It feels like I should have something profound to say this week but I don't.

Whether I am just tired or living in a new stage of acceptance—the second Sunday in May is just the second Sunday in May. I will be skipping past the Mothers Day posts kindly exposing how “hard" this weekend can be. It is no longer consolation that other women are suffering—and it is certainly not a revelation.

Motherhood is nothing but the Olympics of holding on and letting go.

Prior to being the mother of an inmate, I assumed that the bad guys were locked up for a good reason, and that we were all safer as a result. I never asked what was happening in our prisons and frankly, I never cared. That is called passive indifference, and I no longer have the luxury.

Especially on family-centric holidays.

This past week, I heard a mom speak about her son’s suicide inside a local county jail. He had been in a solitary cell for 30 days and all family contact had been denied. After banging on his windowless door for an hour— pleading for help— he hung himself. His mom only knows of his last hours because his fellow inmates wrote to her after his death.

I heard another mom speak about her young daughter who was left alone in a cell, enduring a horrific series of seizures over a 72-hour period. Instead of medical care, she was given solitary confinement—where she died.

I know a mom who called the cops on her teenage son during a mental health crisis in their home, which resulted in him being arrested, charged, and put in an adult prison where he spent five formative years, mostly in an isolation cell.

Happy Mother's Day.

Because all prisoners have moms—Moms who are not allowed to visit, moms who can’t afford to visit, moms who are too far away to visit, moms who can no longer stand to visit, and moms who secretly visit without their friends or family knowing.

I am in the Not Allowed to visit category again this year (more on that here), but it is just one of the many barriers between us.

My son's facility just denied him my snail mail this week—marking it a violation of Prisoner Mail Policy QQ. #22: “Voluminous.” It was a paper print-out of my latest blog post which totaled 13 single-sided pages. Policy states anything beyond 12 pages “poses a threat to security, good order, and discipline.”

They also refused my son several of the books that I sent him last month because they did not have the proper receipt. Though I sent a receipt via email to the warden’s office, it was not the “Invoice Copy” which is, as of recent changes, the required documentation. This receipt, should you ever need it, is buried three layers deep in your Amazon account, accessible on your laptop only. Look for the one labeled packing receipt.

And no—they will not return those books. The mail room employees must have one hell of a library somewhere. I will have to reorder those books, re-paying for the exact same ones.

When you say, Do the Crime—Do The Time, you have no idea what we are saying. Mom, if she hangs in there, does the time too.

I gave birth to my son when I was 20-years-old.

I did not have a college education, I was unmarried, and I lived four hours away from my own family. Determined to do my best, I rushed head-long into being a mom—marrying his dad and inhabiting his dad’s world. We added two more kids before I turned 25. We built a home. I got my first degree. My husband worked from dawn until dusk, and I spent those years moonlighting as a martyr.

Being a stay-at-home mom was the hardest job I have ever done, until I became a prison mom.

Whenever anyone asks, “What would you tell your younger self?” I always think of that naïve and neurotic girl trying to do it all, trying to be all. I want to pull her aside to show her our wrinkles and greys.

What would I say to her? How about, “Slow the fuck down.”

I treated that whole season like a marathon, running breathlessly toward the balloon arch and medal ceremony at the end. For those just tuning in—there is no end and there certainly is no medal.

There are 80,000 moms in a U.S. prison right now. There are 1.25 million kids this weekend with a parent inside razor wire. There are two million American people locked in a cell the size of your half bathroom—and almost 30,000 more will get arrested today.

Never in my younger years did I think my Mother’s Day reflections would include thoughts about prisons and punishment and system failures, but here we are. I introduced myself to a room full of strangers this week as the Black Sheep Mom—and they immediately understood the moniker. I am not, by any measure, alone in this perspective.

When 50% of Americans have had an immediate family member in some type of locked cell, it is an epidemic. Half of our flock are black sheep.

So, no, there will be no brunch at the prison this weekend. There is no hug from my oldest child awaiting me. There is, however, a phone bank in the yard.

My son will wait in a long line this Sunday—no matter the weather—to make a call home. Before I hear his voice, I will be warned that it is a call from a Correctional Facility. I will be offered the option to report this prisoner for extortion or victimization, and I will be given the choice to block the number. I will be thanked for spending my money with GTL on my Mother’s Day and eventually, I will be told that I have one minute to say what's left to say. Then, I'll be hung up on.

And I will be more thankful for these difficult moments than you could ever imagine.

UPDATE:

This Sunday will, Lord willing, be the last Mother's Day that I will have to take a call or visit my oldest child inside prison walls.

He has been granted parole.

Though this is not breaking news for our paid subscribers, I want to thank ALL of the readers who have supported us through these difficult years.

Truth: I am struggling with the enormity of this new chapter, but we are hopeful and grateful and ready as we'll ever be. We have waited so long for this news.

Your subscription to Black Sheep Mom has and will continue to help us with transitions, and the blog will continue to center on carceral themes, the parole processes, and stories of other inmates and their families. My son wants to be a part of telling the truth, post-incarceration. We will NEVER not be working in this space.

My book is also in the works, and I will be releasing some of it sporadically as we move toward publishing.

The Ask: My son will be coming home with no worldly possessions—other than the books we've sent him in prison. From toiletries to bedding to clothing to a phone to a vehicle, he will have to build again from scratch.

If you would like to offer a one-time donation to secure basic necessities for him, we would be so thankful. You can gift any amount through this LINK. Conversely, if you can consider bumping your subscription up to paid during this transition time, I will make sure that every dollar goes toward furnishing his room and meeting his other basic needs. Even $8 a month buys toothpaste, soap, and shampoo!

Mostly, just thank you for being our supporters. You've made all the difference to us. Stay tuned for more reality as it comes. 🖤

The note below is a JPay message from my first Mother’s Day as a prison mom (during Covid lockdowns). What a heartbreak and a blessing to be able to look back, knowing how far we have come.

I married two of them.

A pair of well-worn Red Wing work boots turns me on. I like a guy who can rope and ride and mend the fence with his rough, meaty hands. Frequently, my throwback playlist will offer me “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone,” and I will sing at the top of my lungs, nostalgically:

Where is my John Wayne? Where is my prairie song? Where is my happy ending? Where have all the cowboys gone?

But for all of this damsel in distress dalliance, I have to admit that I have my limits. I cannot stand the site of a guy in a lifted, customized truck.

Instant turn-off.

Without ever seeing his bank account, I know that he spent more on after-market modifications than he invested into a 401k last year. I know (that I know that I know) he is the dude dm’ing every woman in his feed all week long with bullshit like “Morning, beautiful,” just hoping to get some lame, sloppy piece by Saturday night. This is the married guy who thinks the truck-snapback-beer trifecta earns him a weekend hall-pass when his wife takes the kids to her mom's.

Gross.

Not all pick-up owners are him, but every time I see this guy I am compelled to offer him condolences.

Sorry about your tiny penis, bro.

Which brings me to prison guards.

*Yes, I know there are decent and kind and empathetic corrections employees. Yes, I know it is a difficult job. Yes, I also know what I am about to say does not apply to all of them. But, dude—

Never in my life have I seen smaller dicks in one group—at lobby desks, ducking in and out of the visitation room, in their sprawling frat party walking across the parking lot at shift change. We see their penises repeatedly because they have to get them out and measure them in front of us, all of the time.

If I get nervous when visiting, I use the old speech class trick: Imagine them naked. Imagine them naked in their black socks with nothing but that stupid taser on their hip.

Sorry about your tiny penis, bro.

But really, I’m not.

Because they have used their unfortunate shortcomings as justification for treating other people (including my own son) very badly. They took the disillusionment from their high-school locker room to the academy where other small penises taught them how to make it look bigger. Now, they get up every day and tuck it into a costume that allows them to play alpha in a world of men (and women) who only let them think that they have control.

Because trust me, they do not.

In my many years of visiting prisons all over our state, I have watched my fair share of 350+ pound, wheezing, gimpy guards struggle past. These poor souls can barely make it across the room without stopping to catch their breath to open the next door.

I always look at my son in those moments, a silent acknowledgment between us. They wouldn’t stand a chance against him nor the other 99.9% of the men inside without their weapons.

And they know it.

Honestly, I could take them if I had to. All one-hundred-twenty-five pounds of the crackling middle aged, white woman I am. I guarantee I lift heavier than some of these guys—and I've been sick for 4 years.

When it takes nine of them in riot gear to subdue a single, unarmed man who has already been cornered in a cell, when they have to kick inmates in the face and wield pepper-spray like Ax Body Spray on local bar night in 2008—it tells all that we need to know.

“Stop fighting!” they wheeze repeatedly while crushing an incapacitated, motionless prisoner on the ground. No one is fighting you, bro, that is just what an elevated heart rate feels like.

Am I being harsh?

Absolutely not.

These ‘men’ have done things to my son that you wouldn’t imagine if we didn't tell you. Yet, some of these stories are not yet mine to tell, and they may never be. I asked my son if he had examples of poor treatment to share for this piece. He thought about it for a day and then called me back to say, emphatically, no. He warned me about sharing too much.

His former cellmate was suddenly transferred to a psychiatric hospital and pumped full of Haldol after he told the public about his own mistreatment, subsequent to filing a lawsuit against the D.O.C. for injuries received at the hands of a notoriously reckless CO (since cited for breaking another inmate’s back last year).

Someday, though, we envision offering a blog series about the things that have remained unspoken here. Stories that include both the kindnesses and the horrors my son has known in prison under his guardians.

Because someone needs to bear witness.

They openly mock helpless, disabled, and elderly inmates. They laugh at them aloud. As Emmett Tatter told us recently, these guards tell grieving men that they don’t deserve their visiting mothers. They get on the intercom and joke about the psych med-line: “Come get your therrrrrapy!” one shouts over the loudspeaker, with a laugh, every morning in my son’s facility. What kind of person gets off on the pain of others? Who clocks in every day to make a suffering individual’s day harder? Who kicks a man when he is already down?

We deserve to know because we pay their salaries.

These ‘men’ make up lies and charge the people in their “care” with bogus infractions in order to lessen their own workload. They relocate warring individuals into the same cell for sport. They don’t answer calls for help—letting our sons and daughters suffer and die alone in pain. They smuggle drugs into our prisons, and they have sex with rape inmates.

No, I’m not being too harsh.

Last week, I watched through the window as my dog dug up a mole and began to bat it about the yard, flipping it into the air—playing at killing it. I ran onto the deck and shouted at her to stop. She looked up, but she didn’t stop. I had to run toward her to get her to back off and leave that helpless thing alone.

I know that this post is just me standing on the deck of the prisons of this country screaming—we see how some of you treat defenseless, vulnerable beings and we also see the ones among you who do nothing to stop it. Dogs.

Dick-less, the whole lot of you!

When I get to leave the prison where my son resides for the last time, I will thank those who have been kind—and there are a few. And then, in my head, I will slip into full crash-out mode. With everything in me, I will be saying all of the things that I have held in for five years through the hot, stinging eyes of an exhausted but fighting mama wolf—

Don’t think I don’t see your insecurity and depravity, the protected little life you live out behind your bunker walls, where you cower behind a union and a public façade of “honor.” You’re the guy who has to come to a prison to feel any sense of power in your life. You’re the guy who has the chance to make a real difference every day and instead chooses middle school. You’re the guy who will still have to be here, petty and small and ineffective, when we drive away. Good luck, bruh.

Oh and—sorry about your tiny penis.

But really, I’m not.

For all of my blathering about the injustices of prison life, I am also sensitive to the fact that heinous crime occurs and when it does—beautiful, innocent people are brutally victimized, their lives forever altered. I stand with those who have experienced despicable human acts, unspeakable trauma, and life-altering crime.

Several years ago, I was riveted by a podcast about the murder of an 18-year-old women in Florida. I listen to the nine-part series to and from work everyday—obsessively. No stranger to injustice, I was extra, extra appalled by Florida's indifference to finding the truth about her murder. I became a frequent commenter about it on social media platforms, I shared the story every chance I got, and I followed the case closely until in 2024, the man convicted of her murder was let out of prison.

Because he didn’t do it.

I was beyond thrilled to see that the majority vote in both our polls and in personal messages to me made Bone Valley: A True Story of Injustice and Redemption in the Heart of Florida by Gilbert King our 2026 second quarter Misfit Lit Book Club pick.

This book tells the full story of the Leo Schofield case in Polk County, Florida. He was arrested, charged, and imprisoned in 1987 for the murder of his young wife. It would take 36 years behind bars before the true killer was named—and Leo was set free on parole.

