Evolution of Love 2

Dave's Story

He spent 15 years in prison, then built a $275 million empire.
Then he lost it all in one manic episode.
His story isn't redemption—it's reality.
Dave Dahl's life began falling apart when he was barely old enough to understand what falling apart meant.
Drugs came first. Then crime. Then prison. By age 20, he'd been incarcerated. By 30, he'd served multiple sentences. By the time he was in his early 40s, he'd spent 15 cumulative years behind bars—cycling in and out of Oregon's correctional system like a door that only swung one way.
Four separate prison terms. Charges ranging from drug possession to burglary to assault. Each release followed by another relapse, another arrest, another cell.
His family watched him disappear repeatedly. His brother Glenn watched the same pattern repeat—hope, release, addiction, return to prison—until hope itself felt like the cruelest part.
By his fourth prison sentence, Dave was in his late 30s. Most people had written him off. Society had certainly written him off. Ex-cons with his record don't get comebacks. They get supervised release, parole check-ins, and jobs no one else wants.
But something shifted during that final sentence.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was hitting bottom so hard there was nowhere left to fall. Maybe it was finally being ready to hear what counselors had been saying for years.
Dave started using prison programs—learning new skills, confronting the addiction and trauma that had fueled his choices. He began to imagine a life that wasn't defined by the next high, the next crime, the next cell.
When he was released in 2004, at age 43, he didn't have many options.
His brother Glenn owned NatureBake, a small organic bakery in Milwaukie, Oregon. It wasn't much—just a family operation making health food store bread. Glenn offered Dave a job. Not out of pity. Out of family. Out of the stubborn belief that maybe, this time, things could be different.
Dave started at the bottom. Literally covered in flour, learning to bake.
And something unexpected happened: he was good at it.
Not just competent—creative. He started experimenting with recipes, adding whole grains, seeds, organic ingredients. Dense, hearty loaves that tasted like actual food, not cardboard health products. Bread with texture and flavor and substance.
Bread that had been through fire and come out stronger.
In 2005, they launched a new product line: Dave's Killer Bread.
Here's where most companies would have hidden Dave's past. Sanitized it. Created a wholesome backstory about family traditions and organic values.
Instead, they put Dave's prison mugshot on every package.
Right there on the bag, next to the organic certification and nutritional facts: Dave's face from a booking photo, looking directly at customers. And his story—ex-con, 15 years in prison, second chance, redemption.
It was either the bravest or stupidest marketing decision imaginable.
It was brilliant.
Customers didn't just buy the bread. They bought into the mission. This wasn't just food—it was a statement. That people deserve second chances. That your past doesn't have to define your future. That ex-cons can create something valuable, something good.
The bread was legitimately excellent—that mattered. But the story amplified everything. People wanted to support what Dave represented.
Within a year, Dave's Killer Bread was in grocery stores across Oregon. Within five years, it was in stores across America. Within a decade, it became the fastest-growing bread brand in the United States.
And Dave didn't just build a company. He built a movement.
He implemented a Second Chance employment policy: actively hiring people with criminal records. Giving them the opportunity he'd been given. Hundreds of people who would have been rejected everywhere else found jobs at Dave's Killer Bread.
Ex-cons working in the bakery, driving delivery trucks, managing operations. People with felonies on their records earning good wages, supporting families, rebuilding lives.
Dave became the face of redemption. He gave talks. Did interviews. His story was featured in documentaries and news segments. He became proof that the prison-industrial complex didn't have to be a one-way conveyor belt to permanent underclass status.
By 2015, Flowers Foods—one of the largest baking companies in America—bought Dave's Killer Bread for $275 million.
Two hundred and seventy-five million dollars.
From prison to a nine-figure exit in eleven years.
It should have been the perfect ending. Redemption story complete. Ex-con makes good, gets rich, lives happily ever after.
But life doesn't write Hollywood endings.
In November 2013, two years before the sale, Dave had a manic episode.
He has bipolar disorder—a condition he'd struggled with for years but hadn't fully managed. The stress of rapid business growth, the pressure of being a public symbol, the weight of representing second chances for thousands of people—it all converged.
During the manic episode, Dave led police on a high-speed chase through Portland. He was driving erratically, reaching speeds over 100 mph, eventually crashing into a police vehicle.
He was arrested. Again.
Not for drugs. Not for a crime in the traditional sense. But for behavior driven by untreated mental illness during a psychiatric crisis.
He was hospitalized. Treated. Stabilized.
But the damage to his role in the company was done.
Dave was removed from day-to-day operations of the company that bore his name. His brother Glenn and the leadership team took over. Dave's face remained on the packaging—the brand he'd built was too powerful to change—but he was no longer running it.
The man who'd become a symbol of successful reintegration had his own reintegration interrupted by mental health crisis.
For many, this would be where the story becomes a cautionary tale. "See? Ex-cons can't really change. He went back to his old ways."
But that framing misses the entire point.
Dave didn't "go back" to crime. He experienced a mental health crisis—something that can happen to anyone, regardless of criminal history. Bipolar disorder doesn't care about your redemption arc. Mental illness doesn't wait for convenient timing.
And here's what actually matters: Dave didn't disappear.
He got treatment. He wrote a memoir—"Life Worth Living"—published in 2019, where he spoke openly about his struggles with bipolar disorder, his journey through prison, his success, and his breakdown.
He became an advocate for mental health awareness and criminal justice reform. He spoke about the reality that recovery isn't linear. That having a breakdown doesn't erase your achievements. That you can build something incredible and still struggle.
That second chances aren't one-time events—they're ongoing choices.
Meanwhile, Dave's Killer Bread continued thriving. The Second Chance employment mission continued. Hundreds of people with criminal records continued getting jobs, supporting families, rebuilding lives.
Dave's personal crisis didn't destroy his legacy. If anything, it made the mission more important.
Because the real story of Dave's Killer Bread was never about one man's perfect redemption.
It was about creating systems that give people opportunities regardless of their past. About proving that people with criminal records can be valuable employees. About building a company culture that sees humanity instead of just statistics.
Dave Dahl started that. And it survived him stepping back.
That's actually more powerful than if he'd stayed at the helm forever. It proves the mission was real, not just personal branding.
Today, Dave's Killer Bread is sold in supermarkets nationwide. The packaging still features Dave's story. The company still hires people with criminal records. The Second Chance employment program has expanded to other Flowers Foods brands.
Dave himself continues speaking about mental health, criminal justice reform, and the reality that recovery is a journey, not a destination.
His story isn't a fairy tale. It's better than a fairy tale.
Because fairy tales are about perfection. Dave's story is about persistence.
He fell into addiction as a young man. He spent 15 years cycling through prison. He got clean, built a multimillion-dollar company, became a symbol of redemption—then had a mental health crisis that knocked him down again.
And he got back up. Again.
Not perfectly. Not heroically. Just humanly.
The lesson of Dave Dahl isn't "if you try hard enough, you'll succeed and never struggle again."
It's "you can achieve incredible things and still have demons. You can build an empire and still have breakdowns. You can be a symbol of redemption and still need help."
Success doesn't cure mental illness. Wealth doesn't erase bipolar disorder. A nine-figure exit doesn't mean you're done fighting.
But fighting is worth it.
Because between those prison sentences and that manic episode, Dave created something that changed thousands of lives. He proved that ex-cons deserve second chances. He built a company that actively disrupted hiring discrimination. He showed that redemption is possible—even if it's messy.
Fifteen years in prison didn't define him.
Building a $275 million company didn't complete him.
Having a breakdown didn't destroy him.
He's all of it. The prisoner, the baker, the entrepreneur, the advocate, the person with bipolar disorder, the symbol, the struggler.
He's human. Complicated. Flawed. Persistent.
And maybe that's the most important lesson:
Redemption isn't a destination you reach and then coast. It's not a finish line where you get to stop running.
It's a direction you keep choosing. Every day. Even when you fall. Especially when you fall.
Dave Dahl went from prison to building a bread empire to a psychiatric hospital to becoming a mental health advocate.
That's not failure. That's life.
Messy, complicated, painful, beautiful, ongoing life.
And every loaf of Dave's Killer Bread—still sold in stores, still employing people with records, still bearing his face—is a reminder:
Your past doesn't have to be your prison.
But your future won't be perfect either.
And that's okay.
Because the goal isn't perfection.
It's persistence.
Dave's still here. Still fighting. Still advocating. Still proving that the hardest lives can still rise—
Even when they fall again.
Especially then.