I left my home in Olympia, Washington, in January 2018 to undertake a two-year global journey I hoped would help me to discover more about the world and, subsequently, myself. I had just divorced a wonderful man ― and the equally wonderful life that came with him ― after being married for six years.

I left everything I knew ― and anything I couldn’t fit into a 60-liter backpack ― because I realised my true path was to travel by myself and share my knowledge of yoga and holistic health. I booked a ticket to my first destination, Thailand, and as I flew towards my new life, I was full of faith in the unknown and I trusted that I was honouring my true path. Little did I know that one unwise decision would radically change my perspective on everything I thought I knew about myself and who I am.

It was two in the afternoon on a Friday during the first week of my adventure and I was in Pai, a bustling hippie tourist hub located in northern Thailand. I entered a shop I hadn’t noticed before during my four days in town. Its doorway was covered with a vibrant silk cloth and its interior revealed shelves stacked with handmade jewellery and leather goods. The displays were beautiful and obviously tended to with great care.

I remember the next moments with absolute clarity. The owner sat with his back to me at his desk, which was placed precisely in the middle of the shop. I was the only customer and, while browsing, my eyes fell on a beautifully handcrafted leather fanny pack studded with laborite and citrate. I liked it and I picked it up off the shelf and put it in my bag. I say this casually, but my stomach lurches at the memory. I grew up stealing small things ― apples and single rolls of toilet paper ― as I came from a poor home and I was frequently hungry and forced to go without simple pleasures (or even necessities) as a child. The need to survive soon grew into a vice that continued into my adult years. I would take makeup from Walmart just out of habit, but this was first time I’d stolen from an independently-owned shop.

The owner turned his head, fully registered my lingering presence, and stood up. One look at me and he seemed to know exactly what I had done. His inquiry about what was in my bag took just a second, his retrieval of the fanny pack took another and then I saw a look of disbelief flash across his face. He grabbed my wrist and in just those three seconds my future shifted dramatically.

The police were called, along with all of the owner’s family and the owners of neighboring shops ― Thailand is big on community and so there were a lot of people present in the aftermath of my theft. I was brought to the nearest police station a few miles away where my mugshot and fingerprints were taken. I was advised by the arresting police officer to plead guilty ― and I did ― since I was caught in the act and because he claimed I would supposedly face only a small fine and be free to go after being held for just two days.

He lied. I spent the night at the police station in a filthy cell with two other women who had been arrested for allegedly smuggling methamphetamine over the Myanmar border. The next morning I was taken to a small courtroom where I appeared without a lawyer and I was sentenced to six months in a prison in the nearby town of Mae Hong Son. After being sentenced, I was refused the right to a lawyer, a call to my family, or an opportunity to pay bail. I was only allowed a local call to a friend from Oregon who I reconnected with while we were both traveling through Pai. She reached out to my ex-husband, who contacted the U.S. consulate and did all he possibly could to get me out of Thailand. But he was unable to help in any way besides staying in contact with the consulate and keeping my friends and family updated about my well-being.

So I was sent to prison for six months for stealing $200 worth of merchandise. Perhaps that seems harsh to some people ― and maybe it doesn’t seem harsh enough to others ― but, regardless, in Thailand the magnitude of a criminal’s punishment is based on the moral worth of the crime and in a Buddhist country, stealing is a big deal.

Before I was transferred to the prison, I was terrified and I hoped my time there wouldn’t be as horrendous as I imagined it would be. I anticipated intolerably dirty living conditions, lice and routine illness, sharing space with dangerous criminals, a complete lack of communication with my loved ones, inedible food, a language barrier and the need to quickly grow thick skin. Upon arriving at the prison five days after I was arrested, I was relieved to discover only a fraction of my fears became my reality.

During my six months in prison, I was housed with 79 other non-violent women who were almost all there for crimes related to meth ― smoking it, dealing it or smuggling it. I sewed floral embroidery on shirts for nine hours every day ― a task required of all of the inmates. I ate the same meal of pork soup and rice every day. I showered with all of the other inmates every afternoon using a small plastic bowl I dipped in a long trench of water while wearing a self-stitched shower dress. I slept shoulder to shoulder with the other women while lying on a single folded blanket placed the hard concrete floor with harsh lighting blasting through my closed eyelids. I was treated fairly and I was given lots of space, as I was the only foreigner there and consistently misunderstood by the other women in the prison.

I quickly recognised that each day in prison passed exactly like the one before it and my life became stagnant. After my optimistic “this isn’t so bad” approach I clung to during my first week faded, I decided I needed to focus my mental energy on self-development and I made the space for exercise, yoga and meditation in my new routine.

I found four books in English on Buddhist meditation in the prison’s dusty library and I devoured each of them three times. The books described the practice of Vipassana, also known as mindfulness meditation ― or the watching and knowing of the mind ― which can supposedly help remove suffering by eliminating desire. As I was in prison for stealing, which is, when you think about it, a product of greed and desire, I decided to dedicate my time to incorporating Vipassana in my life. I had meditated many times before I traveled to Thailand, but I’d only feel a sense of calm and lightness and internal quiet for a short time before it left me. As I meditated in prison, I discovered I was able to go much deeper because I was so desperate to find peace.