The study is grounded in a rich body of research on physical activity behind bars. Sports and exercise are among the few activities incarcerated people can actively choose, and decades of evidence link them to improved physical and mental health, better quality of life, and more positive behavior during confinement. As far back as 1982, the American Medical Association issued a manual on exercising for the incarcerated, and correctional institutions worldwide have experimented with weightlifting, yoga, cardio programs, and team sports alongside nutrition and substance abuse interventions. Participation in prison sports has been tied to structured daily routines, greater confidence and self-esteem, improved emotional regulation, reduced impulsivity and aggression, and even lower reoffending rates after release. These findings rebut common misbeliefs that competitive sports breed aggression or that physical activity disrupts prison management.

What remains unclear is how these benefits translate into post-release careers. Many people continue their training routines after release, viewing sport as a way to challenge criminal record stigma and reconnect with the community. Some even launch coaching businesses. The New York-based gym CONBODY, for example, offers private training sessions and fitness products while branding itself as founded by an inmate and run by former inmates, promoting its model as prison-style. Entrepreneurship appeals broadly to incarcerated people: courses on starting a business rank among the most popular offerings on tablet-based educational platforms available in prisons. Yet whether the public would actually pay for services from entrepreneurs with prison records was an open empirical question.

To answer it, the researchers embedded a conjoint experiment in a national YouGov survey of 1,100 U.S. adults collected in summer 2025, weighted to mirror the demographic composition of the American population. Conjoint experiments are a powerful tool for isolating causal effects: respondents repeatedly choose between two hypothetical options whose characteristics are randomly varied, allowing researchers to calculate how much each attribute changes the probability of selection. In this case, each respondent evaluated five paired comparisons of hypothetical trainers for a 20-year-old family member, generating 10,990 profile choices. The trainers varied on six dimensions: race, presented as a 30-year-old White or Black man; price, $30 or $80 per hour; certification by the National Academy of Sports Medicine or no credential; client references or none; online or in-person instruction; and, crucially, where they began their fitness journey, in prison, in the military, as a college student athlete, or as a gym member after work.

The results were striking. Compared with trainers who began working out as an after-work gym member, trainers who began in prison were 19.9 percentage points less likely to be recommended, confirming the researchers’ first pre-registered hypothesis. Other attributes behaved as expected: NASM certification raised the probability of recommendation by 22.1 percentage points, client references by 12.3 points, while charging $80 instead of $30 per hour cut it by 16.3 points and offering online rather than in-person classes cut it by 12.2 points. In a twist, Black trainers were 3.7 percentage points more likely to be recommended than White trainers, a pattern the authors suggest may reflect positive stereotyping of racial minorities as athletic, though they caution that the relationship between race, criminal records, and stigma remains complex and contested in the broader literature.

When the researchers modeled how these factors operated specifically for trainers with prison records, the picture grew more nuanced. Overall, trainers with prison records faced a 28.5 percentage point penalty relative to those without. Credentials and references retained their general positive effects, but neither significantly improved the standing of trainers with records beyond that baseline. More intriguingly, the aversion to online classes was significantly weaker for trainers with prison records, suggesting that some respondents preferred to work with them remotely rather than face to face, presumably out of safety concerns. The preference for cheaper instruction was also attenuated: among trainers with prison records, raising the price from $30 to $80 per hour reduced the probability of recommendation by an estimated 11.8 points rather than 17.8, hinting that premium pricing may make such services feel distinguished rather than suspect.

Open-ended responses collected after the experiment illuminated the quantitative patterns. The overwhelming stated deciding factors were price, qualifications signaled by certification and experience, and in-person instruction, with many respondents explicitly saying that prison history or race did not matter compared with credentials and reviews. But when the training background was mentioned directly, prison came up more often than military, college, or gym settings, usually in the language of danger and risk. Comments included that a convict could be dangerous after all, that prison was a disqualifier, and that respondents might select such a trainer for themselves but would not expose family members. Some said they might change their minds after learning the offense, and several noted that online instruction seemed to carry less risk. Others questioned whether fitness gained in prison reflected genuine discipline or simply a forced way to pass time.

Not every respondent rejected formerly incarcerated trainers. Some expressed awareness of injustices in the criminal legal system, including collateral consequences and racial overrepresentation, and said they were open to supporting ex-prisoners who had turned their lives around. One respondent even viewed a White man’s prison record as more concerning than average given structural advantages, illustrating how social justice reasoning cut in different directions. The authors argue these responses point to concrete strategies: marketing prison-forged fitness expertise as a distinguishing feature, packaging services with the glossy premium presentation used by high-end gyms, and framing businesses around redemption and social justice aims that consumers increasingly want brands to reflect.

