Rebuilding a life takes time and someplace to call home

He almost chose prison over the streets of Florida. A bed in a shared house gave him the second chance he desperately needed.

By Caden Dyer · Aug. 13, 2026

Scottie Harville stands in the backyard of his Project 180 transitional home in Sarasota, Florida. He left prison with nothing but a backpack and $50. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

This story includes descriptions of drug use and addiction.

SARASOTA, Fla. — Maybe prison would be better.

Scottie Harville mulled his options over one more time. In just a couple months, he’d be released early from prison, and two years of court-ordered probation would begin.

The release officer marked him down as “homeless” in the paperwork. Was it true?

Scottie had planned to move back to his parents’ house in Huntsville, Alabama, but his parole board mandated he stay in Florida. He’d thought about his ex-girlfriend, the one he used to do drugs with. She’d disappeared after his arrest.

Stuck in Florida, a state where he didn’t have family or friends, Scottie watched as the time to find housing — and his options — slowly dwindled.

What about his 3-year-old son, now far away in Pennsylvania? Scottie’s dream of being reunited with his little boy slipped farther out of reach.

“I had nowhere to go once I got out. Didn’t know what I was going to do,” Scottie said, a thick Southern accent coming through on every word.

The release forms stared back at him. Homeless.

Prison — with the horrible food, stabbings and petty theft among inmates — had at least given him a roof over his head and kept him away from drugs. Scottie considered asking to serve the remainder of his sentence rather than be homeless on Florida’s streets.

But he reached out to the release officer about his options. She gave him an application for a reentry nonprofit called Project 180 that would keep him in Florida, farther south on the Gulf Coast in Sarasota, where he could meet parole requirements. He filled it out, and before two weeks went by, he heard back.

The man on the phone named Seth Campbell wanted to know more about him and how he’d spent his time in prison. Was he truly ready to change his life?

Becoming Scottie

For as long as he could remember, Scottie’s biological father had been in prison. He grew up splitting time between family houses, learning that he could get away with a lot more at his grandparents’ home.

Never very popular, he had a few friends he’d party with, but most of the time he just wanted to go fishing or hunting. He learned plumbing with his stepdad: how to install pipes, insulate them and run new sewer lines.

He struggled with anger issues, and at 24 he started snorting meth with his stepbrother. Eventually, they began smoking it instead.

The years tumbled by. At one point, he went through $300 worth of meth every day.

Scottie Harville during the period when he was using methamphetamine. He began using the drug at 24. Photo courtesy: Scottie Harville

 

He flew to Florida to be with a single mother he’d met online. She began using with him, and his anger issues only intensified. The Department of Children and Families removed the kids, including the little boy they’d had together.

“I went to prison for domestic violence, battery by strangulation and false imprisonment and tampering with a witness. Basically taking her phone away from her, that way she can’t call law enforcement,” Scottie said. “We were beyond stressed and confused and upset, and emotions tend to get to people and make you do things that you’ll end up regretting.”

In prison, he had the time to reevaluate life. Throughout his two-year sentence, Scottie attended anger management seminars that he said “surprisingly helped,” worked as a houseman cleaning up around the prison and earned his GED.

Almost two years later, he boarded a Greyhound bus headed for Project 180. Scottie was in for a long ride — normally six hours by car, but the bus took around 17 hours to finally bring him to Sarasota. It was also his first brush with drugs outside of prison.

“All I had in my name was $50, a backpack with a small travel pack of hygiene and the clothes I had on,” Scottie said, remembering the bus ride. “I had about three random people just walk up to me and ask me if I needed anything — drugs, whatever. I just had to turn around and walk away. I knew I had money in my pocket, but I didn’t want to live that life no more.”

He hadn’t been nervous to start over until the bus pulled into Sarasota. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

Another formerly incarcerated man was waiting at the bus stop. Short and stocky, with metal teeth that glinted when he flashed a rare smile, Seth had battled addiction and visited rock bottom many times, just like Scottie. But he’d graduated Project 180 three years before and stuck around as an employee. Now, he stood ready to usher Scottie into a better life, too.

Seth walked right up and introduced himself to Scottie. The welcome was immediate. From there, everything moved quickly.

