I am a convicted felon.

I don't look like the sort of person who might come to mind when one thinks of convicted felons. I'm a middle-aged, middle-income white woman. I'm a mother, grandmother, employee, friend, daughter and head of a nonprofit organization. I work hard, and I contribute to society.

In April of 1999, I was drunk, driving with a passenger, and I rear-ended an 18-wheeler. I was arrested and sent to jail. The passenger was transported to Memorial Hermann Hospital. Seven months later, on Nov. 9, 1999, I signed a guilty plea agreement for intoxicated assault.

As a condition of my probation, I spent six weeks in jail and was released Dec. 29, 1999. I was picked up downtown in the wee morning hours from Harris County Jail by my ex-husband and then-16-year-old son.

EDITORIAL: Hey Houston, register to vote now!

It was as we were driving into our neighborhood that it struck me that I had missed the holidays. The chill wind blew through the dried branches of Christmas trees that already were set out on the curb for trash collection. Long strands of garland-wrapped Christmas lights hung listlessly off houses, tinsel caught on shrubs, and empty white boxes with bits of tape and wrapping paper peeped out of trash cans.

The sadness I felt at spending Christmas and Thanksgiving in the Harris County Jail was mixed with the elation I felt at being released - and with the fear of that freedom. Because freedom, for me, had strings attached. Freedom now meant learning to live differently.

The plea deal I'd signed was for a 10-year probated sentence. I had agreed to a laundry list of strict requirements and expectations: I had to check in with a probation officer monthly, complete 500 hours of community service and stay employed; I was required to submit to random drug screenings and relinquish my right to vote. I completed all of these requirements and was released from probation eight years ago with exemplary status.

That was almost 20 years ago. But back then, sitting with my attorney in the courtroom, I would have done just about anything to stay out of jail and to eliminate the possibility of a trial. The conviction was deserved, and I was prepared to accept the consequences.

Now, years later, I have been working for approximately 22 years for the same company. I am a respected assistant to a high-profile executive. I raised my three children as a single mom. I provided for their education and purchased my own home. I pay my taxes, and I follow the rules.

And I am sober. I am an active member of several 12-step programs and have remained sober for 19 years. I sponsor and have sponsored numerous women in those programs and helped them achieve sobriety. I created a thriving nonprofit network for women.

Every election day, I have been reminded that in the angst and pain of my biggest mistake, I signed away rights that so many take for granted, including the right to vote. Although I completed all the conditions of my conviction many years ago, it was only after I'd written this essay that I learned that Texas allows felons to have their right to vote restored at the finalization of their sentence.

Meanwhile, I am permanently barred from serving on a jury and may regain the right to hold public office only if I am granted a full pardon.

My conviction stays with me in other ways, too. For example, I am unable to rent an apartment or house in most of Houston because few landlords will rent to a prospective tenant after a background check reveals a felony conviction. Should I ever need to look for a new job, my chances of finding one are vanishingly small now that almost all jobs require an online application that features a box to check if you have had a felony conviction. Though I might be well-qualified, checking the box is almost certain to send my résumé to the rejection pile.

I have paid my debt, and I have made amends. I have used my experience to change my life for the better. I am grateful for my sobriety and everything that recovery has gifted me. What's more, I accepted the consequences for my actions.

But I am less willing to accept that I should be considered a second-class citizen for the rest of my life. I'm well-informed, I work hard, I pay my bills on time and - like others who once made a terrible mistake but now have served their time - I could more fully contribute to society and to my community if I had my rights fully restored.

Pudwill is an executive assistant in the news division of the Houston Chronicle.