Justice Notes: The Snow Globe
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
Stuart Anderson, a collegaue from my White Collar Support Group, reminds us in the following essay, that prison is not only a legal sentence—it is a psychological and spiritual reckoning. The loss of freedom compresses a life, shrinking identity, and yet, within that confinement, moments of clarity can emerge.
In this reflective essay, he shares a memory from quarantine t hat unexpectedly revealed something expansive.
The Snow Globe
by Stuart Anderson
While in quarantine—a kind of solitary confinement—I sat beside an old wooden window on the third floor, looking down at the yard. It was a bitter February in South Dakota. The early morning light rose slowly in the east, inching its way into the day.
Leafless trees stood frozen in time, their tangled branches glazed with frost, their trunks buried in clean white snow. Then a breeze moved through, and the frost released—scattering like dandelion seeds carried on a summer wish. The particles shimmered in the sunlight and drifted slowly down across the snow-covered lawn.
Even the snow on the ground seemed to twinkle, as if the night had left a few stars behind. It was genuinely majestic—a reflection of God’s greatness in all things. Words cannot quite capture what I was seeing. I had never witnessed anything like it.
Sitting there, I felt sealed inside a shaken Christmas snow globe: contained, observed, unable to step beyond the boundaries that held me. And yet, inside that small world, beauty still moved.
When I stared outward, the globe became its own kind of torment. It reminded me of the life I had left behind—my wife and son living without me; the routines, the warmth, the ordinary privileges I never noticed until they were gone. A personal and professional life cracked open, the pieces still recognizable, but no longer whole.
So I turned my gaze inward—to what was still here, still within the glass. The quiet mercies. The dignity of paying attention. The strange truth that even in a place built to shrink you, the soul can still expand. The snow did not change my circumstances, but it changed the air inside me. It reminded me that confinement is not the same as meaninglessness.
Most of us live inside snow globes at some point—illness, loss, job endings, failed relationships, seasons when the boundaries tighten and the exits disappear. We can spend those days pressing our faces against the glass, mourning what lies beyond it. Or we can learn—slowly and imperfectly—to look for what still glitters inside.
My globe was still sealed. But that morning the light found the frost, and for a moment it was enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to keep going. Enough to believe this was not the end of the story.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected.