Among the many chapters in George Santos’s public life has been his tenure as a columnist for a local newspaper on Long Island. His essays have touched on national politics, local affairs, his allegiance to President Trump and, in recent months, life behind bars.
Mr. Santos, the disgraced former congressman, was released from a federal prison on Friday night after Mr. Trump commuted his seven-year sentence for financial fraud. The president suggested that he had been moved, in part, by Mr. Santos’s accounts of prison life, published in The South Shore Press.
Here’s a sampling of Mr. Santos’s writing from those columns.
‘An intermission’
On July 29, Mr. Santos wrote his last column before heading to prison, promising he would eventually return to the public stage.
Yes, I’ve made mistakes. And yes, there are things I wish I had done differently. But I will never apologize for living life authentically — even if sometimes that authenticity came with chaos. As I once told reporters outside court: “I’m human. I fumble. But I rise.” And that’s exactly what I plan to keep doing.
Today, I’ve spent my time quietly. No glitz. No cameras. Just good food, my family, any dogs and moments of stillness. I’ve reflected on my mother my hero who I know is watching over me. I’ve prayed. I’ve cried. I’ve laughed too. Because if you can’t laugh at the insanity of life, then what’s the point?
To my haters, I say: enjoy the silence. It won’t last. To my supporters: I carry your faith with me like armor. And to the rest of America: you haven’t seen the last of me.
This isn’t a goodbye. It’s an intermission.
‘A punch to the gut’
On Aug. 4, Mr. Santos reported on his arrival at the medium security prison in Fairton, N.J.
As I crossed the threshold of the dormitory and took my first steps into what would become my new reality, I caught a glimpse of myself in the small, scratched mirror held up by one of the inmates.
That image — me, hollow-eyed, clad in state-issued polyester — hit me like a punch to the gut.
The tears came faster than I could stop them. I didn’t care who saw. That reflection, in that moment, made the weight of my decisions, my mistakes, and the road that led me there all too real. It was the clearest, most painful mirror I’ve ever looked into — one that didn’t just show my face, but the wreckage of the life I had built.
Unpleasant conditions
On Aug. 19, Mr. Santos complained about conditions at the prison.
I have begged, pleaded, and filed every request imaginable for the administration to fix the air conditioning. Yet here we remain, cooking in conditions that are not just uncomfortable but dangerous.
The building itself is hardly fit for long-term habitation: sheet metal walls, shoddy construction, the look and feel of a temporary warehouse rather than a permanent facility.
On my first night, I discovered a gaping tear in the vinyl ceiling six feet long and four feet wide, exposing thick black mold overhead.
After weeks of raising the alarm and pointing out my increased reliance on my albuterol inhaler, what was the solution?
A maintenance officer came by and simply covered it up. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Life in solitary confinement
On Sept. 22, Mr. Santos wrote about being held in solitary confinement at the prison’s special housing unit.
I am not asking for special treatment. I am asking to be treated as a person — with attention, dignity, and the care any human deserves when in distress. What I have experienced looks less like institutional safety and more like a system that has allowed indifference to calcify into policy. Procedures matter only when they protect people; otherwise they become instruments of neglect.
Since arriving in the SHU, I’ve been stripped of almost everything that helped me weather this chapter. Phone calls with loved ones have been cut off. Emails to family have been blocked. Visits — rare, sacred windows when a person can feel human again — have been taken away, twice a month and on holidays, as if punishment were protection.
I sometimes feel the life leaving my body, a slow leaking of hope. I won’t pretend otherwise. But I am not finished fighting. I will make it through this. And make no mistake: those who permitted, enabled, or ignored this neglect will be held accountable. Call it justice, oversight, a storm of accountability — it will come. I promise this not as a threat but as a vow: I will fight until those responsible answer for their neglect. This neglect will not be tolerated.
A plea to President Trump
On Oct. 13, Mr. Santos asked the president for mercy.
Mr. President, I am not asking for sympathy. I am asking for fairness — for the chance to rebuild. I know I have made mistakes in my past. I have faced my share of consequences, and I take full responsibility for my actions. But no man, no matter his flaws, deserves to be lost in the system, forgotten and unseen, enduring punishment far beyond what justice requires.
Sir, I appeal to your sense of justice and humanity — the same qualities that have inspired millions of Americans to believe in you. I humbly ask that you consider the unusual pain and hardship of this environment and allow me the opportunity to return to my family, my friends, and my community. I want nothing more than to begin again — to contribute, to serve, and to rebuild my life from the ashes of my past.
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