I help shelter dogs and people in prison rebuild their lives. But I’ll never call it a second chance.

In May 2005, I was one of the estimated 25,000 people who returned every year to Philadelphia after being released from prison.

So much was stacked against me. As early as age 9, I had struggled with substance use; by the time I was 16 years old, I was labeled as a career criminal. When I was sentenced, the judge said I would never be rehabilitated.

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Every year, millions of Americans are released from our jails and prisons, and most face significant barriers to becoming engaged, productive citizens. Nearly 40% of adults who are incarcerated have not graduated from high school, which severely limits the types of jobs they qualify for. What’s more, most potential employers will conduct background checks, and hesitate to hire someone with a criminal record. Landlords, too, will often check your background, and have the right to refuse to rent to someone with a criminal record.

With all of these obstacles to building a life after being incarcerated, it should be no surprise that almost two-thirds of people who are released from prison are rearrested within three years.

But while I was in prison, something happened that changed everything.

Around 2002, I volunteered to train service dogs as part of a prison dog program. I was given a dog that had been adopted and returned to a shelter three times, and something clicked. Working with that dog, I found my purpose in life — I decided that I no longer wanted to live in addiction, that I no longer wanted to spend my life in and out of institutions, and that I wanted to commit myself to saving the lives of dogs that were thrown away.

So when I got out of prison in 2005, I was fortunate enough to have a job, because the organization that operated the dog program recognized my potential and offered me employment. My father was no longer living in subsidized housing, so he could provide me with a place to stay.

Today, I work for New Leash on Life, an organization I helped create that also offers a program to help shelter dogs and people who are incarcerated heal each other.

So when I got out of prison, did I get a “second chance”? No.

My experience showed me that returning citizens need a lot of support to overcome the challenges related to housing, employment, substance use, mental health, and family reunification. I’m proud to be a part of that effort.

In doing this work, I’ve learned that language matters. It matters to the people we serve, and it influences society in how it perceives people who have been incarcerated.

Language matters.

That’s why I and everyone at my organization have decided to no longer use the term “second chance” when describing someone who has been released from prison.

It’s true that the term “second chances” is used throughout public policy around incarceration. For instance, the U.S. government offers grants to people who provide help for returning citizens through the Second Chance Act.

But the term “second chance” implies that everyone had a legitimate first chance. And after more than a decade of experience working with people who have been incarcerated, I know that is not true to their story. Many people’s life “chances” are a function of the circumstances of their birth. It’s not fair to argue that a child born in poverty, who had to skip meals and regularly witness violence and trauma, had the same “chance” at life as someone who grew up in a loving, stable home, with access to plenty of food and great schools and opportunities.

Consider it from the perspective of the shelter dogs we serve: Would you expect a dog that was abused and abandoned three times to be as open to new people as a dog who was raised in one home its whole life, and knew only love and kindness? Would you say both dogs had an equal chance of finding a new home? Yet, both are equally deserving.

I did not come from a place of privilege that provided the best of opportunities. While I had both my parents in my life and they did the best they could, they struggled in poverty and had to put all of their time into trying to keep a roof over our heads and food in the fridge. The neighborhood I grew up in was not generous and filled with resources that could steer me toward success and financial security.

The dogs at highest risk of euthanasia in our shelters have experienced similar circumstances and are often abandoned, abused, and neglected. Yet, in working with hundreds of dogs over the years, I’ve seen that these animals are capable of tremendous resiliency, respond to empathetic care, and become valued, loving family members.

Even the word chance itself is problematic, as it implies an aspect of luck or gamble. It removes individual agency. And when it comes to rebuilding your life, especially after being incarcerated, individual agency is the most important factor.

So I don’t think of my life as a “second chance,” nor do I think of the work I do in that way. Here’s a better term, instead: “fresh start.”

“Fresh start” conveys a more positive and optimistic tone than “second chance”; it speaks to new beginnings, invites opportunity, and puts ownership on the individual. The term empowers people to actively work toward a better future, rather than passively waiting for a “second chance.”

My life chances were impacted by poverty and lack of resources, so my influences and decisions were molded by those circumstances. Thus, offering me a “second chance” when I was paroled in May 2005 would have been kicking me while I was down because I did not have a real first chance to begin with.

When I left prison, I didn’t want a “second chance” or a “do-over”; I only wanted to start off fresh.

Rob Rosa serves as senior vice president of programs for New Leash on Life USA, where he works with people impacted by the legal system and at-risk dogs.