Seth Campbell stands in the grassy lot next to Project 180’s office. A graduate and now employee of the nonprofit, he vets potential residents while they’re still incarcerated, then helps them transition into their new houses. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

On parole, Scottie needed to adhere to strict curfew restrictions and follow a very specific set of rules, like checking in with his probation officer regularly. And he needed a job to pay the fees Project 180 would soon begin charging — but it would be difficult to find one with a felony conviction on his record and no phone number or driver’s license. His race against time to find work had begun.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about finding a stable mailing address to put on job applications. Scottie thought back to the “homeless” mark on his papers. Parole would have been much harder to follow on the streets. How would he have gotten to mandatory meetings with his probation officer? Applied to jobs? Met his curfew? Scottie couldn’t see the sense in it.

Project 180 graduate and former employee Tom Graff said, in his experience, housing beats out all other potential success factors when someone leaves incarceration.

“Housing is the most important thing for someone to get their dignity back and to maintain a stable life. Without that, there’s really nothing else,” Tom said.

At Project 180, residents can stay up to two years, allowing them to build new habits and gain a housing track record to show future landlords. Rebuilding a life takes time.

Coming home

Cold waves of air conditioning rush out of the house when Scottie opened the front door.

Three weeks after Seth picked him up from the bus stop, he’s adjusting to his new home. Project 180 gave him a bed in the first single-family house the nonprofit purchased. Over the years, it’s served as a home for men in all stages of recovery.

Scottie and Seth assemble Johnny Doherty’s bed in his new room. Founded in 2008, Project 180 owns three men’s transitional homes. They plan to open a fourth for women. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

Inside, it’s immaculately clean, doing little to betray the fact that five men live there. Squishy beige couches fill the living room. Soon, they’ll be full of residents from other Project 180 houses stopping by just to visit.

Big windows spill natural light into Scottie’s shared bedroom. The shelf above his bed is mostly empty, except for three ball caps.

“It killed me not having a hat in prison,” Scottie said, adjusting the Project 180 cap on his head.

The garage is stacked with bicycles, a common form of transportation for people leaving incarceration who are working to obtain driver’s licenses. Outside, a screened-in porch with workout equipment and faded patio furniture overlooks a little backyard and grill. The rooms are decorated with care. This isn’t just a house — it feels like a home.

But the fact that the houses are full of other guys going through the same things is the true game changer, according to multiple residents.

“This is like my family away from my family,” Scottie said.

Scottie moves bicycles out of the garage before cleaning it out. Many residents rely on bikes after they leave prison. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

Life after prison isn’t easy. Successful recovery involves staying sober and employed. There’s also an adjustment back into society after years of incarceration’s strict routines and lack of independence. Tom said he misses the supportive camaraderie in the Project 180 houses.

“There’s some really horrible days going through a lot of these challenges we go through,” Tom said. “I lost my self-identity, and by being in there, I’ve got brothers that I know I can count on. And it’s not just for good times, it’s bad times.”

Project 180 CEO Antonia Rolle called the culture a brotherhood.

“There’s a saying in Project 180: ‘It’s always safest in the middle of the pack.’ And they kind of surround themselves with their brothers,” she said.

Day in, day out

One of Scottie’s favorite parts of being out of prison — the food. Every other Saturday, Project 180 staff take a few of the guys on a Costco run. Everyone learns how to plan meals for the week and cook for themselves.

With all five men in Scottie’s house working different shifts, eating together is a rare treat, but they make time for each other.

Like when graduate Ronnie Solorzano, a 66-year-old military veteran, came over on his day off. Ronnie suggested a handful of restaurants: pizza, burgers, Amish buffet. When he mentioned a bar, Scottie shook his head. He needs to stay away from alcohol.

They landed on the buffet, an Amish restaurant called Der Dutchman. Scottie cleared his plate down to a pile of chicken bones and hopped up to get more, enjoying the freedom to choose his own food. He said he didn’t have that autonomy in prison, where the food often consisted of beans and suspicious meat the men called “rat patties.”

Roommates Robert Six and Scottie share a buffet-style lunch with resident Johnny and graduate Ronnie Solorzano at an Amish restaurant in Sarasota. They don’t talk much at the table, content to enjoy a good meal in each other’s company. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

Readjusting to life without prison’s rigid structure is a challenge. In the first few weeks out, still without a job, Scottie struggled to feel purposeful as his roommates stayed busy.

At job fairs, employers balked when they learned he didn’t have a driver’s license. He’d need his birth certificate to get one. Seth had helped him order a copy, but in the meantime, there wasn’t much to do other than focus on keeping his sobriety.

One of Project 180’s only requirements is that residents attend 90 meetings in their first 90 days of the program. For Scottie, it’s Narcotics Anonymous meetings, which are associated with decreased drug use and increased rates of abstinence, according to a 2020 review of NA-specific studies published by Alcoholism & Drug Abuse Weekly.

