Nearly 15 years ago, my life changed forever.
I was walking my dog when a squad car pulled up next to me. Two officers got out, and one said my name. They put me in cuffs and escorted me back to my apartment, where another six or eight officers were waiting with a warrant.
I sat in a chair while they searched every nook and cranny of the place. Flipped through each book on the shelf, seeking a hidden stash. Opened my birth control, checking for contraband.
I had what is now the legal limit of cannabis in my home. But in 2011, because I lived in a school zone, it was a third-degree felony.
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Based on the timing and the presence of certain law enforcement, I surmised someone tipped the police off. The police, in turn, came after me, hoping I’d lead them to a bigger fish.
I didn’t.
Eight months later, I was lucky enough to get into a diversion program—drug court. I was told they rarely took people with charges higher than a fourth-degree felony, so I should take the opportunity. If I completed the program successfully, my charges would be dismissed.
It was the only guarantee I would not end up a felon.
This meant months upon months of court dates, random UAs, treatment, AA meetings, whatever the judge and my case worker told me to do. My entire life revolved around drug court.
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I lost my career in education because of my circumstances. The director of the child care center where I worked cried when she told me she had to let me go—she had no choice.
Despite the legal issues, I was able to find random jobs. I worked as a personal assistant for a chiropractor, taking his Jaguar to get washed when he had a hot date planned. I nannied for a family who was willing to hire me even though I sometimes had to leave early to pee in a cup.
I also stumbled upon writing as a side hustle. At first, it was random topics: recycling blogs, travel destination round-ups. I always enjoyed writing, but never considered it as a career.
By the time I finished drug court, cannabis was legal in Colorado and Washington. Within a year or two, the market began to evolve. I found gigs writing for CBD websites and plant-related investment outlets.
A lot of “right place, right time” moments led to my career in cannabis writing. I’ve traveled the world writing about weed, interviewing celebrities, and living a literal dream.
It’s a blessing I might not have had if I hadn’t been busted.
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I know how incredibly fortunate I am. The cops did not kick down my door, they did not point guns in my face. They made a mess at my house, but they didn’t destroy my property.
My situation was expensive and annoying, but I didn’t have to serve time, and I don’t have a scarlet letter on my record.
I know this story is unique. Millions of Americans have been arrested for this plant, and there are thousands still incarcerated today. So many have lost everything. Communities have been destroyed, families have been torn apart.
And yet, an arrest gave me everything I have today. I do not take that fact for granted. Even the fact that I can speak openly about this is a privilege.
I hope that those of us who escaped the drug war seemingly unscathed continue to fight for those who haven’t. Sharing the stories of people like Edwin Rubis, who’s serving a 40-year sentence for non-violent cannabis charges, supporting groups like Freedom Grow, and talking to legislators about restorative justice—it’s the least we can do.
For those of us who are fortunate enough to enjoy the plant without fear of consequence, please remember to pay it forward. After all, we’re the lucky ones.