If you haven't listened to the podcast feel free to dive in, but this book is an even deeper look into how wrongful convictions happen—a double victimization by our justice system. It is no longer enough to say that the authorities “get it wrong.” In this and so many other cases like it, the investigators and prosecutors manufacture injustice, they cling to unethical behavior, and viciously tamper with witnesses and evidence. And they steal innocent people’s lives in the process.

This book is also about prison life and visiting prison. It is about a family waiting, achingly, for someone to come from incarceration. It is about next level redemption and forgiveness. Ultimately, this book is about what we make out of indescribable heartbreak and loss.

And dear writers,

This book is also about the process one author went through to research and then expose these gross injustices while trying to make a living writing other things. He was out of his depth—he admits that—but he did it anyway, and he helped change the course of judicial history. We get to follow him into the prison and into numerous heated interviews, where raw humanity is exposed on both sides of this story. *If you choose the audio version, you’ll hear the actual interviews.

Heads up: this is a comprehensive book full of details about several crimes, including but not limited to, Michelle Schofield’s murder. Though it is not true crime per se, it is crime descriptive. Sensitive readers should take care.

Unfortunately: This is a new book, so it is only available in hardcover. Please—don’t let that deter you. Check out free sources if you cannot afford to buy this one outright. My library had three copies and if you have Spotify premium or Hoopla, the audio book is free. As noted, it features recordings from the original podcast “Bone Valley,” which you can find here.

Reading Guide for Bone Valley

As always, I have broken this down into do-able chunks that will take us through July. Read at your own pace or follow the schedule below. No one is counting your pages and you can join our discussions if you are not on pace.

Week 1 (Apr 21–27): Chapters 1–2 (30 pages)

Week 2 (Apr 28–May 4): Chapters 3–4 (30 pages)

Week 3 (May 5–11): Chapters 5–7 (45 pages)

Week 4 (May 12–18): Chapters 8–10 (45 pages)

[Meeting to chat?? TBD]

Week 5 (May 19–25): Chapters 11–12 (35 pages)

Week 6 (May 26–June 1): Chapters 13–14 (35 pages)

Week 7 (June 2–8): Chapters 15–17 (45 pages)

Week 8 (June 9–15): Chapters 18–20 (45 pages)

[Discussion #2: TBD]

Week 9 (June 16–22): Chapters 21–22 (35 pages)

Week 10 (June 23–29): Chapters 23–24 (35 pages)

Week 11 (June 30–July 6): Chapters 25–26 (40 pages)

Week 12 (July 7–Mid-July): Chapters 27–End (40 pages)

[Wrap Up Zoom Call, Date TBD]

We will meet a few times this summer on Zoom (I’ll send out links at a later date) to chat about this incredible story. I promise, you will never be the same after reading this. Are you joining us? Please R.S.V.P. in the comments, or message me anytime if you will be reading along!

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Also, please be inspired to invite true crime friends—the more the merrier.

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I say hello only to prompt her, that annoying computer lady with her sing-song list of warnings. I have made a fun habit out of preempting her nonsense by singing along—

“This is a pre-paid call from…If you feel you are being victimized or extorted by this prisoner…Thank you for using GTL…”

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If Jesus were brought to trial and condemned today, we would not frame pictures of a figure hanging on a wooden cross. No, we would have to iconize an empty white garment draped over a metal gurney.

His death was a state-sanctioned, politically-endorsed execution.

But nothing to see here—the rainbow eggs and jelly beans are back!

It is time to pull our white shoes from the closet and dig out the pastels. Those of us who believe or kinda believe or try to believe or used to believe but still do the family obligation thing will shimmy into our Sunday best, gather together, and hug all of the peoples inside the steeples. We will join in song and celebration—the tech team and floral swags, on point.

We have dutifully ordered more basket filler and yard toys from Amazon (an evil incarnate) but, hallelujah, the loan came through just in time to make a down-payment on the Easter ham after the St. Patrick corned beef put us in the hole last month.

It’s all watercolors and bluer skies, birth and renewal and the hope of things to come—what a beautiful season to celebrate a human execution. Because, like it or not, Easter is fundamentally about crime-and-punishment.

Before we get to the third day, we have to walk through the first day and witness Jesus’s death as it was intended—an example of how power elites deter social uprisings and regime change by the poor, dirty, rebel outsiders.

And that is all well and good if you take comfort in the redemptive possibilities offered by Jesus’s life and his progressive message, but the chocolate crosses in the grocery store check-out are a bit over the top. Someone, somewhere in a corporate meeting actually pitched the idea of making a candy mold of a human torture device.

And then they marketed it.

Since my son went to prison, I have refused to wear a cross.

You can call me too sensitive or ridiculous or even sacrilege, but until you are in my shoes maybe don't. God may very well have allowed the political torture of his own son, and you may find solace in the symbolism, but if that God knows my heart (and any God worth worshiping would) he sees why I can no longer stomach—let alone promote—governmentally sanctioned blood lust by adorning myself, in all things, a silver cross.1

There were no Catholics at the death of Jesus.

There were no Evangelical Christians there either.

Shockingly, no one at the murder of Jesus was wearing a cross at all. Not even his closest friends and family—which was, in reality, a whole bunch of moms and aunties.2

For me, Easter is about a middle-aged woman watching her son be dragged before the courts. It is a seasonal spotlight, if not for all of its nostalgia, on what man has historically done to other men in the name of ‘justice.’

I find it rather confusing to look around in the Year of Our Lord 2026 and see that it is the Christians in the crowd still chanting for the Death Penalty. God Bless Texas and the whole Bible Belt still wants to fund harsher prisons and DeSantis down in Florida with his “swift justice”— what a God-fearing man they say.

What Would Jesus Do?

Well, there are clues.

A first-century doctor named Luke interviewed eyewitnesses to Jesus’s final hours. He reported verbatim what people heard Jesus saying to the filthy, lying, thieving criminal next to him: “I’ll see you later at my house.”3

Then there was that one time the religious leaders dragged some poor woman accused of adultery to the center of town and literally threw her in front of Jesus—asking him to endorse the death penalty on her for a “crime” that would have involved not just her but a [conspicuously absent] male counterpart.

Jesus responded, and I quote, “If you’ve never done anything wrong, go ahead.”4

Awkwardly, everyone just left.

Jesus also told a whole bunch of tattle-tale, lawyering zealots to “Stop worrying about other people’s failures and deal with your own.”5

His enduring message was flat out—judge less harshly, forgive more, have mercy on other people. He flipped tables over abuses of power. And wait for it—he died to offer redemption.

The Bible fails to mention chocolate bunnies, but it does feature a few text threads about goats. Specifically, it talks about sacrificial goats and frankly, I think Russel Stover has missed an incredible merchandising opportunity here.

In Jesus’s time, during the annual purification ceremony of Yom Kippur, it was Hebrew tradition for an official to strap the “sins” of the community to a poor, unsuspecting goat which was then led out of town and abandoned to die a horrible demon-death in the wilderness somewhere far, far away from the people who had strapped all of their crap to its back.

They called Jesus the Sacrificial Lamb as a result of that heinous tradition—Behold him who takes away the sins of the world, and all of that.6

What kind of barbarians would do such a thing?

Well…

It’s us.

The idea that society must symbolically transfer human wrongdoing onto another—animal or person—as an act of atonement is now American. We are still very much scapegoating. We have even monetized it and convinced good people that it is patriotic.

Every day, we bundle up all of the sins that we, the chosen few, have deemed abominable: addiction, sexual deviancy, shoot—add poverty and mental illness in there too, and then we cast the animals out. Go be somewhere else. Don’t get any of that on the rest of us. Die alone, and we'll call it justice.

We should just own it, friends—we are Old Testament folks, not a nation of “Jesus followers” because if you believe that Jesus was capable to take away the sins of the world that means that you have to believe anyone can be redeemed and restored in real-time. Not “prayed for” and then injected with poison for their sins.

If you put on pastels and celebrate Easter, then you have to serve redemption for breakfast, lunch, and dinner the rest of the year too. Celebrating Easter means that we are responsible to come up with systems that search for redeemable qualities in people and offer them what Jesus offered—another chance to live and live with renewal and abundance and all of that weird Jesus Saves! stuff. Call me crazy, but a Christian nation should be doing Christ-like things.

I've no other way to say it—mass incarceration and capitol punishment violate the principals and examples and teachings of Christ's life, and our current criminal justice system renders his death useless.

It would take me weeks to unravel the arguments for and against the death penalty here and, frankly, I am not going to do that. You already believe what you believe about killing people for killing people based on what you have seen and heard and done (and what Insta accounts you follow) in this life. Your ideas about judicial homicide, are yours, and mine are mine.

This blog is not my attempt to convince anyone of anything.

But society deemed it necessary to cast my son into isolation to be hungry, beat-down, and shamed for his sins of addiction—with a whole bunch of their shit strapped to his back. Forgive me if I tend to see our country and all of its gross contradiction in full-color now.

I cannot stand talk of grace and redemption, when the people speaking those words vote for harsher judgement and steeper punishment for drug addicts.

Where is the mercy of the cross here, friends?

When I hear the stories of the men and women who have woken up to find themselves in prison this morning—including those on death row—I take note of their filthy childhoods, the squalor and poverty they have endured. I hear about unspeakable abuses upon them as children, where mental illness and disease and ‘undesirable’ genetic traits altered their understanding of the world. I hear of cycles of addiction and isolation and the abject failure of the adults who were supposed to care for them—foster systems, school systems, juvie systems.

I also know from personal experience that one moment, one bad decision can alter your life permanently. As a result, I could never be the first to throw a stone or flip a switch.

As the great writer and attorney Clarence Darrow once wrote, “I’ll believe in the death penalty when they start executing rich people.” And to his point, I think it's time that they just release the full Epstein list already.

Happy Easter, America!

Links to a few good books on the reality of American death penalty:

Crossing the River Styx (The Memoir of a Death Row Chaplain) by Russell Allen Ford

Last Words of the Executed by Robert K. Elder

Here is the recording of today’s Zoom Call where we discussed Tolstoy’s Resurrection—a mammoth piece of literary humanity. A huge thank you to those who joined in, and a big welcome to those of you watching now!

TLDR; Tolstoy is a master. Read this book.

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We will meet again on Weds, April 22nd at 1pm (EST) to launch Q2’s Misfit Lit Book Club pick (take poll below). The link for that meeting is [HERE], but I’ll send it out beforehand too!

The Summary of today’s call:

Tolstoy wrote Resurrection as a moral indictment of the criminal justice and prison systems of his time (1890s). More than a century later, the unsettling questions he lobs over the fence still remain unanswered.

Firstly, let us consider his title—

Why do you think Tolstoy named this novel ‘Resurrection’?

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I promise that it was mere coincidence that we have ended this novel just days before Good Friday and Easter—the pinnacle of the Christian Church calendar. For the record, Tolstoy had developed life-changing internal conflicts with the Big C church, and he was openly wrestling with the orthodoxy. He found himself, as is clear in this book, far more invested in his own self-inquiry and moral action rather than institutional rigmarole.

Tolstoy chose to end this book with a reading of Christian texts. Why? Was it helpful to you in driving his points about morality home? Or nah…

When a “system” causes harm, who is responsible?

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Every system is made up of the human parts which make it function. Courts are manned by human beings, laws are written and re-written by human minds, juries are made up of twelve homo sapiens and their human opinions.

If a “court” then gets something wrong, who should be held responsible? Not the judge (who has immunity), nor the lawmakers (who have immunity), nor the juries (who have immunity and anonymity). Essentially, in our model, no one will ever be responsible for taking someone’s life from them wrongly or pronouncing false/harsh/misguided penalties.

In the book, we read about Katyusha being sentenced to hard labor in Siberia over a clerical mistake. A brief misunderstanding in sentencing guidelines results in her being sent away for brutal punishment—and this still happens every day in this country. Who is responsible for wrongful convictions or for abuses in prisons? Could it be us, the taxpayers, who pay to keep it going?

What was the most impactful social encounter of this novel for you?

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We have so many options from which to choose—

1. The rich people eating so grossly, concerning themselves with frivolity, indulging only their senses.

2. The jury.

3. The poor kid who breaks the law out of necessity.

4. Encounters at the prisons.

5. The brother-in-law scene.

6. The visit to the peasants.

7. The exiles who are dropping like flies on the march to Siberia.

8. The visits to officials for help.

9. Insert your own ______________.

Personal Reflection

For me— it was the discussions about prison conditions with “good people” who were “just doing their job.”

