I’ve walked in and out of many prisons in Norway, though only once as an inmate. That singular experience, at Bergen Prison, marked a turning point in my life. The others? They were visits—as a mentor or performer with Vardeteatret, an initiative bringing theater and reflection into the lives of inmates.

Despite my passion for sharing a message of positivity and transformation, I’ve often encountered resistance. A pivotal moment came when I sought to return to Bergen Prison, not as a convict, but as a speaker ready to share insights with those still navigating their own journeys.

A high-ranking official reportedly said, “Frank-Thomas will not bring his message into Bergen Prison.” Hearing this—through a trusted colleague who knew my story—was both disheartening and illuminating. The objection wasn’t about me as a person but about the themes I explored.

Previously, I had presented a music and poetry event at the prison chapel, sharing reflections that touched on spirituality, extraterrestrial possibilities, and the broader mysteries of existence. While some found my ideas thought-provoking and affirming, others felt uneasy, particularly when I questioned traditional concepts of God and faith.

One official confided that my words unsettled their childhood beliefs—a deeply personal admission that, while respectful, hinted at the boundaries of what could be discussed in that setting. This response underscored a truth: the spiritual framework within prisons often mirrors societal conventions, which may not leave room for alternative perspectives.

A Space for Reflection and Growth

Prison, for me, became a paradoxical sanctuary—a place of confinement that offered unprecedented freedom to explore my inner world. The structured environment, combined with access to literature and therapy, provided fertile ground for self-discovery.

Through cognitive research and schema therapy, I delved deeply into my actions, my motivations, and the fractured patterns of thought that had defined my life. These tools helped me confront the darkest corners of my psyche with clarity and accountability.

But I wanted to go beyond examining the micro—the granular details of my choices and their immediate impacts. I sought a macro perspective, asking profound questions about identity, morality, and the nature of the soul. If I was no longer defined by my crimes, what then? Who was I beneath the labels society and I had placed on myself?

The greatest gift of my incarceration was the opportunity to ask these questions within the safety of a controlled environment. I turned to alternative literature, stretching my mind beyond the immediate and tangible to consider broader existential possibilities. This wasn’t escapism; it was an effort to take full responsibility for my life, to understand its complexities, and to transform the underlying energy that shaped my actions.

The Importance of Expanding the Mind

There is a particular resilience required to move from the moments before a harmful act to contemplating interplanetary possibilities. Such mental flexibility doesn’t come naturally—it must be cultivated. For me, this cultivation involved challenging every assumption and pushing the boundaries of my understanding.

The goal wasn’t to prove anything—whether extraterrestrial communication or alternative spiritual paths—but to learn the art of questioning. It was about active perspective-taking: imagining the world and myself through entirely new lenses. This practice stretched my mind, making it more adaptable and open.

I spent hours in the prison library, using its resources as tools for self-exploration. My criminal mind had once been creative but narrow—automated, rigid, and unexamined. Over time, I learned to dismantle those patterns, replacing them with a more expansive and reflective way of thinking.

Embracing Ownership and Accountability

Transformation begins with ownership—not just of the actions you’ve taken, but of the life you’ve lived. For me, this meant taking an unflinching look at my past, dissecting the choices I made and the harm they caused. It also meant recognizing the deeper patterns and influences that shaped me, while refusing to use them as excuses.

During my time in prison, I created two lists. One cataloged those I had wronged, naming each person, act, and its potential impact. The other listed the ways I had been wronged in turn. I approached both lists with equal intensity, determined not to shy away from the pain they evoked.

For the first list, I revisited each moment, asking myself how my actions might have reverberated in the lives of others. I tried to imagine their pain, their confusion, and the long-term effects of my behavior. This was not an exercise in self-pity but in understanding. True transformation, I realized, requires facing the full gravity of your actions and accepting the emotional weight that comes with it.

For the second list, I sought understanding—not justification. I didn’t reflect on the ways I had been harmed to find someone to blame but to recognize the roots of my own destructive patterns. This exploration revealed uncomfortable truths about how unaddressed wounds had shaped my choices and how those patterns could be broken.

Confronting Pain as a Path to Healing

The process of owning my past was excruciating. To sit with the pain I had caused and the pain I carried was no small feat. But I came to see that pain is not the enemy—it is the gateway to healing.

I embraced the discomfort, allowing it to move through me rather than avoiding it. This practice transformed my relationship with suffering, teaching me that true accountability requires a willingness to confront what hurts most. I saw my actions not as isolated events but as part of a larger tapestry of human experience—one that I could begin to mend through self-awareness and growth.