His days took on a monotonous tone. He often found himself sitting on the couch watching TV, waiting for everyone to come home — torturous inactivity for a guy who enjoys keeping busy and working with his hands.

But at least he wasn’t homeless. Older residents and graduates told him to be patient, and the next steps would come.

They did. During his third week at Project 180, his phone rang while he was watching TV. A roommate’s boss wanted to hire Scottie to work construction, and he could start the very next day, at $16 an hour.

Progress.

Opening up

Scottie has been doing his best to avoid the parts of his old life that sent him to prison: alcohol, drugs, ex-girlfriends. But they’re not easy to forget. At meetings, he’s watched older guys in recovery talk about their own journeys. He can see himself in their stories, but that level of vulnerability scares him.

“It’s hard to me sometimes to speak about things like that because I feel like sometimes people are judgmental,” Scottie said.

He’s slowly improving. In the week before he landed the construction job, Scottie started opening up to his roommates as they drove across town one night.

He admitted he’d been struggling with alcohol, and that gas station coolers full of beer seemed to shine when he walked inside. They encouraged him to talk about that struggle in his next meeting.

“They’re very open and welcome, and I’m starting to see now that they’re not judgmental at all,” Scottie said. “They’ve all been there.”

Scottie takes in the view of his front lawn. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

Scottie had to pass a strict vetting process to even land in the program. Project 180’s beds are limited, so Seth determines which guys will be a good fit.

“We offer a lot, so not everybody wants to get in here for the right reason,” Seth said.

Project 180 does its best to prepare residents for life in society again, starting with buying them a phone, a case and a month of service. After that, it’s up to residents to cover the cost.

“I have to make sure that they’re truly wanting to change their lives, to come in that way, ‘cause one bad apple can spoil the whole bunch,” Seth said.

Seth looks for follow-through and a drive to improve while still in prison, because those are the expectations during a Project 180 stay. He thought Scottie’s attitude showed potential.

“He continues to just do what’s suggested by the people who have done it before him,” Seth said. “And that seems to be a pattern of success. So as of right now, Scottie is doing exactly what he should be to end up successfully completing the program and ultimately living a successful life.”

Taking it slow

Be the turtle.

That’s advice graduate Tom gives to guys just starting their reentry journey. The rabbit never wins in the story, he said, and reentry is no different.

Scottie nods along when he hears mantras like this from graduates and older residents. It’s hard to be patient while he’s also anxious to garner approval from those who have gone before. When his boss gives him a $2 raise on the second day of work, Scottie rushes to tell his house leader the moment he walks through the door. He’s happy to work overtime and weekends — anything to stay busy.

His right foot taps restlessly when he starts talking about the future. Never much of a planner, he likes to live life one day at a time “because tomorrow’s not promised.”

“Right now I’m just taking everything together and trying to get all my ducks in a row,” Scottie said.

He wants to get a promotion at work if possible. In five years, he’d like to be able to rent an apartment or buy a little house. Seth promised to help him build his credit again.

Among his goals are reuniting with his son and eventually building a relationship with him.

“I know one day he’s gonna look back and he’s gonna ask me what happened. And I’m gonna have to explain it to him,” Scottie said. “And I don’t want to lie to him about it, but I know it’s going to be hard to admit the stuff that I did.”

‘I’d be back on the streets’

Scottie’s living room is filling up fast.

It’s Monday night, almost time for the big weekly meeting that’s mandatory for Project 180 staff and residents. The front door stays in motion as guys spill in, some helping themselves to a cup of coffee, others heading for the porch to grab a smoke before 6 p.m.

They’re excited to see each other. Wearing baseball caps and big sunglasses, many make their way around the room to slap backs and give hugs. They drag in dining room chairs for more seating.

“That’s that motor oil, baby!” someone jokes, pointing at a cup of pitch-black coffee that belongs to Michael, the youngest resident. He grins and settles back into the couch. Across the room, Scottie chuckles in appreciation.

At 6:01 p.m., Seth calls everyone to attention with a loud “Gentlemen!” The room hushes, and guys pull out their phones to silence them.

Seth and David “Yogi” Harris look on as residents share what brought them to Project 180 in the mandatory Monday meeting. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

They start with the Serenity Prayer, then move into housekeeping and celebrations: Two residents secured their own places and will be moving out, while three more have caught up on their fees. Scottie’s roommate has been clean for a year. Their joy is infectious as the room erupts in hollers and clapping.

