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.”
Our goal is to reduce the impact of repeat offenders upon public safety, public spending, Florida families and individual lives.
Proud Member of the Greater Sarasota Chamber of Commerce
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.”
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
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.
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.
Community Leaders Experience Life After Lockup Simulation With Project 180
By Kendall Southworth June 8, 2026
Image: Courtesy Photo
Last month, community leaders, landlords, lawyers and curious citizens found themselves scrambling before police officers and representatives from the Florida Department of Corrections, frantically digging through paperwork for identification, waiting in long lines to give blood, racing between churches and grocery stores and even stealing money from one another (monopoly money, that is).
The chaos intentional—and part of Project 180’s Reentry Simulation, an immersive exercise designed to compress the overwhelming first weeks after an individual’s release from prison into a single disorienting hour. Hosted by the Sarasota-based nonprofit, which focuses on helping formerly incarcerated individuals reintegrate into community life, the exercise assigned participants new identities and limited resources before sending them through a maze of responsibilities, institutions and unexpected setbacks individuals must confront immediately upon reentering society.
The simulation’s effectiveness was written across participants’ faces.
With the exception of a handful of those whose careers involved the reentry process—and two lucky volunteers guided through the experience by Project 180 staff—most participants were visibly frustrated within the first 15 minutes.
Among them was Manatee County Commissioner George Kruse. “It showed how broken the entire system is,” Kruse says. “It was physically impossible to actually complete what was necessary. You had to make tough decisions, and it almost felt like it was set up to fail.”
Image: Courtesy of Project 180
The simulation reflects what advocates often describe as a “stacked burden”: not one obstacle, but many, arriving all at once, with each challenge dependent on successfully navigating the last. A missed appointment with a caseworker can mean losing eligibility for food stamps and other forms of assistance. A delayed paycheck can jeopardize housing. A lack of transportation can unravel both.
Each year, more than 30,000 people are released from Florida prisons and return to communities across the state. Many hope to become productive, law-abiding citizens but face significant barriers, including limited job skills, gaps in education and discrimination in housing and employment because of their criminal records.
Without support, many become statistics—the homeless, the unemployed, the undereducated and the impoverished. More than 76 percent are rearrested within five years, perpetuating cycles of victimization and straining community resources. Reducing those barriers is central to Project 180’s mission of decreasing poverty, homelessness and unemployment among formerly incarcerated individuals while improving public safety.
For Michelle Ace, an assistant public defender who participated in the simulation, the experience underscored how easily good intentions can be derailed by systemic barriers.
“It’s really frustrating when people are trying and the world comes down on them,” she says. “It’s easy to judge or be afraid of someone if you don’t understand them, but we have to have some graciousness and sympathy.”
Ron Solorzano, an Army veteran—known as “Uncle Ron” to the Project 180 folks—was grateful for the simulation, but didn’t want to participate. He already did, in real life, when he reentered society after serving twenty years in prison.
“When I got out, I was scared. I had no money,” he says. “I had lost everything. When I got out, they gave me $50, and that was that. I was working while I was incarcerated as part of the ‘farm squad’, farming produce for prisons all over, but there was nothing to report as earnings for Social Security. I had to start all over again.”
Image: Courtesy of Project 180
Project 180’s model combines recovery support with practical assistance such as food, clothing and transportation, introductions to employers, leadership training, volunteer opportunities and a new, law-abiding social network. With that support, Ron rebuilt his life. Today, he serves as a source of wisdom, accountability and stability for younger men navigating the same transition.
And Project 180 is working to extend its model to more people. Under the leadership of new president and CEO Antonia Rolle, the nonprofit is preparing to open its first residential program for women, aiming to replicate their reentry model while addressing the unique challenges women face when returning home and rebuilding their lives.
“This is the kind of thing that needs to get out more to the general public,” says Kruse, “and equally—or moreso—to the elected officials who have a say in it.”
Community Leaders Experience Life After Lockup Simulation | Sarasota Magazine
Residential Program for Formerly Incarcerated Women to Open in Sarasota County
Project 180, serving Sarasota and DeSoto counties, is raising funds for its first-ever residential program for women leaving prison.
SARASOTA, FL — A Sarasota nonprofit dedicated to assisting formerly incarcerated people as they return to society is raising funds for its first-ever women’s residential home.
Project 180 already offers three men’s residential homes, as well as other co-ed programs, that help former felons to move their lives forward as they acclimate to life outside prison.
Now, the new home will offer women the same opportunity, Antonia Rolle, president and CEO, told Patch.
“People get out, and they have no resources. They try to do things the right way, but they can’t, and they do things the way they used to know how to do things, and then wind up back in jail,” she said.
The organization is seeking donations for the new women’s home. Any donations of $25 to $100 made between Wednesday at noon and Thursday at noon as part of the Community Foundation of Sarasota County’s 2026 Giving Challenge will be doubled.
The overall recidivism rate for those who return to prison after being released in Florida is more than 60 percent, while the recidivism rate for the more than 142 men who have gone through Project 180’s residential program since 2018 is 27 percent.
“We’re able to cut that in half for people who graduate from our program,” Rolle said.
The nonprofit was formed in 2008 by Barbara Richards. While her background is in hospitality — she worked for her family’s Greek restaurant in San Francisco and was manager of the Olive Garden in the Sarasota area — she was moved by a statistic that she heard while listening to a public radio station in California.
“She heard the statistic that for every Black man in college, there are five in prison,” Rolle said. “And for every Latino man in college there are three in prison. That just didn’t sit well with her.”
Richards went on to earn a master’s degree in criminology and when she moved to Sarasota, began hosting lectures and presentations on issues like mass incarceration and the experiences of former prisoners after their release.
“They get released at the craziest times on weekends, like at midnight, when no services are available, and we wonder why people get locked back up,” Rolle said.
For years, Richards built awareness of the issue, as well as a donor platform, before launching Project 180 in 2008.
The nonprofit’s early programs included First Week Out, which works with citizens from Sarasota and DeSoto counties who are scheduled to reenter before they even get out of prison. This program offers them a safety net and an advocate as they get ready to return home.
“Everyone doesn’t have a family to help them. We are literally meeting them at the bus stop,” Rolle said. “We take them for a haircut, a meal. We get them clothes and two forms of ID. We help them with finding jobs and learning how to live.”
She added, “Our goal is to really, truly let people have second chances. We’re really good at incarceration in this country, but not so good at rehabilitation. And there are hundreds returning to [Sarasota] County each year, whether we’re ready for them or not.”
Project 180 also offers a financial literacy course for returning citizens, as well as a workforce education program that brings CEOs and hiring managers into prisons to work with those who are pending release.
The organization’s first men’s residential home opened in 2018. Today, the nonprofit offers three homes for men.
Each home, all in the Sarasota Springs area, houses up to six men, where they are provided food and the funds to pay for things like medical and dental care, and restoring their driver’s licenses.
“They plan meals together like a family. There is such a brotherhood in the house,” Rolle said.
The homes offer them up to two years of stable residency, though, on average, most live there for about one year as they get back on their feet.
Even after they leave the homes, many of the men who graduated from the program still participate in it, returning for weekly meetings.
“They’re invested in it, and they serve as role models for the guys in the house now,” she said. “It’s definitely like a brotherhood, and we’re hoping to create that same thing, but with women.”
For many women who are incarcerated, “their run-ins with the law” go hand-in-hand with addiction, Rolle noted.
While rehabilitation facilities focus on getting people clean, they often stop there.
“They have a place to get clean, but that’s it. And then what? How do you learn to live a whole different type of life?” she said. “We’ve found it’s not just about stopping addiction; it’s about creating a different way to live. If you went right into addiction in your teen years, when did you learn to be an adult? A lot of people leave rehab facilities not quite ready to go out and do it on their own yet.”
