Released from Prison, but Not Free

A returning citizen struggles with re-entry, housing due to "sex offender" label

Amanda "Boi" Hill's real-time location. Image credit: Sirita Render

 

Freedom is a loose term in today's ever-changing human rights climate. For most who’ve been recently released from incarceration, freedom comes when the prison gates swing open.They emerge , inhale and step into a new life full of possibility. However, this only applies to some. For Amanda Shana Hill, who’s also known as Boi Hill, freedom still hasn't come.  She’s been released but still isn’t completely free. "I'm only 50 percent free — no chow call, no count time, sure. But with my restrictions, I still have a weight hanging over my head. I need it off of me.” Despite having accepted a plea 10 years ago, Hill says she didn’t hear about having to register as a “sex offender” until nearing her time for release. “About a year before release, I found out I had become been classified as a ‘sex offender,’ which I had no knowledge of. That drove me to investigate my own case.”  

Hill served 10 years in prison — more than a decade of her life behind bars. And like many others, she believed when her time was up, she’d be free but that’s not quite what has happened.

Hill’s reality is anything but normal as we converse over dinner at a local restaurant. Our stories, as we share them, seem eerily similar yet too personal to even begin to unpack and accept as normal. The poor communication from the justice system s before and after Hill’s release, a lack of adherence  to their duty to ensure Hill’s freedom was fully restored, was astonishing but not uncommon. Like too many, she’s been released from prison, but not free.  

Hill was unjustly convicted in Georgia on two felony counts of trafficking persons for sexual servitude under Georgia Code § 16-5-46. The case was complex, layered in context and contradiction. In her case, there was no allegation Hill personally sexually assaulted anyone. There was no testimony or evidence she posed a continuing threat to children or society. Yet she was classified, alongside those convicted, of direct, violent offenses. More troubling is the way the classification happened. Georgia law doesn’t require the judge to inform someone of their potential registry status at sentencing. There’s no requirement for a hearing. The process can be entirely administrative, shrouded in paperwork, devoid of transparency.  “I got a 20-to-13 sentence for human trafficking. I served 10 years. And when it was time for me to go, I started working on a parole address.” 

In Georgia, Hill began submitting addresses for housing as part of her re-entry process. They were denied repeatedly. The reason was unclear until a prison counselor told her she had been placed on the Georgia State Sexual Offender Registry. No one from the court had informed her. There had been no hearing. No warning. No legal notice. Just a quiet, backdoor classification with life-altering consequences. “I was stamped — not by the court of law — but by the Department of Corrections as a sex offender and there’s just no way of undoing it."  

Technically out of bondage, the chains weren't loosening on Amanda. She wasn’t allowed to question the decision. There was no opportunity to contest it. The state didn’t notify her of its intention, and by the time she found out, it was already done. This was not part of her sentence, not as it was explained to her in court. Yet it has become the defining force in her life. She served 10 years in prison — more than a decade of her life behind bars. And like many others, she believed when her time was up, she’d be free but that’s not quite what has happened.  

“They gave me an option: Stay here and max out or sign this paper and go home labeled a sex offender. And of course, I signed it. I thought maybe I’d have a better chance out here,” Hill says. 

For most people, freedom means movement, opportunity, peace of mind. For Hill, freedom means something far more basic: being able to sleep somewhere legally. 

“The Department of Corrections and Probation haven't helped me at all since I’ve been out. Not a meal, not transportation, not anything. I've had to do everything by myself,” she says “The only thing parole has helped me with is staying in my business and wanting to know what I'm doing, not helping me with what I'm doing to stay out of prison.” 

Every address she considers must be measured by Georgia’s 1,000-foot rule, which prevents people on the registry from living near schools, parks, daycare centers, churches and a host of other “child-centered” spaces.  

It’s a nearly impossible standard. In many cities and towns, it eliminates almost every residential area and she has had no assistance in navigating these issues. That means she can’t live with family. She can’t live in public housing. She can’t even live in many shelters. Each rejected address becomes another reminder that her freedom is not real. It’s a myth. And it doesn’t stop there. She’s faced job rejections not because of a lack of qualifications, but because of the registry label. Employers who initially express interest change their tone once a background check is completed. She's experienced this pattern more times than she can count. 

Hill says it’s like she isn’t a person. She’s been placed in a category. And the category speaks louder than any explanation she can give. One of the cruelest parts of this experience is the silence it forces. Hill lives with the knowledge revealing her past could cost her everything. Friendships. Housing. Safety. Dignity. “I don’t want to be misunderstood,” she says. “I don’t want to be humiliated or judged before people even know me.” 

And so she says she “just stays quiet.” But silence is isolating. It keeps people at a distance. It creates emotional walls that are hard to tear down. Fear of rejection shapes every relationship. It dictates what she shares, how she acts, and who she trusts. And in that silence, loneliness grows. 

This is the part of freedom that often goes unspoken, the right to connection, community, and belonging. Without those, a person is not truly free. They’re just surviving. 

Hill’s story also reveals a critical flaw in the system: the registry law itself. In Georgia, the sexual offender registry covers a broad range of offenses — some violent, some not. It treats trafficking charges, statutory violations and acts of sexual abuse as virtually identical. There is no nuance, no individual assessment. 

Amanda has taken every step the system has asked of her. She completed the state-mandated sex offender treatment program. She complied with every probation requirement. She hasn’t reoffended. She’s done everything possible to rebuild her life. Yet she’s still treated as a threat. 

This kind of retroactive punishment — unannounced and unchallengeable — undermines the integrity of the justice system itself. Amanda has taken every step the system has asked of her. She completed the state-mandated sex offender treatment program. She complied with every probation requirement. She hasn’t reoffended. She’s done everything possible to rebuild her life. Yet she’s still treated as a threat. 

Resources for people in her position are virtually nonexistent. Most housing programs refuse to accept registered individuals. Many re-entry services aren’t even designed with registrants in mind. Hill isn’t asking for special treatment. She’s asking for a real chance. 

This is what freedom should be: the chance to try. The ability to make mistakes and move forward. The power to redefine yourself and contribute again to the world around you. 

Hill’s situation challenges us to consider what we really believe about second chances. Do we believe in them only in theory — or are we willing to extend them in practice? Do we trust people to grow and change, or do we define them forever by a single chapter of their lives? True justice must be fair. It must be transparent. And it must be humane. It should not rely on hidden punishments, blanket classifications, or permanent exile from society. It should allow for context, hearing, and redemption.  

“Women don't have the same opportunities as men; there are so many more prisons and halfway houses for men than there are for women and we don't have support,” Hill states.   

If freedom means living without fear, Hill isn’t free. If freedom means moving, livng, and working without surveillance, neither is she free. If freedom means your sentence ends when your time is served, she is not free. Hill’s lack of support from a system whose mission was to operate secure facilities while providing resources and rehabilitation for all failed her not only while incarcerated but also after her release. Hill's reality should push all to rethink what we mean when we talk about freedom in this country and what we as a collective can do to rightfully wrong those who have served their time in prison.