“Give me like two minutes, each person: your name and what brought you here,” Seth says. “And let’s start with Scottie.”

All eyes turn to Scottie, who shifts a little in his seat. Fidgeting with his cap, he launches into his story with blunt honesty — the girls, the drugs, the kids. And the homeless mark on his papers.

“If it wasn’t for this program, honestly, I’d be back on the streets right now,” Scottie says. “Or I’d already be back in jail or prison.”

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They served time. Now there’s nowhere to go

A criminal record can scare away potential landlords. In Florida, reentry program Project 180 gives people released from incarceration somewhere to land.

By Caden Dyer · Aug. 13, 2026

Seth Campbell encourages Project 180 residents in a weekly meeting. As director of residential and reentry services for the nonprofit, he works with the guys daily, helping them get back on their feet after incarceration. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

This story includes descriptions of substance use and addiction.

SARASOTA, Fla. — Brian Richards doesn’t drink.

Not anymore. Now, the 52-year-old twists the cap of his green Maison Perrier sparkling water back and forth as he recounts a cycle of drugs and alcohol that began hauntingly young.

He started drinking around age 12.

“I had dropped out of school at an early age. You know, I want to say eighth grade was the last grade I actually completed,” Richards said. “I already had a criminal record at that point.”

By 15, his parents had enrolled him in a 12-step recovery program. By 18, he had a child.

He bounced from state to state for years, fleeing arrest warrants, talking his way out of jail stints and doing time in a maximum-security prison. Although he tried multiple recovery programs, he never completed one.

Brian Richards stands in the lot of the Project 180 office in Sarasota, Florida. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

Hoping to start fresh, Richards eventually landed in Florida. But hope alone couldn’t change what he said was now a criminal lifestyle and mindset, and a Sarasota County judge sentenced him to a year of incarceration for burglary and possession of a controlled substance in 2021. His sentence also came with 10 years of probation. One step out of line in those 10 years, and he’d be back in jail.

Richards had hit his breaking point, and this time, he felt ready to give recovery a solid try. As his year in jail came to a close, he realized he was missing something basic: a place to call home.

He knew a safe, stable environment was essential if he wanted to successfully recover from addiction.

The days passed, drawing him closer to the end of his sentence — but also to homelessness.

Housing and crime overlap

Richards’ story isn’t rare.

American jails admitted 7.6 million people from July 2022 to June 2023. In 2023 alone, 472,300 people went to prison in the U.S., and 453,242 individuals were released, according to the Bureau of Justice Statistics.

People recently released from prison or jail face an uphill climb. Sometimes they leave jail with nothing more than a mesh bag containing soap, deodorant and a few dollars. Among the most basic things they’ll need to begin reintegration into society are a cellphone (which costs money) and a new driver’s license (which requires time and official documents). Then there’s housing. Many don’t have much more than a place to crash for a few days, and one formerly incarcerated person called it the “biggest hurdle” they experienced post-release.

Without a mailing address and a valid ID, they’ll struggle to find the stable employment necessary to appease parole officers. According to data collected by the U.S. Department of Justice, 66% will be rearrested within three years, and about 61% will wind up back behind bars within 10 years.

The percentage of people who return to jail or prison is referred to as the recidivism rate. States define recidivism in different ways — sometimes by rearrest, sometimes by whether a person is reincarcerated. But recidivism doesn’t always mean someone committed a new crime. Technical violations like missing a probation appointment or failing to meet curfew can land someone back in custody.

But can housing play a role in whether someone winds up reincarcerated?

Housing insecurity is associated with an increased risk of recidivism, according to research published in the journal of Criminal Justice and Behavior in 2020. The study, coauthored by Leah Jacobs, a University of Pittsburgh associate professor, looked at San Franciscans on probation.

It found that housing instability was more strongly associated with recidivism than other factors, including finances and family history of criminal behavior. In particular, Jacobs concluded that “people on probation may not recidivate, but for unstable housing and homelessness.”

People like Richards.

From a taxpayer standpoint, Jacobs said, it’s often more affordable to provide someone with housing than to incarcerate them. She also pointed to the social cost associated with recidivism.

“The reality is, we’re not just talking about the incarcerated person,” Jacobs said. “We are talking about their family units, their other social connections and the communities that they live in. And there is a cost — a social, emotional and financial cost — to having family members and communities in and out of correctional facilities.”