In addition to the women’s residential program, Project 180 has also set its sights on social enterprise. Through a recent grant, the nonprofit plans to launch a food truck this year called the Comeback Kitchen, to allow formerly incarcerated people to have hands-on work experience.
“It will be a place for us to do workforce development and teach entrepreneurship skills,” Rolle said. “A lot of people are good at their trade, but they don’t know how to run a business. There are places that teach these skills, but there’s something to be said about hands-on experience. This will be boots on the ground doing it, and we’ll do it in a way so it doesn’t seem like a big scary thing.”
Residential Program For Formerly Incarcerated Women To Open In Sarasota County | Sarasota, FL Patch
Project 180 Announces Antonia Rolle as New President and CEO
Sarasota, FL. Project 180, a prisoner reentry nonprofit headquartered in Sarasota, is pleased to announce the appointment of Antonia ‘Toni’ Rolle as President and Chief Executive Officer of the organization. Ms. Rolle began her tenure on August 4, 2025.
“We are thrilled to welcome Toni as Project 180’s new leader,” said David Shuel, Board Chair. “She brings a team-building focus, collaborative management style, and in-depth knowledge of data integrity and scalability. Her technical skills and her passion for the welfare of our residents and program participants are an ideal combination to pursue and expand Project 180’s mission of reintegrating formerly incarcerated citizens into community life.”
Toni comes to Project 180 from our partner, Goodwill Manasota. As Director of Mission Services there, she gained years of both corporate and hands-on experience serving vulnerable populations. While managing the Good Partner Coach Program, Toni developed partnerships on both Florida coasts with employers willing to hire, among others, individuals with criminal backgrounds who had little conventional job experience and hailed from families that had experienced multi-generational poverty, a perfect fit for Project 180.
Toni is proud of her history of working with people from diverse backgrounds. She writes, “I see myself as a bridge between those making decisions and those about whom decisions are made; bringing each group to the fulcrum where understanding and collaboration happen is exciting and inspiring. I’m excited to utilize those skills to continue Project 180’s tradition of being a bridge of understanding between those who have and those who have never been incarcerated.”
“Growing up and in my professional life, there has always been someone who saw more in me than I could see in myself. I want to be that person for Project 180 residents and participants to help them optimize their potential. They have so much to offer our community.”
For more information or media inquiries, please contact:
Antonia Rolle, President and CEO
Project 180
antonia@project180reentry.org
Phone: 941-780-5227
About Project 180:
Project 180 is a Sarasota-based prisoner reentry nonprofit that helps men and women succeed during the difficult transition from prison or jail back into the community. By helping people rebuild their lives and become productive citizens the organization also helps the community at large. Since 2018, its Residential Program alone has prevented over 92,000 crimes. Project 180 is the recipient of the Florida Council on Crime and Delinquency’s 2024 Reentry Award and the subject of a documentary film, “The Light They Cast.”
Published: 10/6/2025
Project 180 transforms lives in Sarasota Co.
Sarasota Herald-Tribune
September 8, 2025
Written by: Antonia Rolle
Guest columnist
Imagine someone walking out of jail or prison with a small bag of belongings, unsure where they will sleep that night.
Or how they will get to a job interview.
Or how they call a probation office for their mandatory check-in.
Even when they are ready and willing to do the right thing, many ex-offenders face major barriers, including finding employers willing to hire someone with a criminal record.
To address these barriers to successful reentry, Project 180 works directly with currently and formerly incarcerated men and women to assist them in their reintegration back into Sarasota County.
Our nonprofit partners with the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Office by offering a financial literacy course and a CEO program which connects incarcerated students with business leaders, hiring managers and workforce development professionals to prepare for meaningful employment upon release.
