, and I know He has a plan for my life. He shows up for me again and again. Some people call me a “Jesus freak.” I tell them they’re right. I’ve never been too concerned with others’ opinions.

Recently, a friend asked how I felt about a photo of me baptizing my wife being shared online. I told her I thought it was beautiful. It was a sacred moment that offers hope. She is still a member of the Church, and I pray she finds peace.

I am not unique. There are many men like me. What makes my story different is that I escaped. Leaving gang life is not easy. I was surprised when my former gang agreed to leave me alone. One of its leaders, a former member of the Church, declared me off-limits. I believe we serve a powerful God.

Today, I am deeply grateful for the love and support of good people. It has changed my life. I’ve learned that my testimony must be about God and me—not God, me, and anyone else. It has to be personal. It has to be real. And it has to be my own.