To reduce those costs, reentry organizations help people leaving incarceration navigate the complex system in practical ways, like obtaining a driver’s license or finding somewhere to sleep at night.

In Sarasota, a nonprofit called Project 180 is knocking down the housing hurdle for men coming out of incarceration. New residents are placed in single-family houses around the city, where they experience life post-release with other residents.

Program coordinator David “Yogi” Harris’ motorcycle sits in the grass outside Project 180’s office. The nonprofit rents space in a Sarasota church for $250 a month. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

For the six months to two years following their release, Project 180 presents them with opportunities to grow. They share bedrooms, bathrooms and Costco runs. Program coordinators drive residents to get a cellphone during their first week. Roommates refer new participants for jobs in construction, helping them meet employment requirements for parole. And all members must attend 90 meetings in 90 days, either Narcotics Anonymous or Alcoholics Anonymous.

Residents pay $200 a week in program fees, and staff are understanding if someone’s having a hard time getting caught up. For residents like Richards, who left incarceration with nothing but the clothes on his back, Project 180 is a lifeline.

Founded in 2008 by Barbara Richards (no relation to Brian), Project 180 is smaller than other Florida reentry organizations. While it’s not the only program in the state that addresses housing, its design allows staff to connect meaningfully with the residents. Data shows it’s working: The organization’s three-year recidivism rate is 11.35%, a fraction of the national rate of 66%. For program graduates — residents who complete a minimum of six months and a day — that rate drops to 6.25%.

Seth Campbell is a graduate who now works for the nonprofit as director of residential and reentry services. He said he’s grateful for the opportunity to share in each man’s journey, watching them “grow in leaps and bounds.”

Campbell looks at Harris during a staff meeting in Project 180’s conference room in Sarasota. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

“We believe that’s what’s creating this culture we have here, right?” Campbell said. “It is that individualization, getting to know a person, truly trying to help them and holding their hand through the process.”

The smaller size can be limiting, though. As Project 180 prepares to open a women’s home, staff are open about their concerns and hesitations. As excited as they are to expand services, they want to be sure increasing quantity doesn’t decrease quality.

Melanie Alvarez is a grassroots engagement director at Americans for Prosperity, an advocacy organization that pursues conservative policy reforms and economic freedom. She works in Sarasota County and has seen Project 180’s impact.

“They create pathways for people to exit that system and become independent. That’s rare. Go look around the country and see how many programs are like 180,” Alvarez said. “Virtually none.”

Reentry is a challenging sector, and the nonprofits working in it require a special combination of factors to succeed. The organization relies on private donations, local grants and community relationships. Instead of owning an office building, it rents space in a Sarasota church for $250 a month. The roots Project 180 has established in Sarasota could mean the difference between survival or closure.

Local court officials know Project 180 as a place to send inmates who are struggling with substance use — the ones who are ready for and in need of a second chance.

Scrawled across Brian Richards’ court appearance record is the line “Enter and successfully complete the Project 180 Program.” That’s how he found himself calling Barbara Richards from county jail once a week for the last month of his sentence.

“We have the same last name, which is cool, but she is not family,” Brian Richards said. “But I consider her my family. I love Barbara. They welcomed me in. I spent two years learning about myself, learning about recovery and how to act, how to be a good citizen.”

He knew this next step was all about starting over, and once Project 180 eliminated the stress of finding somewhere to live, Richards said he could focus on recovering from addiction and finding steady employment.

Housing hurdles

Brian Richards would have encountered an unfriendly housing market in Florida.

The average one-bedroom apartment in Sarasota costs $1,743 per month, according to a market trends report from Apartments.com. COVID-19 drastically inflated rental prices in Florida’s major metropolitan areas.

Richards’ probation requirements would force him to live in Florida for the next 10 years — away from family who could have given him a place to stay.

COVID-19 inflated rental prices in Florida’s metropolitan areas, and some Project 180 residents faced major challenges when trying to navigate the housing market with a criminal record. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

Formerly incarcerated people are nearly 10 times more likely to experience homelessness than the general public, according to the Prison Policy Initiative. In Florida, limited shelter capacity and restrictions on public camping further narrow their options.

A criminal history only complicates matters more.

According to a 2007 study of landlords in Akron, Ohio, 66% said they don’t rent to individuals with a criminal history. Additional barriers like severed family relationships can muddy the reentry journey.

Jesse Jannetta, a senior policy fellow at the Urban Institute, said that in his 21 years of experience, housing has always been the hardest reentry challenge to solve.