Since 9 out of 10 people with a criminal record have been victims of a crime, we also provide a healing trauma education class taught by Kathryn Greenberg and generously funded by the Gulf Coast Community Foundation.
In partnership with the Florida Department of Corrections, Project 180 operates a First Week Out Program to assist individuals returning from state prison to Sarasota County.
Our organization prevents homelessness and reduces reincarceration by providing cellphones, clothing, transportation and introductions to Second Chance employers and program houses.
Beyond classes and advocacy, Project 180 provides housing. Its residential program gives men the opportunity to live in small, supportive households where peer connection, accountability and structure create a family-like environment.
One resident who embodies the impact of Project 180’s programs is Britt. (pictured below)
A star athlete in high school who grew up in Newtown, Britt drew the attention of numerous college recruiters; however, his academic challenges precluded a collegiate future.
Instead of college, Britt turned to selling drugs after graduation, which led to a cycle of incarceration and addiction. As his addiction took hold, his shame caused him to avoid anyone who had known the person he once was.
Britt knew he needed to change, so he entered Project 180’s residential program and embraced it fully.
He graduated from the residential program after two years of engaging in the community, reuniting with family and discovering a sense of purpose.
Today Britt participates in Project 180 events, is a mentor for current residents and embraces the opportunity to help others see a path away from the choices he once made.
Transformation is possible.
Far from a handout, Project 180 is an investment in the safety and strength of our communities; it helps people reach their potential.
The support it provides for returning citizens reduces recidivism, empowers people to reconnect with their families and builds stronger, safer communities.
When reentering citizens are met with compassion, structure and opportunity, lives are transformed.
Every job secured, every safe home found and every step toward recovery is a victory for both the individual and Sarasota County.
As Project 180 looks to expand its residential services to women, Charles & Margery Barancik Foundation will be assisting with strategic planning and community conversations to ensure the right support is provided.
By investing in programs like Project 180, people receive a chance to reclaim their lives, restore their families and become forces for good.
Antonia Rolle is the CEO of Project 180 in Sarasota. Email: Antonia@project180reentry.org.
Project 180 Founder Barbara Richards’ Reflections (Sarasota Magazine)
Sarasota Magazine
Q & A
Project 180 Founder Barbara Richards Reflects on Helping Former Prisoners Rebuild Their Lives
By Cooper Levey-Baker December 2, 2024
Image: Hannah Trombly
Since founding the nonprofit Project 180 in 2008, Barbara Richards has been at the forefront of helping people released from prison or jail rebuild their lives. Starting with little support and a shoestring budget, she has grown the organization into a transformative force that delivers financial literacy lessons and job search tips to people in jails and prisons; connects those leaving incarceration with job opportunities, transportation and addiction recovery services; and operates three residential homes where former prisoners live in a supportive, sober group setting.
Richards, now 70, was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma. As an adult in the 1990s, she was living in San Francisco and working in the restaurant industry when she heard an NPR report about incarceration that inspired her to begin volunteering in a nearby prison. She was later hired to run adult education programs in jails and then, in 2004, decided to go back to school and enrolled at Florida State University to study the psychological effect that incarceration has on individuals. She moved to Sarasota and started Project 180 shortly after graduation.
Now, Richards is stepping down from her role with Project 180, and Theresa Cusimano, who has more than 30 years of experience with nonprofits and in higher education, is taking over as the nonprofit’s chief executive officer. Sarasota Magazine recently spoke with Richards about Project 180′s work, the state of criminal justice reform and what she plans to do next. The interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.
What made you go into the field of prisoner reentry?
“I went to college right after high school, and I ended up visiting my sister with my family. She was in West Africa in the Peace Corps, and I got really sick. So I dropped out and I didn’t go back to school for 21 years. When I did, I went to a school that was very geared toward social justice—the Hutchins School at Sonoma State University in California. I was primed by having gone to school there and by my childhood experiences. Then, in 1997, I heard some information on NPR, which was that for every one Black man in college at that time, there were five Black men in prison or jail, and for every one Latino man in college, there were three Latino men in prison or jail. Those statistics grabbed my attention, and I decided to dedicate my life to changing them.”