A large chunk of this book witnesses Nekhlyudov (a respected person in society) petition authorities, political acquaintances, and corrections staff for reasonable interventions, visitation, and policy clarifications—and he is met with roadblock after roadblock at every turn.

This part of the book is not fiction!!

It often feels like no one really cares when it is your incarcerated loved one who needs someone to intervene with human care. My son went three years without dental intervention, in spite of pain, in spite of him asking for help through proper channels, and in spite of me petitioning from the outside on his behalf through both legal and medical channels.

Over and over again, my concerns fell on deaf ears at the prison level. When I visited the Capitol and met with elected officials about my concerns, they referred back to the hapless D.O.C. for answers. The heads of our D.O.C. will not reply to any requests and the pencil pushers and PR people below them are indifferent, aloof, and rude—on their best day.

IMO, Tolstoy accurately characterizes each of the law men, overseers, officials, and prison employees I have known. They (and their families) will tell you that they are “good” and “just” people doing society a favor by upholding policies. After all, they’re “just doing their job.”

But rules books are not moral, in and of themselves.

Laughing at an inmate in pain is not justice. My son literally had an corrections officer point at him from the control panel of his pod and laugh like a kindergartener would—he said it was a na-na-na-boo-boo moment, a grown man in uniform pointing and laughing. My son was then cuffed up and sent to the hole for telling him to “grow the fuck up.”

So, yeah, coming to work and choosing to treat people less than you does not make you society’s best—I don’t care what badge nor experience you hold. Looking away when someone needs help isn't honorable. In case it needs saying, beating handcuffed and isolated people is low-life behavior—and is far too common for me not to mention in the wake of this book.

Tolstoy knew it in 1899, and ain't shit changed.

Resurrection suggests that the biggest problem isn’t bad laws or prison conditions, but rather the moral indifference of ordinary people.

Other considerations we touched on:

1. Jury deliberation: Even good people on a jury can be instructed wrongly. What moral responsibilities do we have as citizens to be informed jurists? What moral responsibility does the court have to correct errors/delays in sentencing (in real-time, not years later)?

2. Bureaucratic Indifference: People are being paid to look away. When and how do we hold our elected officials accountable for high recidivism rates, death rates, drug smuggling by prison officials?

3. Continued Social Biases: Why did the Oscars snub The Alabama Solution? Why do we still support the death penalty when it has not deterred crime?

4. Prison Failure: “Prison cannot guarantee our safety, because those people don’t stay inside forever. They let them out. It works the other way round: these institutions drag men down to the lowest levels of depravity and vice, and this increases the danger.” Part II, Chapter 34, 1899

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Russian Tea Cakes Recipe

And now, for the fun part.

I have had this recipe for over twenty years, thanks to my incredible chef-friend Karina. It is a worthy throwback this week—to simpler times in my life, to imperfect messes in the kitchen, and chats over [coffee] tea. Here is the OG recipe card:

Ingredients

• 2 cups butter, softened

• 1 cup powdered sugar (plus more for dusting)

• 2 teaspoons vanilla

• ½ teaspoon salt

• ½ teaspoon almond extract

• 4½ cups flour

• 1½ cups nuts (pecans, if you have them)

Instructions

1. Cream together the butter, powdered sugar, and vanilla until smooth and light.

2. Gradually mix in the flour, salt, almond extract, and nuts. The dough will thicken—let it.

3. Form into a ball, cover, and chill in the refrigerator for about 30 minutes.

4. Roll into 1-inch balls and place on a cookie sheet.

5. Bake at 400°F for 8–10 minutes, until just lightly golden.

6. While still warm, dust generously with powdered sugar.

Mostly, enjoy with a friend who lets you be you.

*Gluten free? Dairy Free? → Try [this beautiful recipe] instead.

Our Next Book—

If you haven’t noticed, we read differently here.

The Misfit Lit Book Club is an option for people who want to dig a little, question some things. This is a small group of readers who endeavor to change the world.

Our next book will not be Russian Lit but I promise it will be impacting, nonetheless. If you're interested, you’re welcome to check it out next round. Please take a second to vote for what you would like to read next time (touch the answer you want to vote).

The reveal is coming!

If you think you might want to join in next quarter, reply ‘book club’ or email me to be included in future book club updates.

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And yeah, that tracks.

It’s spring here in the north where we are all a bit grey and bloated. I have also recently endured another nasty viral outbreak in the wake of stress and travel, and this time, it has manifested itself as open sores on my face. I am not only an anonymous manatee, I look like one who got chewed up by a boat prop. All fleshy and bobbing about in life— a sea cow, a water potato, an aquatic marshmallow with scabs.

Thanks, Google, for pointing it out.

In related news, I am turning forty-nine next week. I had geared up to ignore this birthday, to file it away as insignificant—forty-nine is an odd number with no milestone effect, no real purpose other than to mark the last of a decade. The end of something. “It’s just another day,” I'll say with a coy flick of the wrist.

But you’re here for honesty, so—forty-nine is actually a big deal to me. I made it through another brutal year of my kid’s incarceration and weathered a bunch more crap that I still haven’t processed well enough to share with you. The dealer dealt some real garbage for the last round, but I am still playing the hell out of my hand.

If for no other reason, I am here to celebrate that.

When I was a kid, I used to spend my entire recess on the swings next to a dark-haired girl named Nikki. Every day through first (or was it second?) grade, we would pump our legs up to the sky and sing The Gambler by Kenny Rogers—in its entirety—as loud as we could.

“Every gambler knows that the secret to survivin’ is knowing what to throw away and knowing what to keep.”

At forty-nine, I am so much better at knowing what to throw away than I have ever been. That is, I think, precisely what our forties are for—dropping the expectations. Letting go of the nonsense. Jumping off of the magical-thinking train that hauls us through our thirties.

Case in point:

No one is taking you to Ireland for your birthday, Bridget.

Take your damn self.

I am definitely not offering claims on the year ahead. I’m either gonna do it, or I’m not. It’s either gonna happen or it won’t.

Parole, better health, writing my tell-all book.

I now accept that life rarely goes the way I want—and certainty never in the preferred time frame. Just yesterday, I was twenty-five and this week, I’m forty-nine—with a totally different set of eyes, a different heart, different beliefs, and damn it, different skin.

I would like to take a moment to apologize for my former proclamations about graceful aging—It turns out that I will be spending just a few minutes of my “one wild and precious life” lamenting my youthful skin and formerly supple joints. It turns out, I lament—a lot. The truth is, you can be grateful and still mourn.

Sure, there was a brief season of acceptance when the first grays popped up but I see now that that was just curiosity—the flaming afterburners of youth, the thrill of climbing to new altitudes.

I spent my early forties eating up Instagram shares, conjuring the energies of the matured muses like Helen Mirin and Meryl Streep. It never dawned on me that they both have professional hair, makeup, and wardrobe staff to help out with gravity.

The hard truth is that passing a mirror at forty-nine leaves me genuinely gobsmacked. Someone please tell this gets easier because I am not accepting my face slowly disappearing with any grace whatsoever. It was much easier to “accept” myself when my skin was starting to sag. It is a completely different scenario now that it has sagged.

Past tense. Done deal.

And yes, I know there are levels to this, dear sixty and seventy and eighty-year-old friends. I know that you find my musings at this mile marker a bit silly. I know that I will experience more and more astonishment on this journey, if I’m blessed more decades, but nevertheless—my creases tour has begun in earnest. Even my knees have developed frown lines. My neck-skin started giving ‘tortoise’ this year. You don’t come back from reptile neck without surgery and, thanks but no, I’m not chancing death from anesthesia because I don’t like my décolletage in family pictures.

Anyway, I finally understand at my core why Diane Keaton wore turtlenecks in July and why Nora Ephron resonated so well. Year forty-eight was the year that I started considering filters. Then I deleted Facebook. Then I stopped posting on Instagram. I figure, if I have to use a filter on my face (which makes it not actually my face) the picture isn’t that important. That's not thriving. That's screaming help me!—I’m desperate to be someone else. And btw, the ‘90s trends on socials are killing me right now.

What were you like in the 90s, mom?

Forty-nine years ago this week, my mom named me after a first-generation Irish immigrant—a true Bridget if ever there was.

A 1910 census places that Bridget as head of household after she was widowed at twenty-six when her husband drowned in Lake Superior. She was left with five children under the age of eight in the wilds of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

To survive, and keep her kids alive, she sold hardware goods door to door on foot, in a region of the country that averages eighteen FEET of snow per year. She walked those streets in heavy, wool dresses and flimsy leather lace-up boots. She never remarried. She never held a drivers license. And shockingly, she never posted a selfie.

She just lived her damn life.

I have a picture of her standing out in front of her home, the one she owned free and clear as a single woman before World War II. Tough as nails, sweet as pie, with her shock white hair and deep wrinkles. She lived independently until her kids insisted that she move to Detroit with them during the auto-boom, where she eventually died on her eighty-ninth birthday.

Our name, Bridget, means strong. Bridget—the prop-scarred manatee, the ancient turtle with sagging skin, the woman without a filter. Let’s do this, forty-nine…

"Aging is not for the weak. One day you wake up and realize that your youth is gone, but along with it, so go insecurity, haste, and the need to please. You learn to walk more slowly, but with greater certainty. You say goodbye without fear, and you cherish those who stay. Aging means letting go, it means accepting, it means discovering that beauty was never in our skin— but in the story we carry inside us." —Meryl Streep

Coming up this month on Black Sheep Mom—

We will meet LIVE next Friday, March 27th at 1pm (EST) to discuss Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy.

Here is the LINK for the Zoom Call. (Passcode, if needed, is c6uW9A)

This will be the final meeting for this book, and all are welcome to join. I'm bringing Russian Tea Cakes (recipe share pending)—feel free to come with food and beverage or whatever makes you comfy.

We will meet again in mid-April when our next book (and reading schedule) will be announced. Reminder: we read one book per quarter. Please give me an idea where we're heading below.

Lastly…

We're still looking toward a favorable parole outcome. Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers this month. If you want to keep the coffee flowing, we could definitely use a few more pots.

Buy My Son A Coffee

If you have landed here, you have, no doubt, traveled some distance in life. You have come from places others can hardly imagine. Black Sheep Mom doesn’t just appear in any feed, it arrives to the passionate souls.

We are so lucky to have you here.

My name is Bridget, and I have a son in prison.

When you have an incarcerated child and you dare to mention it, the looks are humbling. A record scratches somewhere and the music stops. People try to be gentle, but nonverbals betray them. Feet shuffle, hands fidget, eye contact gets weird.

In that moment, a question hangs between us: What did he do?

The question itself is common, and maybe justified, but I often make it about me. I carry a heavy sense that I, his mom, somehow contributed to a bad-ness in the world.

What kind of parent were you?

Have you no shame?

Well, there are three versions of every story: yours, mine, and the truth.

There are nearly two million people incarcerated in the United States, and every one of them was born to a mother. Until we are in it, we can remain blissfully unaware that 50% of Americans have a relative living inside of an American jail or prison.

And in spite of these facts— the stigma is enough to keep a suffering, perplexed mom silent. I have, in fact, been quiet for a long time. Not because I am ashamed of my son, but because I have been keenly aware that the outing of these truths could be a liability to my professional reputation and/or make other people uncomfortable. You see, I’m not just a prison mom.

I am a licensed psychologist. I have three other children. I have a spouse and seemingly shiny life that you would never know is linked to prison matters.

But I am over all of that.

Black Sheep Mom isn’t just a personal tale — it’s a call to understand how incarceration affects all American people. It is a reckoning.

My posts include real-time stories from prison visits and calls, emotional honesty, policy insights, and links to facts and figures which impact not only our family, but yours.

Because what my son and two million other inmates are exposed to, exposes you.

Americans collectively spend over $2 billion a year as taxpayers only to see over two-thirds of our prisoners re-arrested within three years of release. Over 95% of State prisoners are slated to come back to the community at some point in the future, and a full 46% of them will be reincarcerated within five years.1

All of us are getting completely ripped off.

Please Know

I am not here to push an agenda.

I am Team Us.

Black Sheep Mom is not a platform to convince you of anything, but to open a discussion because frankly all of the red people, the blue people, those who have stars or those who have none upon thars— everyone is welcome here.

Please jump into the discussions within these most popular posts:

Behind the Wall

Your presence here matters more than your subscription tier.

Most of my posts are open to the public, some are not. Sometimes the information that I have to share is personal. Given that my son is housed in a maximum security prison at Level Four, it is not safe to allow the general public, the D.O.C., and casual trolls access to these posts. Details about our lives are reserved for our community, for those who are invested in the discussion and change for the better in this world.

