I Just Miss Him
An Inventory Break
At the risk of over-exposure, I will share that I’m turning another year older this week.
Since it is a gift to be upright (especially after my last spin around the sun), I am mostly unbothered by my new number— not to say that I wouldn't like to go back to this moment (and innocence) at 6-years-old.
Three months ago, I chiseled a small window in the wall of my hidden bunker to allow a glimpse into the life of our family— one of millions living with the realities of having an incarcerated loved one. After posting 14 long-form essays in the first quarter of 2025— I came up for air this week.
Holy cats!
We have had over 10,000 readers from all over the world. In 11 weeks, we went from zero to 227 subscribers— mostly due to your sharing our story. 28 of you lovingly signed up to pay for this work to continue.
Saying thank you seems trite, in light of what you've given me. I have been able to take my first deep breath in over 3 years. What a gift. You have mirrored my vulnerability, offering your own stories—
I have a brother in prison.
My daughter has been sober for 3 years.
I am dealing with legal things, too.
You have also offered your righteous anger, sincere empathy, and a willingness toward action. Mostly— you have supported my children, which, if anything should happen, would be my dying wish. So, no matter how seemingly small these words, thank you.
Last week I attended the Prison Creative Arts Project gallery at the University of Michigan. It was a packed venue with great music playing and thought-provoking art on the walls. Afterward, I came home, sat on the edge of my bed, and cried. “I just miss my son,” I said before laying down and facing the wall.
Heck of an end to a date night.
Some days, I can’t read what is waiting for me in my inbox. I am not out here selling beautiful real estate or hocking a fun, new course for others to join. Not yet, anyway. I wake up every work-day of the week determined to focus my energies on a thing that has broken my heart. Sometimes, it is too heavy. Sometimes I write a post, and then I delete the entire thing. Sometimes I just need a break.
So— I am on a break this week, taking a few hikes with my 6-year-old.
After 3 months of living my calling (pinch me, I'm actually DOING the thing), I have discerned a need to shift my writing schedule.
It has never been my intention to cram information onto the internet for the sake of volume. I would much rather provide a quality publication than a busy one.
Starting in April, I will post my long-form “Confession” essays every other Friday and offer more creativity in the ‘off’ weeks. I will be doing more for the paid subscribership— real-time updates, more pictures, more candid chats, and maybe even live video sessions. Keep an eye out next month for the launch of our chat and a few other community-minded endeavors. Collaborations with other writers are even in pipeline!
As you know by now, my ‘spare’ time also includes visiting my legislators’ offices, reading criminal-justice reform texts, binging podcasts, attending Loss of Visit Zoom meetings and going to family-of-incarcerated support groups. I have signed up for several in-person advocacy events in the next few months, and I'll report from there as well. If we hear from anyone at the State level about our visits, you'll be the first to know.
So— Here's to making this one the best year of my life. Here's to telling the truth that must be told. Here's to more time with family, less give-a-damn about opinions, and more guts to show up in life as the real me. Real, after all, isn't how you're made, Margery Williams penned, it's what you become.
Bridget,
There’s a raw beauty in your words that hits like truth always does—gently, but with force. “I just miss my son.” That line stopped me. It’s the kind of sentence that holds a thousand emotions in five words. And that’s the brilliance of your writing—you don’t just tell your story, you show it. You live it in public so the rest of us can find mirrors and maps in your vulnerability.
Your work isn’t just brave—it’s purposeful. And the shift to a more sustainable rhythm is not a retreat, it’s a wise recalibration. What you’re doing matters, and it will matter more when it flows from a full heart instead of an exhausted one.
Congratulations on the milestone—both the birthday and the powerful momentum you’ve built. I’ll raise a glass (or a hiking boot) to more hikes with your 6-year-old, more quiet strength, and more honest-to-God impact.
Real is what you become. And you, my friend, are as real as it gets.
With admiration,
Matt
I love your writing SO much but to see live videos would be next level! Your voice is just as enticing as your writing. I’m here for it. I love you so much and I’m so excited to watch this whole vision unfold and blossom! Happiest of birthdays sister, I love you more than words can express!