Had you been inside a prison or jail before that?
“When I was about 7 years old, my dad, who was an attorney, decided that it was important for my family to take a tour of the jail. So we walked around, and all of a sudden the deputy who was giving us the tour said, ‘Why don’t you step right in here and you can see what it feels like to be in jail?’ It was an empty cell. There was nobody else around. So we all walked in. The deputy said, ‘OK we’re going to shut the door now,’ clanged the gate shut and said, ‘OK, bye.’ My dad and this tour guide went into another room and they were probably gone for three minutes. It didn’t really sink in.
“Then my father said, ’The sheriff doesn’t like to spend money on inmates and so he feeds them hot dogs three times a day.′ And that was when I knew I never wanted to be incarcerated. [Laughs.] I would never have made it on three hot dogs a day.”
What were the origins of Project 180?
“The first day I said, ‘I know I want to do this’ was May 6, 2006. I was with a group of people and we were talking about our futures, and I just said, ‘I have to do this and I have no idea how.’ They gave me a lot of encouragement.”
How did you build up the organization?
“It took years to gather enough people who were interested in the subject, which at that time was really not talked about in the greater community. We did a media audit in 2013 to find out how many articles had been written about prisoner reentry, and I think there were two in that year nationally. So we knew that we were on the forefront of something that was important to address. We could see it in homelessness, poverty, unemployment, people living on the streets. We knew that a lot of those people had been involved in the justice system, because it’s a cycle. Somebody who’s on the street is more likely to be arrested and put into the system. And somebody who’s been in the system is more likely to become homeless, because there’s so little housing for people with criminal records. It was obvious that there was something going on.
“It took us until 2013 to actually begin delivering programs. The first one we did was a CEO program in the prison in Arcadia. [Editor’s note: Project 180′s CEO Workforce Education Program brings volunteer business leaders and hiring managers into prisons, where they offer tips to prisoners about how to find work once they are released.] It was this amazing opportunity for people from what I call ‘the outside’—mainstream citizens—to go into a prison and meet people one on one and realize that there are very few people in there who should be locked up the rest of their lives. Even though they were fairly surface conversations, it was meaningful. The volunteers felt that they were giving people nuts-and-bolts practical information that would help them when they got out and the people in the audience did, too.”
Early on, when you would bring up topics like mass incarceration in Sarasota, how did people react?
“A lot of people were surprised, and they were surprised that a woman was doing it. But when they thought about it, it made sense that [incarcerated people] have trouble when they get out. Even so, people don’t realize how much individuals lose when they are incarcerated. It interrupts one’s life. You can’t pay your bills anymore, and you lose everything—apartments, family members, everything.
“In my graduate studies, one of my areas of interest was the sociology of punishment and how the punishment practices of any community reflect the values of that community, just as if you’re talking about schools or education reflecting the values of the community. It is probably unconsciously engineered for us to choose a punishment practice where we don’t have to view the person who has done wrong. We don’t have to view the experience of punishment, because it all occurs behind prison or jail walls. And not only are individuals who have committed criminal acts isolated behind walls, so we don’t see them, we also don’t see them when they come out. Most people get off the bus with nowhere to stay, and they either go into the woods or they sleep on the streets. They remain a population that is unseen and unheard. And yet they’ve been through some of the worst things that anyone can go through and they have a lot to teach us about how we can fix those problems.”
How did you begin to see the connection between incarceration and addiction?
“It finally became evident when we were able to get a house to open a residential program, which was my dream all along. I called on some people that I had known for several years, and I said, ‘I need a house manager, somebody who really knows what he’s doing and has been through the whole experience of being incarcerated.’ Someone told me, ’You probably aren’t going to find anybody who wants to come into a house unless they’re addicted.′ That’s when the connection between incarceration and addiction started to hit me.