Paid subscriptions 100% fund my son’s commissary, book purchases, phone calls, and JPay messages. Our paid subscribers are life to us. You are sustaining a real man in a real prison in real-time, and there are no words that will ever convey our gratitude.

I send out an email newsletter every other Friday. On alternate weeks, I throw in extra content, chats, throwbacks, and other insights for paid subscribers.

Lastly, if you like a challenge, join our Misfit Lit Book Club! We read one justice-adjacent book per quarter and meet on Zoom to chat periodically. I would love to see you there.

Never miss an update—every new post is sent directly to your email inbox. For a spam-free, ad-free reading experience, plus audio and community features, get the Substack app. And always, message me or comment. That's what I'm here for!

🖤 Love, Bridget

For the next minute only, do NOT think about a white bear.

Okay, go.

⏳️

You’re thinking about a white bear, aren’t you?

Don’t Think About It

The above psychology experiment, pioneered by the late Daniel Wegner, proves that our attempts to suppress thoughts often make them more persistent.

This is called the ironic process theory.

Trying not to think of something can paradoxically increase its presence in our minds—resulting in either better observation and understanding or increasing our anxiety, obsession, and self-control failures.

It depends on what you are “not” thinking about.

In my case, the state of life inside American prison is something that I have implored myself not to dwell on. Not because I don’t care (clearly I do), but because I have to function every day.

I flew to Texas last week, and as always, I left home with a bag of mixed thoughts. Even after years of doing this, flying to another state makes me feel like I have left my son at an abusive daycare—as if me being right outside the door would protect him anyway.

Leaving home just increases the odds that white bears will appear. White bears will come up in conversation with Uber drivers. I will pass white bears on my way to a hotel. And the damn heartless news cycle will show me dozens more.

Case in Point

“Everyone knows you can get more drugs in prison than you can outside,” said Michigan's House Rep Pothusky in a statement before a February 24th hearing on the condition of Michigan prisons.

“Do we know where they are coming from?” asked another Representative.

“I can tell you that they are not being parachuted over the walls,” testified a former MDOC employee.

Several former employees, as well as the man who independently oversees Michigan’s prison conditions, shared personal knowledge that drugs are—by and large—coming in through State employees. Covid proved that, they said.

More specifically, Corrections Investigative Officers were openly called out as known smugglers of contraband. State Investigators work for internal affairs—they are the prison system’s internal police. They exist to investigate misconduct, corruption, crimes inside facilities, and [sometimes, maybe kinda sorta] staff wrongdoing. They organize the K-9 drug searches, for goodness sake.

Just so we’re clear—

The people who are paid to ensure that the prisons are safe are the ones slipping illegal drugs into strategically placed mop buckets in said facilities.

That was the sworn testimony last week.

I watched that hearing on a flight after a friend from Michigan texted me the link. White bear, white bear, white bear. During much of it, I was shaking my head so violently that the man in the seat next to me must have thought I had a seizure disorder.

I met his eyes twice to assure him that I was okay.

But I was not okay.

As the committee sat through the testimony about prison conditions and drug smuggling, I was hearing LIVE on YouTube what my son has told me privately for years. I pictured him on his bunk. I pictured his junkie cellmate pacing the floor beside him.

And then I put my phone away and begged myself not to think about the white bear for a little while.

You Do the Hokey-Pokey

We all know that there are drugs inside our prisons, and that the problem is worse than it has ever been, but—

Do we know about the assembly line of fatal overdoses?

Do we realize that there are entire units standing like statues in fentanyl folds—right in front of the guards—and no one is doing anything?

*Watch The Alabama Solution to see it with your own eyes.

And while the DOC still wants us to believe that visitors and families are the main source of contraband, study after independent study has revealed that staff violations make up the bulk of contraband-related incidents every year.1234

As a family member, I can scarcely get a piece of lint past the guards when I check in.

I am not allowed to wear hoodies or jackets to the prison. My pockets are turned inside out. I take off my socks and hand them over. My shoes go through scanners. I walk through metal detectors, barefoot, and then get fully patted down (around the bra line and then a nice inner thigh to ankle rub). I open my mouth, lift my tongue, shake out my ponytail, and turn myself around.

Clap, clap, clap.

That’s what it’s all about.

Even if a family member could get one small piece of K2 paper past the hokey-pokey at the entrance, how we pass it to our loved one while under constant video and staff surveillance in our visit is beyond me.

I have to throw away all food wrappers before delivering food to my son from the prison vending machine. I am not allowed to bring him water in a cup. In fact, I have to stand at the drinking fountain and drink my own cup of water—no cups are allowed between us. I sit across from him at a low, see-through acrylic table for each visit and I am allowed only two moments of contact—one hello hug and one at goodbye—both closely watched by multiple staff personnel on either side of us.

When our visits are over, he is taken out and strip searched—the kind that requires a bend and cough. Every. Single. Time. Even if we had achieved the impossible to this point, there is no paper nor contraband making it beyond that point without guard approval.

Trust me, as a witness to this whole thing. It is far easier for an officer to be shady. And they have motive.

One single drug-soaked piece of paper can fetch upwards of $35,000 inside a correctional facility. These employees are making $50,000 a year to put their lives in danger every day inside a toxic and corrupt work culture where no one is watching them watching. This isn’t rocket science.

Google “drugs smuggled by corrections officers in [your state]” just for fun—

I found that a New York prison guard had 49 drug-laced pages on him and another day in the same month, another CO had an entire comic book of drug sprayed paper en route to his network of dealers inside.5

It isn’t the families fueling the drug epidemic in our prisons.

White Bears

As if on cue, on the day following the hearing that I had watched on the plane, there surfaced a news article about a man named Casey Wagner—an Arsenal Sargent at (yup) a Michigan prison.

The report detailed his arrest on February 20th. Another huge white bear sighting. Sgt. Wagner had been busted with over 196 guns, dozens of homemade explosive devices, and a whole bunch of stolen prison munitions, pepper spray, and riot gear.

Weapons and gear that, I will remind you, Michigan taxpayers bought.

As usual, I went down the side trails with my little red basket because my son lives in those twisted forests—and what a treasure trove of more bear droppings I stepped upon. Sargent Wagner was also found in possession of one ounce of methamphetamine as well as packaged, saleable marijuana—enough to be worth thousands of dollars inside.

This is a man who had been stationed at the front gates of an American prison for years, positioned perfectly to allow the free-flow of contraband. The DOC statement about his arrest is a cut-and-paste which assures us that the department is aware of this one bad actor. Except he’s not.

Here are just a few recent news stories from Michigan. Separate MDOC employees. Separate MDOC prisons. Separate dates. *Follow the links to read the articles.

Prison guard charged for trying to get drugs into UP prison

• The estimated value of the seized items was approximately $443,000 per Michigan State Police.

• 15 sheets of suspected K2 paper, 50 A12 suboxone strips, 514 N8 suboxone strips, 74 grams of marijuana wax and 62 grams of methamphetamine were seized.

MDOC officer sentenced for smuggling drugs into prison

• Employed by MDOC since 2000.

• He pled guilty to nine felonies: three counts of delivering narcotics or cocaine, plus two counts of manufacturing or delivering a controlled substance and one count of maintaining a drug house.

Michigan Corrections Officer sentenced for smuggling drugs inside prison

• He was caught smuggling 151 strips of Buprenorphine.

• His charges carried a possible 12 years in prison—he got 90 days.

Whistle-blower alleges corruption at Michigan Department of Corrections

• This source has named over 50 MDOC employees involved in drug smuggling activities including current and former prison guards, nurses, and “non-custody” staff responsible for inmate support.

Former Michigan Corrections Officer Charged with Drug Distribution

• This officer had “54.8 grams of methamphetamine, 309 suboxone strips, 10.2 grams of heroin, five syringes of what was assumed to be liquid THC, a plastic bottle filled with marijuana wax, six Oxycodone pills and 5.86 grams of cocaine on prison grounds.”

• He faced up to 90 years in prison. He got three (which is seven years less than my son got for some methamphetamine dust in a baggie).

Judge Dismisses Lawsuit Against Lakeland Correctional Facility

• A Michigan mom sued MDOC after learning about a [known] drug smuggling operation that killed her son.

• This case involved a female MDOC corrections officer, her inmate lover, and them smuggling drug-laden basketballs into the prison yard.

• One man died and two were hospitalized (in one week) but no official action was taken.

And it’s not just in Michigan.

It’s everywhere.

There are so many white bears in the corrections world that even if you don’t want to picture them, you have no choice now.

Update: Parole

Please visit the chat for more about where we are this month. Prayers, please!

Update: Your Support

Black Sheep Mom is now one year old and subscription renewal season is upon us! If you signed up to support us last year, you're probably getting a notice to renew.

Your support has continued to allow my son basic necessities in prison, and you've given me the inspiration to keep writing. You’ve no idea how many times the words “you have a new subscriber” has brought me to tears. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.

Maybe you are able to become a Founding Member or maybe you can make the bump up to a yearly subscriber this time, but if a paid subscription is not possible for you right now, there are still so many other ways to share the love—your likes, comments, shares, and restacks bring more readers and support our way too. Please consider sharing my emails when you can!

Share Black Sheep Mom

As always, you can buy my son a one-time coffee HERE too. For reference: A four-ounce bag of coffee is about $10 and that lasts him five or six days.

Update: Misfit Lit Book Club

We are now more than halfway through Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. You can find all of the book club updates in a separate tab on my home page. Click below:

Misfit Lit Book Club

Please plan to join us on Zoom on Friday, March 27th at 1pm (EST) through this LINK where we will discuss Resurrection in its totality and explore what we have taken away from this very underrated work. I will be there LIVE with tea and cake because this Zoom will be the week of my birthday and anyway, who needs an excuse for tea and cake?! Please bring your lovely self and all the treats you desire.

**Even if you have not read the book or are just a few pages in, you are welcome to join us! Always.

This chat is for anyone standing in the high winds of Life.

We discussed the realities of accepting what is, looking for the good, learning to let go, setting boundaries, and listening to our bodies when they need to rest.

In addition to having an awesome name (which she spells correctly, lol), Bridget offers a gentle, accepting embrace for us all. Her own story has inspired me, and I'm so grateful for her loving work in the world!

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An ever increasing desire to scale the steps of my Capitol building and flip someone off to their face.

If you know, you know.

In my home, I am the malcontent who obsessively clears the countertops of where-did-all-of-this-come-from, the maniac who purges the junk drawer and bathroom cabinets, the house-elf who throws away the leftovers while muttering and sighing.

I am also the one who neatly gathers our tax forms into a clean manila envelope every year.

As the 2025 statements came rolling in over the past two months, I felt every bit of my age. And while complaining about taxes is the very thing that birthed our modern nation (and remains a national pastime), my irritation is very specific—

I wrote a $720 check last year to fund incarceration. So did my husband.

And so did you.

Of course, if we factor in the costs for community policing and courts, it's more like $1,700. Worse—that’s more than we paid for our local libraries, fire departments, emergency services, and local parks combined in 2025.

“Well, that's the price of keeping our neighborhoods safe,” you say. “If that is what it takes to keep criminals off of my street, I'll pay double.”

And to that, my inner Columbo smiles and interjects—

It’s just… one little thing.

Probably nothing but what’s bothering me is…

If safety was the end-product, I wouldn't feel so hesitant to let my seven year old ride his bike in our neighborhood without me. If investing in Corrections led to actual Correction, the system would be ever-shrinking, not expanding.

What Are We Doing?

You can argue that you might be willing to pay more in taxes to be saved from the likes of my criminal drug-using son (45% of prisoners are in for non-violent crime) but from where I sit, that’s just piss-poor budgeting.

Prison is one of the LEAST cost-effective ways to improve community safety, and 95% of our incarcerated folks are coming home anyway.

While we are toiling to pay top dollar for the construction and maintenance of more state-run cages, our young and impulsive citizens pace their days into less employability. Our tax money is contributing to recidivism and more violence—and collectively, we keep signing the annual contract.

While I’m not going to use this piece to explore alternatives like drug treatment over prison, there's a valuable point to add here: Every $1 spent on substance use treatment saves $4–$7 in reduced crime and criminal justice costs1—and we haven’t even gotten to exploring what investments in options like job training, housing, home detention, and expanded youth programs could do for our collective well-being.