“Usually if something is hard to get, it will be hardest to get for people with criminal history,” Jannetta said.

Fortunately for the 153 residents who have been a part of Project 180, housing has been a key element of the organization since its founding.

“I came to realize that housing was co-equal with a need to be in recovery,” Barbara Richards said. “If you really want a sense of safety — and you may never have had one — the first place we look for it is within our own family, right? And within our own home. And some of the guys have never had that.”

Housing can become more than just a roof over your head. Sometimes, it provides access to a community. At Project 180, “it’s a brotherhood,” according to resident Johnny Doherty.

Campbell (center) leads a Project 180 Monday meeting in Johnny Doherty’s (right) transitional home. Attending this weekly meeting is one of the only requirements a resident must meet. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

“These guys take you in and they truly want to see you do good, which is foreign to somebody coming out of addiction, coming off the street, coming out of prison. It’s weird at first,” Doherty said. “An addict’s life is a very transactional life. … I didn’t need anything to be a part of here.”

Success isn’t a part of every story. Residents undergo a vetting process, and staff say the desire to truly recover must be present. Brian Richards wanted it. Doherty wanted it. But not everyone does.

The struggle became clear on a June day as Campbell leaned back in his desk chair and sighed. He worried about a new resident, who’d been checking into meetings, then leaving to sit outside the door. Other staff in the office nodded. They’d seen it, too.

Former staff member Thomas Graff knows the feeling of watching a resident relapse or return to incarceration. As a Project 180 graduate, he understands the reintegration struggle on a personal level.

He called the search for housing in Sarasota “the biggest hurdle” he faced post-incarceration and said he paid thousands of dollars in rental application fees just to be turned down repeatedly. He eventually found someone desperate to get rid of their lease — a studio apartment he shared with his son and dog for a time. Eventually, he secured a three-bedroom rental and now owns his own business installing outdoor screens.

For Graff, resident relapses and recidivism cut deeply.

“It breaks your heart,” Graff said. “You don’t want that to happen, and you do everything on a daily basis to try to prevent it, but at the end you have to realize you can’t stop anybody that wants to do something like that. You can help them only as much as they want the help.”

The roof of recovery

It’s 5:30 a.m., and Brian Richards gets out of bed, heading to his job at a beach resort. One of his first tasks is scouting the sandy waterfront that’s part of the property. It’s an area for nesting sea turtles, and it’s his job to protect it.

Sarasota Beach stretches along Florida’s Gulf Coast in Sarasota, home to Project 180. Photo: Jackson Ingvoldstad/News21

 

Holes kids have dug for sandcastles, footprints of couples plodding along the beach at night — these are all treacherous for sea turtles, which dislike obstacles. Richards smoothes out the sand, keeping it clean and safe.

He’s worked there nearly two years, putting his heart and soul into the job, even when back-to-back hurricanes devastated the resort. The family who owns it knows him as he is today, not as his old self, and he’s excited to tell them about his life’s journey one day.

“They know the new me, and they love me, and … they’ll be super surprised, and I can’t wait to see the look on their face,” Richards said.

The small details of recovery are evident, from the humble grin that stretches across his face as he shares his credit score to the way he describes himself as responsible. He’s a graduate now, living with a few other graduates in Sarasota. He lives what he calls “a wonderful life,” unrecognizable from his history of addiction and crime.

While his formal education ended young, he is constantly learning. Standing in front of the long, yellow brick building that changed his life, Richards recounts the wisdom he’s soaked up over the years. Project 180 taught him how to be sober and to not take things that don’t belong to him. Perhaps most importantly, he said, it taught him about himself.

The organization gave him another chance when he needed it the most, and the roof under which to take it. For Brian Richards, Project 180 is his university.

 

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A bed, a brotherhood and a way to stay out

News21 | Unsettled

By Jackson Ingvoldstad · Aug. 13, 2026

Project 180 gives men leaving prison a place to live, help finding work and a community designed to reduce recidivism. “Second sentence: Housing after prison” follows one resident as he works to stay sober and build a life beyond incarceration.

When you walk out of the gates of prison, there’s a 66% chance you’ll be rearrested within three years.

In Sarasota, Florida, Scottie Harville is challenging that statistic with help from Project 180, a residential program. Scottie lives in a transitional home, finds a job, works to stay sober and make friends — but others aren’t so lucky.

When men walk out of prison’s gates and become part of Project 180, the three-year recidivism rate drops to 11.35%. Watch to see how Project 180 and Scottie are trying to break the recidivism cycle.

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