“I started looking more closely at the statistics. At that time, around 2018, the Department of Corrections posted approximately what percentage of individuals were in need of drug or alcohol recovery, and it was 66 percent. But what we saw was that it was more like 75, 80, 90, even 95 percent. It’s very, very high. And you can see why, when you hear people’s stories and you understand how they grew up—the lack of opportunities they had because they had become addicted early.
“When somebody is shot up with heroin at the age of 12 by a trusted family member or friend, or begins drinking at the age of 6 or 10 in the family home, life goes haywire. When that is your reality, you don’t learn how to be an adult.”
How did opening Project 180′s first residential home come about?
“A friend of mine in California had listened to me talk about Project 180 forever, and she called me one night and said, ‘Well, how about if I buy you a house? If you pay the mortgage, taxes and insurance, I’ll get it for you.’ So I started looking for a home and we found one. A year later she wanted to sell it to us, but we didn’t have enough money. So the Charles & Margery Barancik Foundation—bless them—purchased it.”
And now you have three?
“The second home we occupied was a rental, and [the landlords] were magnificent people who wanted to do something good. I went to look at it, took a chance and asked, ‘How would you feel about renting to a program for individuals who are being released from incarceration?’ And the owner got this blank look on her face, then said, ‘I think I’d like that very much.’ I nearly fainted because that’s not what I was expecting to hear. It was a perfect location and a perfect layout.
“When the lease dried up for that house, we started looking for another house. The Community Foundation of Sarasota County knew that we were desperately trying to get money together to buy a second house and gave us $75,000 in a grant. The foundation has carried the mortgage for us.
“The third one was purchased for us by the Barancik Foundation, which has been amazing to us.”
Are there plans for more homes?
“I believe the board wants to get another house and have that be for women, and certainly the need is there to get another house for men.”
How many people have come through the homes?
“It’s 118.”
You invite people to come and cook dinner and eat with the residents. Why is that important?
“In my world, food fixes everything. For a lot of us, a peaceful and harmonious way to interact with other people is over food. We all eat, and we can let down our defenses and have the opportunity for meaningful conversations.
“The other piece of that is ourluncheon lectures at Michael’s on East. The residents step into another world that they’re not so familiar with. More than one has said how meaningful it is to be able to meet somebody in a venue they never thought they would go into and how healing it is for them—that other people talk to them, ask them questions about their lives, offer to do things for them. More than one tough guy has broken down in tears about that, not only because of what they feel that they’ve lost in their past, but also because of how they thought these other people viewed them. They would say, ‘Nobody’s ever wanted me in their neighborhood. Nobody’s ever wanted me in their family. Nobody’s ever wanted me. And yet here are these people I don’t even know showing that they care about what happens to me.’ That’s both tragic and healing at the same time.”
How has the conversation about incarceration and criminal justice changed locally since Project 180 started?
“I think that there is a conversation now. That’s what has changed.
“There is a great awareness, primarily because of the opioid crisis, about how people churn through the criminal justice system. Plus, we do have the treatment courts. We have this amazing recovery pod in the jail. I know that the state prison population has declined in Florida, although it is creeping back up again.
“The one statistic that I keep the closest eye on in the annual report of the Florida Department of Corrections is prior commitments. It’s a little graph that shows how many prior commitments individuals in the system have. Last time I looked, 52 percent had never been in a Florida state prison before, which of course leaves 48 percent who have. So if we could solve this problem of reentry when people get out, making sure that they get on the right track, there’s the potential for up to half the prison population not having to go back in again.
“Of course, you have to take into consideration the disease of addiction. It’s a chronic disease that will never go away and it’s always calling people back to use. If you ever want to solve the reentry issue, you need to make it a seamless transition from being in recovery in prison—where you can get any drug you want, easily—into the community and help people stay in recovery when they’re there. That’s my dream.”