No, instead we accept headlines like these:

“Alabama's new super-sized prison is costing over $1 billion to build”2

“Utah spent $1 billion to build a new prison. Now, lawmakers want $130 million more.”3

“ICE’s Largest Prison Contractors Hail ‘New Growth Opportunities’ as Revenue Reaches All-Time High”45

“MDOC tells appropriations subcommittee it faces more than $320 million in five‑year facilities needs”6

And why is MDOC hitting up Michiganders for more cash when their corrections budget is already $2.2 billion per year? Because it is an industry. Roughly 75–80% of MDOC correction spending goes to:

• Officer salaries

• Overtime

• Pensions

• Healthcare benefits

And here’s the real throat punch—

When prisons are understaffed and corrections officer overtime skyrockets, we are the ones paying time-and-a-half to keep it all running. In most states, corrections overtime has exploded into hundreds of millions each tax cycle.

Meanwhile, only 3% of the corrections budget addresses mental health or programming created to facilitate rehabilitation of the people we are incarcerating.

Shame on us.

Shame on every single one of us.

If you are a long-time reader, you may recall my two-part series on the real financials of American incarceration.

In Part One, Coffee is Life, I exposed the amount of money that my family pays out-of-pocket for things like coffee, deodorant, and shower shoes (none of those are included in a prison stay). Just this week, I overheard my son bartering for coffee during one of our phone calls (he had run out on Monday and his next store doesn't come until today). The other inmate didn't want or need his powdered milk product, so no deal. It crushed me to learn that he is trading his breakfast this week for a single shot of coffee every morning (this morning he gave away a tray of something that resembled biscuits and gravy).

In Part Two of my financial series called Eat the Rich, I exposed the opportunistic money grubbers (by name) who have created and enjoyed monopolies (and bought yachts and Lambos) at your tax dollar expense. According to Time Magazine this month, two of the largest prison profiteering corporations raked in over $4.8 BILLION in total revenue in 2025. And we paid them that money.7

Here’s what those folks are contributing to society:

• Alabama taxpayers are building a massive new prison, with costs ballooning to about $1 billion (plus) for multi-thousand-bed facilities.

• South Dakota taxpayers have earmarked funds that could total up to $2 billion over the next decade on new prison construction.

• Indiana taxpayers recently broke ground on a $1.2  billion replacement correctional facility.

• Pennsylvania’s State Correctional Institution (Phoenix) opened in 2018 after taxpayers laid out $400 million for it.

Seriously, what are we doing?

• A new medium-security prison costs $100,000–$150,000 per bed, more than building a classroom for 30 students.

• Annual inmate healthcare costs can exceed $10,000 per prisoner, more than what the average American spends on their own healthcare premiums.

• Lifetime cost of incarceration per person: a single 5-year prison term can cost taxpayers $250,000.

If we knew of the wasted time, money, and talents inside our prisons, we would demand something different.

Bad Boys

I haven't faithfully watched the NBA since the Bad Boys era in Detroit. What with all of the tanking going on these days, who really cares anymore?8

Another product of my middle age status: I only consider The Pistons anymore from the vantage point of it being a franchise. The team’s owner, Tom Gores, also owns a California-based private equity firm called Platinum Equity. In 2017, he spent 1.6 billion to buy Securus Technologies. Together with Global Tel Link (a company that I am forced to use nearly every day)—Tom Gore’s Securus, controls over 80% of the prison phone and video call services in the United States.

To the tune of about $700 million in revenue every year.

Well, you say, it's a free market and Gore assumed the risk that others didn't. He's creating jobs and income for investors. This is the backbone of American commerce.

Okay, but just know you're paying the mortgage on his $100 million Beverly Hills property this year because in most states, prison phone call subsidies are taxpayer-funded.

Here’s another tax consideration:

Why would the GEO Group (a private corporation) buy out Behavioral Interventions Inc. of Colorado for $415 million?

Because BI Inc. (once a polygraph maker) manufactures electronic ankle monitors, GPS ping devices, and voice recognition devices. GEO oversees approximately 60,000 people on parole across all 50 states. Not satisfied with their current monopoly on prison operations, the GEO Group saw releases from prison to be a major cut in their profits so they grabbed up the parole supervision market as well. They are lovingly calling this the ‘alternatives to detention’ project.

Just imagine the money to be made in governmental ICE contracts right now— they must be frothing at the mouth.

So this is middle age—

I am actively working to find an investment firm that can handle my 401k portfolio without supporting prison profit. My current provider has told me No-can-do. If you invest in any funds at all, you're funding prison profiteers.

Why?

Because the hooks of American commerce are in nearly every aspect of the American Prison Machine. It is almost impossible to untangle your investments and retirement funds from the prison industry.

And I get it.

We work hard. We want to make the most return on our investments, and so be it if we keep ‘bad’ people locked up in order to do so. But—whether you care about prison reform or not, it is silly for investors (aka taxpayers) to put their fingers in their ears and turn a blind eye right now. Even if we are invested and enjoying a tiny little return on our money each year, the exchange of our peak employment years for the mess of recidivism that we get is an insult.

And please, my beautiful friends, don’t knee-jerk into blaming the Republicans. That’s a wear out. The 1994 Crime Bill, which guaranteed longer sentences (and therefore more prison profit), was championed by a democratic-controlled Congress and Clinton’s White House. You should also know that ICE and immigration detention skyrocketed under Obama’s leadership through his no-bid/closed-door contracts with Civic Core and GEO Group. Obama’s tenure saw over 3 million individuals detained and deported—more than any other administration to date, including Trump’s two terms.

The truth is that there isn’t a clean political party here—even when Biden pledged to end federal private prison use in 2021, his order left out immigration detention (which is a huge share of private contracts). He practically laid out a red-carpet for Trump to build more detention centers this year, and build he has.

No one is coming to save us.

My goal is for us to be informed enough that we are willingly lining the Gucci pockets of billionaires. If you don’t care that the taxpayer price tag for American Corrections currently rings up at $270 billion a year, you can close this tab and move along.

For the rest of us thinkers and feelers and helpers, we either start to understand why prison populations have exploded in recent decades or we don't. We either wonder why we are building prisons at a break-neck pace in rural America or we don't.

And, good people, here are some concrete things that you can do today to scale the steps of your Capitol and stay informed or flip someone off:

1. Check Your State Legislature’s Budget or Committee Pages

   Every state has an official legislative website with:

   • Hearing schedules

   • Committee agendas

   • Links to livestreams or archived broadcasts

   For example, some states publish annual joint budget hearing calendars that list topics, times, and how to submit testimony. These are often under their Senate/Assembly Finance or Appropriations committee sections. In New York, for instance, the 2026 budget hearing schedule was announced publicly and includes dates and subject areas.

   How to find yours:

   1. Search for your state’s legislature website (e.g., “Texas Legislature hearings schedule” or “California state budget committee schedule”).

   2. Look for pages labeled: Budget, Appropriations, Finance, or Corrections.

   3. Most sites let you filter by topic (e.g., “Corrections”).

2. Look for Appropriations / Corrections Budget Hearings

   Budget hearings that affect corrections spending are usually held by:

   • Appropriations Committees

   • Finance or Budget Subcommittees

   • Judicial & Public Safety Subcommittees

   Some states have schedules posted in advance showing when these committees will take public testimony — including an item for the Department of Corrections or Judiciary budgets.

3. Sign Up for Alerts and Testimony Notices

   Most state legislatures let you:

   • Subscribe to committee calendars

   • Receive email alerts when hearings are scheduled

   • Register to submit written testimony or testify in person

4. Contact Your Legislators or Legislative Staff Directly

   If you’re having trouble locating a schedule:

   • Call or email your state senator/rep’s office

   • Ask for the corrections or prison budget hearing dates

   • Ask how to register to testify or submit written comments

   Legislative staff are generally responsible for managing hearing schedules and can point you to the right calendar.

5. Request a full holdings report from your 401(k)/IRA provider and screen it for exposure to private prison companies (e.g., CoreCivic, GEO Group) or public safety/corrections ETFs, then shift those allocations into ESG or custom-index funds that explicitly exclude private prisons and detention operators.

   ---

Can you imagine what we could do if we all did these things together? Have other ideas for us? Please drop us a note in the comments!

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Cheers, Gen X—we have finally arrived.

The eye appointment rendered me near-blind for about five hours and, honestly, I didn't handle it well. I got panicky and ridiculously frustrated. If I am blessed to live a long life, it is a certainty that my children will have their hands full. My son in prison often tells me that he intends to repay me for the support I've given him during these years.

He has no idea what he's saying. 😎

By the late afternoon iron infusion, I was able to see again and subsequently opted to immerse myself in Resurrection over the beeping IVs in the bays next to me. Prison stories mixed with medical interventions (fun on top of fun).

In a moment of solidarity, I thought of each of you reading along with me—wherever you are. By the end of the day, I had a profound moment of gratitude that you are here.

Thank you for your presence.

Our Misfit Lit Book Club is inching toward the half-way point of Resurrection (if you're following the reading guide posted HERE). If not, I hope you've dipped your toes in and waded through some juicy morsels of wisdom like this one at the start of Part 1, Chapter 54:

“Another corner was hung with a large icon of Jesus Christ, an essential feature of all places where people come to be tortured, and a mockery of his teaching.”

Tolstoy didn't play.

He researched actual prisoner cases for this book, which he wrote at the height of his critique of the both Russian government and the Orthodox church. Even with heavy censorship, he managed to openly question the Siberian penal transport and expose the condition of the overcrowded prisons of his day.

He also (not subtly) accused the Church of leaving the teachings of Jesus behind to serve themselves.

Not impressed, the Church ex-communicated him in 1901 (two years after Resurrection was published) and the government placed him under close surveillance—his mail was monitored, his visitors were watched, his estate constantly scouted.

The only reason he was not arrested was owning to his social status (yep, that's always been a thing). A famous writer and a war hero, not to mention a wealthy aristocrat, arresting Tolstoy would have caused major backlash.

Like his character Nekhlyudov in Resurrection, Tolstoy confronted what he saw as gross hypocrisy and injustice in human systems—and in case there's any doubt, I'm here for it.

Witnessing Dmitri morph from an uninvolved, unaffected citizen of the world to a man who is appalled by (and determined to change) the realities of incarceration is like seeing my reflection in a mirror. Once we've seen behind the curtain, the Powerful Oz looks rather silly.

What to Watch for in the Middle Sections:

• Prisoner interactions, including a familiar advocacy for one another and acts of supporting themselves in other ways (e.g., selling alcohol inside).

• Prison officials rerouting concerns and complaints about the system to other officials without addressing them (the run-around for prisoners and their families has always existed).

• Notice the nature of so many of the “crimes" Tolstoy details (poverty, addiction, dissent, not having a valid passport).

Here are some additional questions to ponder:

• If you had power inside this system, what would you change first—the laws or the people?

• Is Dmitri's moral awakening redemptive or self-centered?

• Is personal repentance meaningful if systemic harm continues?

• Who in this section feels most alive to you? Who feels mechanical?

• Where do you see modern parallels?

  ---

COMING UP—

Our second Zoom call will be on Friday, March 27 at 1pm to discuss the book in its entirety (or to just show up and chat about whatever). I will make sure that you have the link in advance of the meeting.

ICYMI—

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I can’t answer that.

I don’t have a date, nor a season, and I would never tempt fate by taking a guess. Someday—that’s all I can say.

A former Navy Seal named Dustin Turner was recently granted parole after 30 years in a Virginia prison.

Most people don’t have any idea what this means, but for those of us following sentencing laws, parole guidelines, and the purpose of justice in the United States—it was huge. Now 50-years-old, Dustin has been incarcerated since 1995 for the murder of a woman that his Seal training buddy committed.

This month, he has finally been given a chance to go home to his mom. But it is only that—a chance—and not a guarantee. He has more rounds of the Hunger Games to complete before he will be released home.

The decision for parole was made during a public hearing between the Virginia parole board and Dustin, who was cast on a screen via Zoom. His was the second decision of the day and for those tuning in, we got to hear the parole board pardon a 76-year-old black man who had also been incarcerated 31 years. As the man thanked the board and wished Almighty God to bless them for their mercy, a female member of the board repeated three times, loudly:

“I hope you learned your lesson.”

Like he was a toddler in time-out.

It’s not that I don’t understand that our citizens in prison have behaved in ways that harmed others and their communities, it’s just that I see them to be a few evolutionary spirals above dirt. The truth: that man learned harder lessons before breakfast than that condescending board member has in all three decades of his sentence. He could teach her a thing or two if only she could be bothered to get down from that big, sweaty horse she rode in on and look him in the face at eye level.

Lord willing, my son is also in the final stretch of his prison ride and I, too, will get to hear someone say something condescending to him this year. At that time, they will grant him permission to move his seat closer to the door—but he will not be permitted to leave.

A parole notice is only the beginning of another long journey.