In taking ownership, I began to understand the mechanics of transformation. You cannot change what you do not own, and you cannot heal what you refuse to acknowledge. This became my mantra: transformation begins with truth.

Seeing Beyond Labels

Society is quick to label people based on their worst actions. For years, I saw myself through this lens, defined by my crimes and shortcomings. But through reflection and support, I came to understand that no single label could capture the entirety of who I am.

I am not merely an offender or a victim or a man who struggled with addiction. I am a human being, shaped by a lifetime of experiences—some harmful, others redemptive. This shift in perspective was not about excusing my actions but about recognizing my potential for change.

Seeing myself as more than my worst moments allowed me to see others in the same light. It taught me the importance of treating people as complex, multifaceted beings rather than reducing them to their mistakes. This understanding became a cornerstone of my approach to life after prison, a guiding principle for how I engage with the world.

Building a Bridge to the Future

One of the most profound lessons I learned in prison is that transformation doesn’t end when the prison doors open. It is an ongoing process, one that requires constant self-observation, reflection, and action. I continue to work on myself daily, using the tools and insights I gained during my incarceration as a foundation.

I also learned that change cannot be forced; it must be motivated from within. No system, no punishment, and no external intervention can compel someone to transform. It is a choice—a deeply personal one—that begins with the decision to face yourself honestly.

The Role of Inner Work in Transformation

The work of transformation must begin within. It’s not enough to address the surface behaviors or symptoms; we must go to the root—the beliefs, patterns, and wounds that drive our actions.

For me, this inner work started in Bergen Prison, but it hasn’t ended. The insights I gained there continue to guide me, shaping how I understand myself and my place in the world. I’ve learned that the mind, much like a computer, requires deliberate attention. Faulty programming must be recognized and addressed, one piece at a time. Old patterns, while difficult to erase, can be starved of energy and replaced with healthier ones.

This process is not easy, nor is it quick. But with time and persistence, the mind becomes more ordered, more spacious. The clutter clears, and what remains is a sense of clarity and purpose.

A Call for Broader Awareness

What I experienced in prison wasn’t unique to me. The same principles of self-exploration and accountability apply to us all. Yet, too often, we turn away from the inner work that could transform our lives and, by extension, the world around us.

Society tends to focus on punishment rather than rehabilitation, on judgment rather than understanding. But if we truly want to break the cycles of harm and suffering, we must shift this focus. We must create spaces where people can reflect, learn, and grow. This is not a task for prisons alone—it’s a collective responsibility.

I have worked with remarkable people who see the value in this approach. They understand that those who have caused harm are also part of the solution. Including former offenders in conversations about prevention and healing is not compassionate—it’s practical. You cannot solve a problem without understanding it, and who better to offer that understanding than those who have lived it?

From Transformation to Tools for the Journey

The work I began in Bergen Prison was deeply personal—a raw, unflinching exploration of myself. But over time, it became clear that this process wasn’t just about me. The tools, insights, and frameworks I relied on during those early days of transformation could speak to anyone willing to confront their own truth. My journey wasn’t unique in its possibility; it was only unique in how it unfolded.

What I’ve done over the past 23 years is refine these tools into something shareable—an offering for those who wish to take that inward path and emerge changed. These tools are grounded in the same reality that forged them: a harsh environment like prison, where pretension doesn’t survive, and transformation must stand on solid ground.

The TULWA Philosophy is one such offering. It’s a framework built on the foundation of self-leadership and transformation, emphasizing the balance between light and shadow. At its heart is the belief that transformation begins with the individual but has ripples far beyond them. It is not an answer but a structure for those willing to find their own.

Then there’s The Spiritual Deep—a space for exploring the connection between human experience and the unseen forces that surround us. It’s not about external enlightenment but about grounded exploration, rooted in the complexity of human reality.

Finally, The AI and I Chronicles embodies my ongoing dialogue with technology, consciousness, and interconnectedness. It’s a space where human insight meets digital co-creation—a testament to how the tools of today can be harnessed for reflection, connection, and growth.

These projects are extensions of what began in that prison cell: the process of owning one’s life, dismantling the false constructs, and building something real in their place. The tools I used—cognitive therapy, literature, structured reflection—are available to everyone. They don’t require a prison sentence to access, only a willingness to look within and embrace the work that comes with it.

What I share today is not an endpoint but an invitation. Transformation is possible—not because I say so, but because I’ve seen it, lived it, and continue to walk its path.