Do you think we’re headed in the right direction?
“We’re headed in a better direction. Until prison and jail populations see a steep decline so that the people who are in there are the people who really cannot live on the outside and everybody else remains safe, there’s still more to do. If I have one regret, it’s that I didn’t get started in this work earlier. And yet, I don’t think I was ready.”
What made you decide to step down from Project 180?
“Part of it is because I love the family-like community that we’ve built and I’m not sure I really want to take it to a bigger level. It needs to go to a bigger level. It’s not that the need isn’t there and that there’s no justification for it. There certainly is.
“I love the personal relationships that were established, and I feel like that’s what I had to offer. And now it’s time for somebody else to take over, and Theresa Cusimano will do it very well. She comes out of higher education. She’s a phenomenal grant writer. She’s sensitive to other people’s needs, and she’s a great advocate for individuals who have been incarcerated. I think she’s going to do great.”
What’s next for you?
“I want to start a middle school for kids who need to be in recovery. A lot of our guys come from the south Venice, Nokomis, Osprey, Englewood area, and they got addicted in middle school or late elementary school. I don’t see myself as having an active hand in running it, but I really want to see one opened. We need that so desperately.”
https://www.srqmagazine.com/
Dr. Hank Brightman Biography
Born and raised in Massachusetts, Hank spent more than ten years in a wide range of environmental law enforcement, supervisory natural resource protection, emergency hazardous waste contingency response and white-collar crime investigation with the U.S. Department of the Interior, National Park Service and the United States Secret Service.
Hank received his:
He is a graduate of
In addition, Dr. Brightman is
Hank is currently a full professor and Acting Director of the Civilian-Military Humanitarian Response Program within the College of Maritime Operational at the United States Naval War College. He also serves as the distinguished EMC Informationist Chair (an eight-year, endowed appointment). From 2008-2016, he served as an Associate Professor, Professor, and Director of Applied Research & Analysis in the War Gaming Department of this institution.
From 2000-2008, he served as a tenured Associate Professor and Chair of the Criminal Justice Department at Saint Peter’s University, and also serves as an adjunct faculty member at Salve Regina University, Saint Peter’s University, and Utica College, where he teaches a wide range of undergraduate and graduate-level courses in Criminology and research methods.
In his Navy Reserve career, Commander (CDR) Heath “Hank” Brightman serves as Commanding Officer of Navy Reserve, Cryptologic Warfare Group in Massachusetts. A fully qualified Navy Reserve Cryptologic Warfare Officer, CDR Brightman’s most recent active duty mobilization was from March 2018 through February 2019, assigned to the Office of Military Commissions, Military Commissions Defense Organization (Washington DC/Guantanamo Bay, Cuba). In this capacity, he served as the Senior Intelligence Investigator on a 9/11 high-value detainee case team.
For the past seven years, Dr. Brightman has maintained a part-time, private trauma and wellness practice in Newport, Rhode Island, focused on applying a variety of holistic techniques to support client recovery. His primary approach combines Jungian, Gestalt, narrative, and expressive therapies with clinical hypnotherapy, physical fitness, and nutrition.
Sheriff Kurt A. Hoffman Biography
Sheriff Kurt A. Hoffman is the 11th Sheriff of Sarasota County and began this new leg of his long service to our community earlier this year.
Sheriff Hoffman began his law enforcement career as a deputy with the Charlotte County Sheriff’s Office in 1989. He served the Sarasota, Manatee, and DeSoto communities for more than three decades as both a prosecutor and as the general counsel for the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Office since 2005. During his tenure, he was promoted to Captain, Major, and Colonel prior to winning the 2020 election to become our new Sheriff.
Sheriff Hoffman has a rich family history of service in both local and state law enforcement as well as the US Military. He has a passion for the veteran community, his family, and his hometown. He and his wife Teri reside in Venice.