In our case, my son is already on a deferment, which is purgatory. He is not paroled and he is not denied—he is in between. He could be denied at any minute and making it to those gates is a run across a field with shots being fired at you from all sides.

As I type, my son is working every day to complete a 90-day course mandated by the state parole board. Each week, I get an update—“four more classes down” or “hoping to get my certificate in late February.” Recently during a visit, he reminded me how tentative this whole thing really is:

“We lost two more classmates this week.” He said, shaking his head.

About half of the men who began the class with him in October have been disqualified. Nevermind they had waited over a year to get a seat in the class, they have now been remanded to the back of the line with no credit for any of the work that they did. Oh—and another year has been tacked to their sentence.

Sure, some of them “earned” their dismissal.

Like the guy who stood up and said, “Fuck this” after being told that his morning coffee would not be allowed in class. That man walked out on his own volition but one single ‘misconduct’ can erase someone’s seat immediately.

My son came close to being excused following a ticket in December for having a bedsheet hung around his bunk to keep his pacing cellmate from waking him (his cellmate paces night and day). During count time, an officer pulled the sheet down and ticketed him for causing an impairment of surveillance. He just wanted to sleep.

This is why every day is another run across the culling field and every day, I am out here listening to the Hunger Games on the radio from my District.

The next time someone says, “ALL we dO is LeT pEoPLe Out of PrISon!” please point them to my inbox. I would love to have a chat about how difficult it is to get a non-violent, first-time offender out of prison. We're already two years past his estimated release date.

I asked my son to tell me in his own words what it has been like to stay on the path toward parole. He messaged me: Become invisible.

“Stay out the way.

The hardest part is watching what comes out of your mouth. You have to learn to keep to yourself. Whatever is going on in the unit—let it be. People talking about so and so will be talking about so and so 50 years from now in here. It’s irrelevant.

go directly to and from callouts
do not talk back
do not be intimidating
do not skate on lop
finish your class
finish your homework

stay away from certain people
don’t owe money
don’t gamble
don’t use drugs or drink

find the littlest thing to stay positive—‘chow good this morning’

be grateful.”

He also told me about the things that keep inspiring him to make it to a life beyond his bunk:

“Getting married,

becoming a dad

seeing the world
getting a job

driving
eating good food, real food

fresh meat and eggs

watching my own shows
going to the city, going to the woods
camping, fishing

being home on the holidays
a fresh cup of brewed coffee
toilet paper and real soap

There is an infinite amount of things to do that haven’t been done yet—thank God I’m not doing ‘all day’ like some of these guys. I want to do all of the things that I failed to do or haven’t done well yet.

thank God for second chances.”

And while I dream alongside him, the hard truth is that I’m certain he has little idea what he will step back into out here. My son has been mummified, preserved in time. He has no clue how to live in the world as a sober adult. Prison has completely erased any real responsibility or accountability in his life. He has forgotten what it is like to get up on his own or what a 40-hour work week feels like in his body. Prison has reduced him to being property, a mere object moved around by outside forces. We put people in a cage and then irrationally expect that they will be fully self-starting and independent on the other side of toddler-life in there.

He hasn’t driven in five years.

He hasn’t even opened a door for himself in that time either.

This week, he called to tell me that he is preparing to put himself into segregation. “I'll have my books, I'll have paper, and I can call you twice a week.” He said.

This was news I didn’t need during a difficult, busy week. I started crying in the middle of a grocery store on the phone.

“Why?” I asked him.

“My cellie is a junkie. I can't risk my chance at parole. I'm doing this so I can come home.”

I was angry, and the people in the produce section heard all about it. I cried some more and then, I exhaled loudly. I had to let it go. He has to do what he knows is best for him, and I have to admit that I've no idea what it’s like to live in prison with wolves and arrows flying and the Capitol always surveilling.

Parole is French, meaning ‘word, speech, or vow.’

In medieval and early modern warfare, a captured soldier was released ‘on parole’ when he promised to return home and disengage in fighting. In military terms, parole was granted when someone gave their “word of honor.” This act placed the onus on the person who needed to change his ways. It did not result in more state supervision.

Today, parole is far more complicated and, of course, monetized.

In spite of public scorn, parole is the practical and legal product of incarceration. When a person is sentenced to anything less than Life Without Parole (or Death), they are expected to begin day one in prison working toward being let back out.

That isn’t leniency, this is the purpose of our justice system.

When we say things like, “I hope they rot in prison” and “That’s where he belongs,” we choose to ignore the fact that most people who are incarcerated will eventually leave prison—95% of all prisoners are slated to be released.1

We should expect their return.

We should prepare for it.

We absolutely do not.

My son is supposed to come live in my home when he is released, and I have no idea if I should make up a bed for him this spring or stop hoping that he'll be home this year. Why? Because: Red Tape and leadership failure and wasted tax money, that's why.

In our state, there are ten individuals who hold the power to let someone out of prison. Only ten. All ten have been appointed by the Director of the Department of Corrections to oversee every parole action in every calendar year. The Director is appointed by the Governor.

In 2023 (the latest year data is available), those ten people were charged with handling over 15,700 parole decisions. They chose to parole 6,132 of them. That is a release rate of about 39% for those men and women who petitioned for parole—people who have served their debt to society because since 1998, our state has not had so-called ‘good time’ credits. No one is considered for parole here until they've completed the sentence a judge ordered them to serve.

No one here is being let out ‘early.’

While parole happens as a result of a complicated matrix of supposed considerations, it mostly comes down to human opinion. It comes down to split-second impressions and money and space constraints and oversight considerations. They look at covering their own asses (i.e., “risk mitigation”) and good luck if it is an election year. A parole hearing can be swayed by a response to a single question, the way a man looks on the day of his interview (after no sleep the night before), if he has a shiner from getting attacked in the yard for being close to his out-date. Add to the mix one’s skin color, family support, age, and mental health status and well, we’re throwing darts.

Judgements of men are superficial—parole decisions are based on feelings. If the board isn't emotionally ready that day, my son might not be coming home.

“I hope your learned your lesson.”

What lesson? I might ask.

For a person who has spent decades of their one precious life in a cage, completed years of programming, reflected deeply on the harm they've caused—and especially for a person who has aged out of high-risk behavior (like that 76-year-old man in Virginia), our system infantilizes grown adults and remains in the business of making our communities weaker.

Here, let me fix it for you lady: “What is different about you today that makes you safer to return to the community?”

Because frankly, people change. Here's a hot take: Don't be in the corrections or parole business if you feel otherwise. And should any of us doubt that humans can change, we should start a comment thread below wherein we all type out the worst thing we've ever done and let everyone else judge how far we’ve come.

I'll let you go first:

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Here is the recording of today’s Zoom Call Launch of Tolstoy’s Resurrection. For reference, we are reading this together/alone until March 27, 2026. *Our next call will be on that day at 1pm EST.

The link is always HERE.

The Summary of today’s Zoom Call:

Resurrection is not a sprint—it’s an experience. Read slowly. Exploration and questions are part of it.

This book is…

• A courtroom drama

• A moral awakening

• A critique of the justice system, punishment, and social hypocrisy

• Tolstoy’s own confrontation with guilt, responsibility, and change

Guiding questions for us all quarter:

1. Who is more dangerous: a cruel person or an indifferent one?

2. What does it actually mean to be responsible—for another person, for a system, for your past?

3. Can redemption happen without public consequences?”

A Very Brief Russian Literature Primer

Russian novels tend to obsess over:

• Conscience and guilt

• Moral self‑deception

• Social roles and hypocrisy

• The gap between who we think we are and what we do

Please note: Tolstoy wrote Resurrection late in life, after becoming deeply critical of the Church, the legal system, prisons, and punishment (in general)

Russian Names (So You Don’t Panic)

Most characters have three names: First name (given name), Patronymic (father’s name), and a Last name (family name)

Example:

Dmitri Ivanovich Nekhlyudov (Neck-clue-doff)

• Dmitri = first name

• Ivanovich = “son of Ivan”

• Nekhlyudov = last name

Why this matters:

First name + patronymic = formality or respect (used in the courtroom, etc.)

First name alone = intimacy, familiarity, or power imbalance (used in flashbacks or family settings)

Keep an eye out for nicknames/diminutives! This is Tolstoy signaling a change in how we relate to the character. If Dimtri becomes Mitinka, pay attention. Oftentimes names are shared with relation to who is speaking about the character or addressing them. Like grandparents calling their grandson “my little Mitinka” instead of Dmitry.

A Final Blessing—

You don’t need to read fast. You don’t need to understand everything. Just go with it. ;)

Reading along? Reply ‘book club’ or email me to be included in future updates.

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“If this goes on much longer,” I heard their whispers.

The word C-Section came up.

The crowds roared.

Something inside of me roared—they will not cut me open. Strong and stubborn, of course I would endure the curse of back labor. My first-born positioned to face the world head-on from Day One. A knife in my back, over and over and over.

Read more

Intrigued, I attempted Anna Karenina three times that year. As a non-trad student taking 16-credit hours while raising three children (and holding a marriage together) this would only serve as more evidence of my innate drive toward madness.

Some people have skydiving on their bucket list—I just want to finish a work of Tolstoy between dinner and the basketball games.

I had a terrible month in December which led me to wander rather long-faced through a bookstore on more than one occasion. Oddly (or perhaps not odd at all), I wound up in the classics section one afternoon, standing melancholy beneath the weight of Russian literature. Oh, how very artistic. I thought of my obsessed professor and pulled War and Peace down, considering again whether I should attempt Tolstoy.

“Nah,” I thought. Life is already too heavy.

And that is how it always goes—

I re-shelved it with a grunt and relapsed into resentment over the heaps of responsibility to which I am Stockhomed. I ran my fingertips along the spines and allowed myself to feel a full discontent until I reached the end of the shelf where someone had misplaced a slim book called Resurrection. It pulled me in the way that a bottle pulls an addict. I picked it up, flipped it over, and began reading: “Serving on the jury at a murder trial…”

And then the Grinch had a wonderful, awful idea.

Announcing the 2026 Misfit Lit Book Club

As with these previous nudges toward justice-informed titles, this rendezvous with a new-to-me Tolstoy felt like manna from heaven. In a flash, I realized that I just might be able to do it all.

I purchased that copy of Resurrection and it rode home with me atop my front passenger seat like a new friend. I moved it to my nightstand where every day since I have pondered if I am bold enough to follow through.

Turns out, I am.

Even if I read this book alone, I’m doing it (and still calling it a book club).

If You Want To Join Me

In my previous polls and questionnaires about meeting up, you told me that you want the Zoom call option (with the ability to watch it later). You also largely asked for a weekday meet-up. I have decided that we will meet twice a quarter, once before and once after the book is read.

Our first chat and introduction will be next Friday, January 23 at 1pm (EST). Join me on Zoom through this LINK (no, you do not have to have read a thing). It will only last 30ish minutes— no, we don’t have to go around and tell who we are. Promise.

Our second Zoom call will be on Friday, March 27 at 1pm to discuss the book or to just show up and enjoy a beverage together like good book clubs do (my birthday is that week so maybe we will have cake).

In the interim, I will put out monthly updates with discussion points, questions, relevant articles, and other thought provoking links for Resurrection. I have broken this into doable chunks (see below) for those of us still making family dinners and sitting in the stands at basketball games.

Together, we will complete a work of Tolstoy together before Easter!

(Eeek. I am so excited.)

About This Novel

Resurrection (1899) was Tolstoy’s final novel, written in his seventies, at the height of his own moral and spiritual inquiry. Though it is often passed over today, it out-sold all of his other works in it’s time.

Unlike War and Peace or Anna Karenina, this book is explicitly concerned with social justice, the corruption of institutions, and the possibility of moral redemption.

The story follows Prince Dmitri, a privileged aristocrat who serves on a jury and recognizes the defendant—Katyusha Maslova, a woman he seduced and abandoned years earlier when she was a servant in his aunt’s house. Her life has spiraled into poverty and prostitution, leading to her false conviction for murder.

Dmitri’s guilt drives him to seek her forgiveness and work for her release which forces him to confront the brutal injustices of our human legal and penal systems. And as we know, even in the 21st century, that is no simple thing. As such, this book is full of keen and relevant insight as well as needed humor to get us through.

Tolstoy is a considered a master of storytelling for a reason, and this is a great chance to find out why. Fiction and non-fiction lovers alike— there is something in this book for you.

Fun Facts

• Resurrection took Tolstoy ten years to write, and it was serialized in a magazine over the course of a year.