The policy implications center on prison programming. Because remote instruction partially offsets stigma, the authors recommend that prisons expand digital literacy training, helping incarcerated people navigate the social media and smartphone landscape they were isolated from, especially since returning citizens often face steep technology barriers. Delivering online services also demands communication and interpersonal skills many people behind bars lack, and running a business demands more still, making entrepreneurship and small business management courses vital. Despite the attenuated benefits observed in the experiment, the general public still rewarded credentials and references, so the authors conclude that offering recognized fitness certifications, such as through widely accepted bodies like the National Academy of Sports Medicine, remains a sound investment, consistent with prior research showing vocational credentials improve callback rates and reduce recidivism.

The study has limitations the authors acknowledge. Space constraints prevented them from testing factors such as education level or offense type, some respondents said the profiles did not provide enough information for a real-life decision, and the design did not examine which individual traits predict openness to second chances. Asking respondents to choose for a family member rather than themselves may also have altered the stakes. Still, the central finding is clear: prison stigma pervades the economy, from low-wage labor to the gig economy to entrepreneurship, and consumers penalize trainers with records. Yet the attenuated penalties for online instruction and higher prices suggest that formerly incarcerated fitness entrepreneurs are not shut out entirely. With the right credentials, digital skills, and marketing savvy, the discipline built behind bars could become a marketable asset rather than a mark of exclusion.

Subject of Research: Consumer preferences for personal trainers with criminal records and market opportunities for formerly incarcerated entrepreneurs

Article Title: Moving “The Mark of a Criminal Record”: Consumer Preferences and Market Opportunities for Personal Trainers with Criminal Records

Article References: Shi, L., & Hickert, A. (2026). Moving “The Mark of a Criminal Record”: Consumer Preferences and Market Opportunities for Personal Trainers with Criminal Records. American Journal of Criminal Justice. https://doi.org/10.1007/s12103-026-09956-6

Image Credits: AI Generated

DOI: 10.1007/s12103-026-09956-6

Keywords: criminal records, prison stigma, personal training, conjoint experiment, reentry, entrepreneurship, vocational credentials, fitness industry, consumer preferences, race and hiring, prison sport, gig economy

The social-ecological framework, first articulated by developmental psychologist Urie Bronfenbrenner, holds that health decisions are never made in a vacuum. Instead, they emerge from interacting layers of influence: personal beliefs and motivations at the core, surrounded by family and peer networks, then the clinics and neighborhoods where people live, and finally the policies, laws and dominant social attitudes that govern treatment itself. The research team applied a modified version of this model to understand how recently incarcerated patients navigate a treatment landscape that has shifted dramatically in the past five years. Federal regulators have expanded take-home methadone doses, reducing the number of days patients must appear in person at an opioid treatment program, and removed the cap on how many patients a provider may prescribe buprenorphine to. Long-acting injectable buprenorphine has also entered the market, bringing its own barriers of cost and limited clinic availability.

Between March and August 2025, the team conducted semi-structured interviews averaging 50 minutes with adults who had received methadone or buprenorphine during an incarceration in the past year. Participants were recruited through opioid treatment programs, office-based providers and recovery centers across the state, with purposive efforts to balance representation by medication type. The sample, on average, had been released just over five months before the interview, was 37.6 years old on average, and included 16 men and 12 women. Most participants were White and non-Latino. At the time of interview, 25 of the 28 participants were receiving methadone and only three were on buprenorphine, even though most had received methadone during incarceration as well. Interviews were transcribed, coded using template-style thematic analysis with both deductive and inductive codes, and analyzed in NVivo until thematic saturation was achieved.

The first and most personal theme concerned perceived benefits. Participants continued MOUD when they felt it clearly worked — helping them avoid withdrawal, illicit opioid use and reincarceration, three outcomes that participants described as deeply intertwined. Many reported that methadone curbed their cravings more effectively than buprenorphine, a difference that proved decisive. One participant who could not reach a methadone clinic after release discontinued treatment entirely because buprenorphine, though easier to obtain with only monthly provider visits, did not adequately suppress his cravings; he resumed methadone only after moving closer to a clinic. This finding underscores a technical point with major clinical implications: patient preference is not merely about convenience but about pharmacological fit, and when the medication that works best is inaccessible, some patients opt for no medication at all.

Paradoxically, nearly all participants — even those who credited MOUD with stabilizing their recovery — expressed an intention to taper off within the next couple of years. Many described methadone or buprenorphine as a band-aid, a short-term tool rather than a chronic therapy, reflecting what the authors identify as an internalized abstinence narrative. This belief had concrete consequences for treatment selection: some participants rejected long-acting injectable buprenorphine precisely because its monthly dosing removed the daily control that would let them stop when they chose. The researchers argue that distinguishing between patients whose desire to discontinue is clinically congruent and those whose desire is driven by stigma or structural barriers is essential for designing interventions that improve retention during the highest-risk period.