• Tolstoy gave ALL of the proceeds from Resurrection to the Doukhobors (a pacifist Christian sect) to help them emigrate to Canada to escape persecution. It was a huge sum of money, and his wife was furious.

• The Russian government and Orthodox Church hated this book. They censored it heavily, especially the parts criticizing the church and legal system. The full, uncensored version wasn’t published in Russia until after the revolution in 1905.

• This work was born out of Tolstoy’s late-in-life admission (to his biographer) of his guilt over impregnating a servant girl earlier in his own life. That child, a boy, lived with him for much of his life.

• Tolstoy saw Resurrection as his most important work—explicitly moral and political. By the time he wrote it, he had denounced his earlier novels as frivolous, shallow entertainment.

• Resurrection was his last full-length novel. He died 11 years after writing it.

Reading Pace Guide

Read at your own pace or follow the schedule below. No one is counting your pages and you can join our discussions without having read a thing:

Week 1 (Jan 16-23): Chapters 1-20 (80 pages)

Week 2 (Jan 24-31): Chapters 21-40 (80 pages)

Week 3 (Feb 1-8): Chapters 41-59 (80 pages)

Week 4 (Feb 9-16): Part II, Chapters 1-10 (65 pages)

Week 5 (Feb 17-24): Part II, Chapters 11-20 (65 pages)

Week 6 (Feb 25-Mar 4): Part II, Chapters 21-28 (50 pages)

Week 7 (Mar 5-12): Part II, Chapters 29-42 (60 pages)

Week 8 (Mar 13-20): Part III, Chapters 1-14 (65 pages)

Week 9 (Mar 21-25): Part III, Chapters 15-28 (51 pages)

If all goes as planned, we will begin a new (more modern) book in April, after a short break. You are welcome to jump in at any point this year. Each quarter will bring a new opportunity.

The point of this whole thing (the point of life, really) is to connect so I am happy to have you pop in even if you just want to say hi, ask questions, or listen to inevitable life updates. Bring your lunch or a hot beverage, a blanket, or whatever else will give you a few minutes of reprieve from regular life. Mostly, thank you for giving me a place to be fully me.

Please R.S.V.P. in the comments or just tell me I’m crazy. That last part I already know.

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The end of 2025 left me feeling, mostly, like packing up and leaving Dodge— and friend, this wasn’t an I-need-a-vacation thing, it was a “How quickly can I list the house?” kind of thing.

No worries, though.

I am happy to announce that I have (1.) Entered the new year with a five pound weight loss because, well, stress and (2.) I have (mostly) pulled out of that ugly funk with the help of good friends and very loud music.

And while personal crisis generally spawns some of my best writing, this time was different. For four weeks, I have had absolutely nothing to say.

The warrior in me has begun to find more strength in stillness and silence than my usual spinouts. Let's call that progress. Raging Against the Machine has greyed my temples and strained my vocal cords, so much so that it is possible 2026 will be my white flag year.

If you have been along for any of the Black Sheep Mom story, you have witnessed my struggle to balance regular life demands with the experience of having an adult son in prison. My essays are raw, yes, but they are not nearly as raw as I know they could be.

I really haven’t told you the half of it.

It is far easier to flail and kick at the big bully in the yard than to look at the pains on my own face in the mirror. And while The Prison System deserves to have its ass kicked, I’ve used a fighting stance to keep from sitting still in some hard truths.

In the interest of starting new, I would like to take this first post of the year to purge some things, to get right, to be honest with you. These are some of the things I might not have said about having a kid in prison, and it's time.

1. I am completely over it.

It is one thing to support a loved one through an arrest and trial or plea. Those matters are time-limited and you get swept up in the rushes of attorney guidance, next moves, and the hopes of leniency.

Prison is different.

The attorney vanishes. Months turn to years. Years turn to a decade. Same walls, same routines, and another year sneakily rolls over the calendar.

I look rather dumb when someone asks, “How is your son doing?” because there is nothing new to share anymore. He’s still sitting on a bunk. He’s still surrounded by drugs and violence. He’s still making it through one hour at a time, and mostly, he still isn’t home.

“He’s doing good, thank you.”

What I really want to say is that I don’t want to answer these questions anymore on a random Tuesday afternoon and I wish that my son was not in prison—so please excuse me while I go eat worms.

2. The phone calls and visits are a bigger pain in the ass than you know.

I completely understand why family members stop engaging with their incarcerated loved ones. I am not saying that I will ever stop, but I understand why they do.

I have to force a smile onto my face every time the damn D.O.C. number lights up my phone because the alternative is to say, “Hey son, you’re interrupting dinner again.”

‘Well, don't answer the phone then," someone says.

Sure, and tell me you don't have a child in prison without telling me you don't have a child in prison. He can't leave a message. I can't call him back. Often times he has waited in a long line to make that call, outside, in the freezing cold. He may not get that chance again for a few days.

So, I pick up and I smile and I keep serving dinner with the phone pinched between my ear and shoulder, making small talk over things I do not want to relate to.

Similarly, our visits are torture.

To read about them (HERE and HERE), you might get the sense that I live to get back into that visiting room. The truth? I dread it with an existential dread. From both sides of the fence, we enter into that locked cage with love but we are just going through the motions this many years in. There are only so many times you can comment on the weather or talk about the crap food. Every old family story has been retold at least twice and new ones have to be shared with a special care because he's not been part of them.

We are now getting weird to keep a conversation going for three hours straight, “Would you rather have eyes on your hands or ears on your elbows?”

I sigh.

He sighs.

We both look up at the clock.

“Want something else to eat?”

“Want to play cards?

“One hour left,” he’ll say and stretch and then I dig around my brain for something really obscure to keep us going (“Did you hear about the art heist in the Louvre?”) and off we go again— another round of fuckthisplace and Godwhenwilliteverend.

3. I'm wearing out.

Anne Lamott once likened codependent parenting to running alongside your adult child in their marathon— with juice boxes and lip balm and sunscreen. Yup, that's me collapsing in mile 26, still ferrying the Capri Suns for a grown man.

I have not yet let go of the backpack full of the plans and ideas that I have held for him all of his life, and prison has me dragging an additional 200 pounds of dead weight.

I have to take medication an hour before I visit because my nervous system is shot and I get panicky in there. Leading up to each visit, my sleep is always disturbed by dreams of prowling lions and a pounding heart beat at 3am. This. Is. Not. Normal.

The elasticity in the delicate skin under my eyes has finally worn to a translucent stained-glass of various purples. All of those sucker punches to the face, a decade of bad news beatings—the repeated trauma puffy and hardened on me like Conner McGregor’s ears.

No more caffeine because I’m jiffy enough.

No more alcohol because I'm depressed enough.

Also—no more alcohol because I can’t ask my children to not numb out on substances if I am doing it to deal with life. Mom: the machine, the battle-ax, the ballast. If she falls apart, the whole ship goes down and all of those juice boxes would be spilled out, falling to the bottom of the sea.

4. I have lost hope.

Even during the writing of this blog, more than a few times, my son has gone through periods which made me question my faith and doubt his resolve. Old habits crept up, mistakes were made, shame spirals unfurled.

“I got jumped in the food line and beat up over old debts.”

How many times will I break the promise to myself not to pay those damn debts? I would love to tell you that my boundaries have always held, but they have not. As he racked up debts early in his ride, they landed him in physical danger, and if you think you could just ‘let your kid face the consequences,’ you have never stared at a dark ceiling considering the moment he dies under the blow of a 30-pound dumbbell to his head in the [prison yard] weight pit—all because you wouldn’t come up with $200.

That’s a decision tree I hope you never have to climb at 2am from your bed.

Another sanction, another misconduct, another bad cellmate, another wave of worry that he will never kick addiction no matter how well I write and advocate and love him and believe in him. There is a sinking feeling that we will spend our lives circling these same blocks trying to get to some elusive promised land into which we will never be permitted. The grandkids will never come. The drugs will re-appear.

In my weaker moments, this story ends badly.

Hope is only an option for me, not a state of perpetual being. Not yet, anyway. I have to decide every day what I believe about the road ahead and some days, when people ask me things like, “Do you think this is his last ride?” I waver.

Maybe we have only just begun. Maybe he will get tangled in something awful, catch a charge inside, and never come home. Maybe he will come home and be arrested again and again like a friend of mine’s son who is now on his fourth ride. I am terrified of what could happen every day that he is there. I'm sick of worrying that he's not gonna be able to hack it on parole. I'm also sick to death of thinking about how we got here and why our lives aren't different.

Maybe I just did a shit job as a mom and this blog is just apologetics.

5. I want my life back.

I haven't always been a prison mom.

I was a sports mom, a working mom, a made-from-scratch mom. I planned regular birthday parties and vacations and graduations. Once upon a time, I never thought a thing about prison nor the people there. These days, I don't plan one single thing in my life without thinking about both—

Prison is now my fifth child.

My loyalties are constantly tested, and the prison wins almost every time. Siblings are put on hold. My husband is often placed in the backseat—a perfectly good Saturday morning ruined by another desperate phone call or a date night scratched from the calendar because (of course) there are no other visiting slots available this month.

I want to breathe a full breath again, to take in a sunrise or a walk on the beach without thinking about how much my son is missing out on. If it is true that a mother is only as happy as her saddest child, I haven’t been happy in years.

6. I am pissed.

I am so angry that the teeth I grew from the calcium of my own bones, the ones that I ensured he brushed and made all of those dentist appointments for are now gone—thrown into some prison medical waste bin after they pulled the last of them.

Seeing old pictures of his beautiful, straight-toothed smile makes me want to punch a hole in a wall.

And don't get me started on the money.

Tens of thousands to rehab and courts. Thousands more to JPay and GTL and Securus for disgusting bags of pig slop. Lost wages. Lost productivity. Sick days on account of those beatings I’ve taken to my face.

Last month’s costs included $86.44 on books, $464 on commissary, $32 on phone calls, $15 on JPay messaging stamps. I kept it to $200 on gas for two trips, $65 on vending cards, and $7.50 on picture tickets during visits.

Worse than the expense themselves is the toll of guilt for spending money on myself, the reflex of buying something for me and then immediately comparing that amount to his commissary request. I once ruined an entire pedicure knowing full well that he was in need of money for Ramen noodles while I sat there getting my calves massaged.

“Why don't you get your priorities straight?”

“Must be nice, you selfish bitch.”

7. I lie.

Last week, someone asked me if all of my kids were home for the holidays. They don’t know about him so I said, “Yes, it was really nice. We played games and ate Chinese.” That was a lie. My oldest was not home. He did not play games nor eat Chinese. Did they need to know that? No. Did it still feel disingenuous? Yes.

I also want those lovely people who do know about him to be able to ask me how my children are without that look, the one that says I’m really just asking about the one in prison but don’t want to lead with that. I also lie to make it easier on them. And me.

“Everyone's good.”

I have lied through his relapses for years.

I have lied that I am okay when I could not get out of bed.

And I have lied to myself, time and again. Some days, that is exactly how I have gotten through this journey. I pretend to understand things that I do not. I claim to know where we're going, when I haven't a clue.

8. There are many things that I will never speak out loud.

I am superstitious and I fear speaking things into existence. In fact, I have wanted to delete chunks of this piece to avoid manifesting some of the things I'm putting out here.

As a writer, there are words I will never offer for publication because I do not own the full rights to this story.

As a mother, I need to be able to look at each of my children—directly in their face—and know that I honored their lives as their own. To pretend that all of this is mine to sell to the highest bidder would make me the worst kind of mom I could imagine.

So, I start this year of writing knowing that the hardest work I will do is to tell my story passionately, and edit it as a mom. What I will leave on the cutting room floor is as important as what I publish.

The good news is that there is no law against reading between the lines, and there is no rule against asking me questions. I love your comments and DMs and I am honored that anyone takes one second of the day to hear about our lives.

To the mothers whom I have heard from this week with their own children inside, my heart is with you and our private conversations mean more than you could ever know. Please, please keep in touch.

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If you would like to hear me give more details about our story on a podcast, this week we are featured on Not Just an Inmate’s Girlfriend— available wherever you listen. What an honor to discuss our realities and my perspective on everything from addiction to shame to ‘prison reform’ with a host who really gets it. A huge thank you to Jae and AJ for making it happen!

For listeners, my voice begins at minute 6:35. Enjoy!

Coming up later this month:

• Our One Year Anniversary!

• The first 2026 Misfit Lit Book Club pick and Zoom call dates.

• A Guest Post written by my daughter, from her point of view. 😭

As of this writing, Black Sheep Mom has 497 subscribers.

Which is the best failure I have ever known.

As the wonderful Substack guru often reminds us frustrated writers, less than 5% of authors sell more than 1000 books. I recently tried to envision all of our readers in one place and smiled knowing that not even a bookstore could hold us.

Not because I am exceptional— but because I am that bull-headed. I showed up through serious illness. I showed up when I felt alone, foolish, and invisible. I wrote when I felt I had nothing brilliant to say. I kept coming back when people doubted me, mocked me, or left.

And somehow, I stumbled into something miraculous here. Sharing this mess of life with you—even through typed words and emojis—has changed everything. Your comments, your essays, and your care have given me a long-missing sense of community. Some days, you are what gets me out of bed.

In November, after a random DM, I met a beautiful fellow Substacker in person for lunch (hi, ). I was overwhelmed by the tangibility of our instant, real connection. I now have plans to visit England (hi, ) and Cuba (hi, ) to be with some of the most incredibly supportive and real and honest women I have ever known. *Subscribe and read all of their essays, please.

Frankly, it has been Substack that helped me find the people who make me feel alive and dang it, I’m sticking close to them (to you). I am so freaking grateful to feel so freaking alive.

No one asked (and I loathe end-of-year platitudes) but I’ll share anyway—

What I am most proud of in 2025 is that I stood out here on the edge of a personal grand canyon and shouted into the death plunge below me: You don’t scare me anymore.

I jumped, belly out and chest forward.

I wrote the truth as I know it. I admitted things most parents never would or could out loud. I wrote fifty-four essays about failure. I demanded answers from people who intimidate me. I risked comfort, approval, and anonymity. I opened our lives to judgment—and to commentary like ‘don’t commit crimes and you won’t go to jail.’

Yes, thank you, dear sir, and bless your heart.

I know this blog isn’t for everyone and that some will unsubscribe this week and next week and that the numbers will always ebb and flow. I am over all of that. My stats are turned off so unless I go digging, I do not know where I stand on leaderboards from day to day— and I have never cared less.

What matters is that YOU have made me feel seen and heard after years of feeling isolated, shamed, and alone. You have stood in the gaps and prayed for us and shared our story with such care.

Thank you.

The 2025 Recap

Here are the top essays of 2025 from Black Sheep Mom, based on reads, shares, and likes, in order of popularity. *For a deep dive into the archives, click here.

#1

#2

#3

#4

#5

#6

#7

#8

Sending you every blessing as we cross into 2026!

I do not celebrate the new year until the Lunar New Year (February 17th this year), after St. Bridget’s Day (or Imbolc), on the first new moon of the year. Gregorian calendars are bunk and I love for teaching me all about this years ago.

Over the next few months, I will be back with fresh essays, hard discussions, new admissions, new fears, and new calls to action. The work has only just begun on our book— which is (ah-hem) my main focus for 2026. I can’t wait to leak ideas and chunks of my writing to you first!

To read all of our upcoming content upgrade to see behind the paywall:

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May all of our shared truths continue to be supported in 2026. Thank you for an incredible first year at Black Sheep Mom. If you can take a moment, please tell me what you are looking forward to in the coming year!

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I never imagined that I would spend Christmas Eve alone, at least not after having kids.

At some point between the birth of my first and the piano recitals of the third, I assumed my efforts held everything together. The home that I busied myself with— all of the decorating and organizing and tradition would never not be central to all of our holidays into infinity.

I thought I was the sun in our little universe, all warmth and light radiating outward from me. A regular Martha Stewart. The budding matriarch. A glowing legacy in my wake.

Oops.

That bustling life went dark several years ago when one week after Christmas, I moved out of our home and away from a marriage of 17 years. The details don’t really matter anymore, but we ended up divorced.

Looking back, I had confused diligence with success— holding my family together had become akin to playing a big game of tag. As long as I kept running, I was winning. Maybe I should have taken a breath. Maybe I should have clung to the safety of the fence.

Yeah, I should have done a lot of things differently.

The problem is that no one can prepare you for the breaking part, especially at the holidays, because it’s a pretty personal thing. My in-laws had always done Christmas Eve, so I wandered a grocery store that first year on my own. That same year, after I hung four of our five matching stockings, I packed the one that said DAD into a small box with his childhood ornaments and handed it all over in a sad exchange in the driveway.

For awhile, the holidays became a lot of aimless drives on back roads with music blasting. I sat in my car in parking lots all over town avoiding the return to a cold, empty house. I stopped to buy a pack of cigarettes when I hadn’t smoked in years. Dinner was a bowl of cereal. I slept in work clothes and I repeatedly hit play on the Counting Crows like a complete sap—

“A long December and there's reason to believe,
Maybe this year will be better than the last.”

In spite of my empty self, I did try to keep some of the traditions alive for the kids. I remember smiling over a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls just moments after I had been doubled over in the bathroom, muffling my pathetic and lonely Christmas morning sobs into a towel.

Divorce is nothing if not a lot of fake smiles.

Even when you think it is for the best, it is never without scars that throb in knowing-moments like Harry Potter’s lightning bolt. I still rub my forehead to dull the occasional sharp and searing reminder— a look back at pictures of that life we broke. Our innocent, young family with so much potential. Those beautiful kids who deserved better than our immaturity and selfishness.

“How could you be so careless?” Amos Lee sang on my backroad drives.

Even now, there is a guarantee of at least one quick, twisted face cry in December. Though we women adjust hardily to new norms, I would be flat-out lying to say that memories of my kids in their footie pajamas, their dad lifting one of them to put the star on the tree doesn’t leave me longing for something. The things we shared will never not be a part of me, and a small piece of me welcomes it.

But— Meta and Google memories can just stop it already.

This season is not all peppermint and hugs and smiling faces. My office has had a steady line of lovely but struggling people out the door for four weeks. Every day, at the top of every hour is another story of holiday loss, exclusion, financial overwhelm, anger, confusion, tears, and exhaustion. We are not okay out here. You have no idea how empty, how sad, how unseen other humans feel.

Or perhaps you do.

I ran into my ex-husband while Christmas shopping this week. We laughed, as we can now. We chatted briefly about our kids and their wish lists. I felt sad that he was trying to figure out what our teenage daughter would want for Christmas on his own. I even thought about helping him but then remembered, in the nick of time, that that was no longer my job.

We wished each other well and after he walked away, I thought about the doughy sugar cookies he loved this time of year. I remembered him dragging the ‘perfect’ Christmas tree through a field, our kids laughing and following in tow.

We did that.

We did some things really well.

So naturally, this week I teared up over sugar cookie cutouts. Not because of a specific memory but because I now know that I missed the point completely— Grandma’s old recipe card in her writing, the mess of nonpareils on wax, the high pitched squeals of my once tiny kids, the dog eating a dozen cookies off the table when we weren't looking. Chaos.

That was Christmas.

I was moving so fast, ticking the traditions boxes. I was more concerned with creating and forcing it all than being with my people while I had them. Now that we are all scattered and living under separate roofs, this whole season is sometimes a bitter pill to swallow. For all of my healing, I admit that Christmas Eve still hurts a little bit.

So, what I mean to say within this lament is that if you are alone this holiday season— you’re not. There are other people out here driving in circles and wandering grocery store aisles to avoid an empty house. Other moms are crying into towels too, and there are lots of old, empty stockings sitting in basement boxes somewhere.

As a professional melancholic, an ex-wife, a grieving mom, and a therapist, I will humbly close this post with my version of holiday self-care—

Deactivate socials.

Eat cookies.

Listen to TEN by Pearl Jam.

Stay in the bathtub until you’re pruned.

Let the call go to voicemail.

Shuffle around in slippers.

Okay— your turn. What are you doing to care for yourself this week? What has worked for you to manage and live through your own grief during December? I know many of you have made it through the unthinkable.

Leave a comment

Lastly, if you are spending Christmas Eve alone, feel free to DM me. Puke it all out. You regularly shift through the contents of my stomach here and I owe you (big time). No matter what, I am sending you love and lots of self-forgiveness, especially this week. 🖤

Or maybe it's because that pastor ended up wandering off with his secretary, leaving his own flock in chaos.

Either way, that was the year that I started rethinking the whole narrative.

The shepherds in every Christmas story I'd heard before were soft pastels under a starry sky. They were fuzzy silhouettes in fields as they lay— a centuries-old nostalgia.

But it turns out that keeping sheep is a nightmare profession.

If we're literal, the announcement of the Christ-child demands that we wade through parasitic eye infections and matted, poo-stained wool, bot-fly maggots and fleece rot. Those holiday shepherds would have been considered unclean and untouchable. They smelled like campfire and afterbirth. They had ticks and fleas, and the only reason they were awake that First Noël was because their job demanded the night shift.

“Sheep are dumb,” the pastor told us. “They require constant supervision.”

Given the chance, an entire flock will chase one foolish leader straight off a cliff. If left alone, sheep will wander off oblivious and vulnerable, becoming ensnared in a thicket where they pathetically bleat and strain themselves into dehydration and near-death.

It is the shepherd who comes to pluck that helpless, stubborn animal out of the brambles every time.

I actually think Mary gave birth to one of the most underrated comedians of all time.

Jesus repeatedly picked the sheep metaphor to describe humans. It is diabolical that he called his contemporaries a ‘little flock.’ What an irony that a bunch of ungrateful, herd-minded jerks slaughtered him for saying hurty-words to the powers of the day.

My favorite Jesus story of all time is The Parable of the Lost Sheep. You know, the one where he explained (to a bunch of holier-than-thou elitists) why he ate dinner with prostitutes and sinners— a good shepherd leaves the 99 rule-followers to go after the one rebel who wandered off, you fools.

I can so relate.

My oldest son beamed when he showed me his second tattoo, the one they put just above the barbs previously inked into his skin. He hopped out of the truck and lifted his sleeve and I was grateful that he had, at least, waited until the age of 18 when I could confidently say that his decision making was out of my hands and pass any ‘regerts’ onto him.

It read ‘Black Sheep’ in an old English font.

It actually looked more like Black Skeep, but we got the point. He had long been the identified client, the enigma, the prodigal. He still is, as you might suspect. A fact that has never diminished my love for him. Bring the fattened calf!, I will announce someday upon his arrival home.

While I am adamant that I do not have favorites, the others in my flock might disagree. His being different and difficult from birth has required a special vigilance and many trips out to find him. The problem has never been reconciling my own black sheep back into the fold but rather tending to the pious townspeople on the hill.

They've lots of opinions.

I'm too attached, I have rescued too often, I need to take better care of myself. Some even think that I should have ignored the bleating in the brambles and let him go off wandering over the cliff-face years ago. They even warned me about sparing the rod, but time in the field has taught me valuable lessons.

Any shepherd worth their salt knows you never strike a lamb because it risks injuring them, making them into damaged goods. The rod was actually designed to beat back the lions and wolves prowling on the periphery.

It is the staff that is used for correction, but not the kind that American Christians favor. Tending sheep means gently guiding your flock back to the safest path with a nudge and your presence. I have always found it odd that advocates of spanking miss that whole Psalms thing that says “your rod and staff, they comfort me.”

A shepherd does not bring fear. They make it their life's mission to stay put, watching, through the darkest of nights.

Someone recently asked me if my son has any friends who have kept in touch through these years, and that question always makes me sad.

The answer is no, they haven’t. Not one. His friends were sheep too. Many of them have wandered off into their own pricker bushes of drugs, bad relationships, bar hopping, and DUIs. Some jumped off a cliff to their needless deaths.

But, I'm still here.

Me and his grandma and his sister and a few other family members who have stayed in this nighttime desert. It is a full time job between us, and a full day’s travel to the thicket, too.

This month I have declined invites without telling people that I will be out shepherding that day instead of eating cheese and crackers at their Christmas party. Shepherds don't get days off, and this time of year we're navigating around Alberta Clippers and lake-effect weather as best we can. Because the Gods only open the visiting schedule up seven days in advance and we have to register at least three days before arrival, there is a four day window to make our trek.

Logistics aside, seeing him there in those brambles and being unable to free him is the hardest part of my job. Every time I leave, I always glance backward over my shoulder to make sure he knows that I'm watching. I would lay down along the edge of those mountains to stay and keep watch all night if they would let me. But they won't, so I wander back home without him time and again.

I’ll see you soon, I promise him.

I’ll be here, he says.

There is a reason the shepherd message has stayed with me all of these years, and why I think about it when I pass every plastic nativity scene. The reality is that this holiday has always embraced the outcasts. The miracles weren’t reserved for the people who had it altogether. The sky lit up for the ordinary folk.

And what a gift that truth is to me as I stand out here in the cold— often tired and afraid.