At the interpersonal level, the study found that supportive family involvement was invaluable but rare. A few participants relied on relatives for transportation to daily methadone dosing, a logistical lifeline that made treatment feasible. Far more common was stigma within families, where methadone was perceived as simply swapping one drug for another. Several participants concealed their treatment from loved ones, describing it as embarrassing, and this concealment bred isolation. In one striking account, a participant who had been stable after a previous release — employed, housed, engaged in methadone treatment — stopped the medication because of his mother’s disapproval, relapsed into illicit opioid use, and experienced worsening mental health. Others deliberately shrank their social circles to avoid substance use triggers or exposure. Against this backdrop, many participants emphasized self-reliance, framing their recovery as something they had to accomplish alone, and some even preferred buprenorphine’s relative lack of wraparound services because it demanded less dependence on institutions.

Community and organizational factors proved to be powerful levers of access. Housing proximity to an opioid treatment program, access to a working vehicle, and reliable bus routes determined whether daily methadone dosing was realistic. Free transportation services funded through public insurance helped some participants, but others were unaware of these programs, lost passes, or found multi-bus commutes prohibitive. One woman who had to make lengthy near-daily trips by bus concluded that methadone simply did not work for someone without a car and expressed regret over starting it during incarceration, saying she would prefer a monthly injectable so she would not have to worry about dosing every day. The physical environment around clinics also mattered: visible drug activity near treatment sites triggered discomfort and cravings for some patients, deterring them from clinics even when those clinics were close to home.

Clinic practices themselves shaped treatment trajectories. Participants described anxiety over whether they could receive same-day dosing at community intake, hearsay about waitlists, unclear urine drug screening policies, and fear of missing doses when entering residential programs. Although no participant experienced significant gaps in care after reaching a clinic, the psychological cost of fearing withdrawal was real, and for some it motivated a desire to taper off entirely. One participant, facing a warned urine drug screen from his buprenorphine prescriber shortly after release, chose to stop treatment and continue using before later switching to methadone. These accounts illustrate how restrictive or opaque clinic rules can convert a treatable condition into a cycle of disengagement, use and re-engagement.

At the structural level, the fentanyl-dominant drug supply emerged as a decisive force. Participants who were still using opioids feared precipitated withdrawal if they initiated buprenorphine with fentanyl in their system, rendering buprenorphine and its injectable formulation non-viable options in their eyes. Methadone, by contrast, was seen as robust in the fentanyl era, though a few participants described developing a double habit — concurrent methadone and illicit fentanyl use that pushed their methadone doses upward and left them uncomfortable if either substance was unavailable. Methadone also carried a unique legal advantage: its mandatory counseling satisfied probation requirements for some participants, helping them avoid re-arrest, a benefit no buprenorphine recipient reported. Meanwhile, expanded take-home methadone policies motivated engagement for some, but patients with instability indicators often could not accrue take-homes quickly enough, and the threat of losing privileges after hospitalization or reincarceration discouraged others. Systemic stigma in employment and housing further eroded commitment, with participants questioning whether they could be hired as nurses or in other careers while on methadone.

The authors conclude that MOUD preferences and intentions after incarceration are entangled with multilevel barriers, and that improving retention will require interventions at every layer: pre-release education to counter misinformation and stigma, stronger linkage to MOUD-affirming recovery communities and peer support specialists, transportation solutions, and lower-barrier delivery models including community-based post-release dosing. Peer support specialists were described as helpful by the few participants who encountered them, but their scarcity reflects the slow integration of these roles into treatment systems. Given that discontinuing MOUD sharply elevates overdose risk, particularly when cessation occurs early, the stakes of preference-congruent care could not be higher. This study offers a detailed, patient-centered map of why people leaving incarceration choose, keep or abandon their medications — knowledge the authors say is essential for building treatment systems that keep people alive through the perilous transition home.

Subject of Research: Social-ecological determinants of medication preferences and receipt for opioid use disorder after incarceration

Article Title: Social-ecological factors shape preferences for and receipt of medications to treat opioid use disorder in the post-incarceration period

Article References: Bailey, A., Hughto, J. M., Kelly, P. J., Dunsiger, S. I., & Martin, R. A. (2026). Social-ecological factors shape preferences for and receipt of medications to treat opioid use disorder in the post-incarceration period. SSM – Mental Health, 10, Article 100705. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ssmmh.2026.100705

Image Credits: AI Generated

DOI: 10.1016/j.ssmmh.2026.100705

Keywords: opioid use disorder, methadone, buprenorphine, post-incarceration, social-ecological model, stigma, overdose risk, fentanyl, opioid treatment programs, peer support, reentry, qualitative research