Who Are You, and Who Cares?

A Late Introduction

Once a week for the past two months I have published the story of my son’s incarceration and how our family has been impacted.

Well, that’s only partially true.

I have published my version of the story of my son’s incarceration and how it has impacted me.

There are three versions of every tale: Yours, mine, and the truth.

A blog written by me can only be about my experience of watching my son walk toward, and now, through a prison sentence. His experience is one that I can witness, but never embody. Though inexplicably linked, we are two very different individuals with two different life stories.¹

My other three children will also have their own versions of this long family hike— and, to be clear, I do not speak on their behalf either. Some of what I have written is old news to them. Some of this is so old they likely have no interest in re-living it. I am not even certain that they are reading Black Sheep Mom, and I do not expect them to.

As you have noticed, I have been deliberate about keeping my children’s identities obscured for safety and to reduce any chance of retaliation within prison walls. Conversely, I am trying to remain as tastefully unfiltered about my own stuff as possible. This is a delicate dance.

It occurred to me this week, while writing my next confession, that I have not properly introduced myself to my Substack family. I jumped into “our story” about 2 months ago, mid-stride, without much context. No dust jacket, no resume, no foreword nor endorsements. Rookie mistake.

Let me take this week’s post to say Hi again, with a bit more detail—

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

When you have an incarcerated child, and you dare to mention it out loud, the looks are telling. A record scratches somewhere and the music stops.

Oh—

Hmmm—

Yeah, that’s hard—

People try to be gentle, but their nonverbals betray them every time.

Feet shuffle, hands fidget, eye contact gets weird. In the wariness, a question hangs between us: What did he do? The question itself is common, and maybe justified. But as humans do, I often stand in that moment and make it about me. There is a residual feeling that I, his mom, somehow contributed to a bad-ness out in the world. What kind of parent were you? Have you no shame?

The stigma is enough to keep a suffering, perplexed parent silent. I have, in fact, been quiet for a long while. Not because I am ashamed of him— because I have been keenly aware that the outing of these truths could be a liability to my professional reputation or make other people uncomfortable.

I am over that now.

Growing up in a Christian family and midwestern community did not exactly inspire charity of thought. The 80s and 90s drew hard lines around discipline and behavior and banged on about “reaping what you sow.” Even outside of faith communities there remains a detached, unbothered resolve in the U.S. that people in prison got what they deserve. At the very least we deep-down believe that we are “safer" because a prisoner is locked up. We rarely want to know a handcuffed person’s true story— and we almost never hear their mom’s.

Until we are in it, we choose to remain blissfully unaware that 50% of Americans have an incarcerated loved one. #massincarceration

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So— every post that I have shared here has come in spite of my awareness of the stigma and judgement and potential backlash. In my quiet moments over these past few months, I have internally panicked a little, asking myself if it is too late to log-in and delete this entire thing. Forget advocacy and honesty and do something lighter and easier and more fun.

For the record, this is not the story I planned to publish in my life.

My dreams of “being a writer” started in elementary school under the care of teachers who encouraged me with stickers and red pen smileys— “keep writing.” However, because everyone knows (including college admissions) that you ‘can’t make a living’ writing, I made English Writing my college minor. My professors would again make notation of my abilities, and they would also encourage me to keep the pages coming.

I did.

Kinda-sorta.

This writing ‘talent’ (which is just a whole mess of trying and re-trying) was also discovered and utilized by every enterprising boss I have ever had. A few weeks into any new job I was, inevitably, made the in-house writer and content creator— and none of those jobs had anything to do with writing. I have designed and written everything from legal letters, flyers, advertisements, curriculum, program guides, social media content, treatment plans, psychological reports, blog posts, and weekly staff emails. 20+ years of weekly writing for everyone else.

I didn’t really mind.

I die a little inside when I am unable to be creative in my work. I make vision boards for fun. I have notebooks and hard-drives full of my private scribblings, doodles, and ideas for novels and short stories and songs dating back to childhood. All of them are full of the frolicking and madness of an introspective who has been finding her way to the big novel that she hoped to pen before age 50.

My 2024 Vision Board— note not one, but two, typewriters.

Vision boards be damned. That milestone is fast approaching; there is no novel in the works.

This blog is now my focus.

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Last year, I got deathly ill. I was bedbound for 4 months, and I am still recovering. I will, eventually, discuss that illness and the role stress (including the stress of my son’s incarceration) played in it but for now, I only mention it as impetus for this blog.

I'm here because I got really sick.

While laying in bed, sorting through matters of living and dying and all that comes when you are too ill to sit up— my brain wandered back through my many past mistakes and replayed my triumphs. I counted blessings and grieved losses. I let people go and pulled others close. I got angry and also forgave some people who needed forgiving— including myself.

Like others before me in the Dark Night, I slipped and landed on a ledge inside a deep canyon where, bashed and broken, I was left alone with Authenticity. She is terrifying.

For a long time, I could not get up.

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During those months of acute illness, I also (ironically) found myself aligned with my son’s state of being. As someone unable to walk and drive and eat and do things for myself, I was a proverbial prisoner in my own home. My thoughts often turned to my child’s different-but-same limitations. We were both confined by the myriad circumstances that had led us to our present moment.

Human.

Stripped of distractions and plans.

The well-tended garden of my exterior life— which included a nice salary, great benefits, and beautiful home— became unmanageable. I watched the neatly pruned landscape wither from my window, and I was forced to admit my powerlessness over everything. I hung up my professional work clothes, resigned my position, and let go. The jig was up.

My own healing came first, for the first time in my life.

A pure humanity broke through, and I started to see myself as the person that I am— not the one that I have strived or wanted or presented myself to be. I am a complicated woman with decades of unique and painful experiences that are, in broad perspective, neither inherently good nor bad. Included in that inventory is my son's incarceration.

I also did some math and reckoned that my life is, at best, about half over. The sum total of my 47+ years didn't add up to what I thought it would. Then and there I made promises to me— when I can sit up again, I will actually start doing The Important Things.

In January 2025, I sat up. I started writing.

And here we are.

Other Stats

In case you really want to know the boring stuff— I am writing as a Gen-X woman, a mom, a wife, a psychologist, and a recovering co-dependent. I owned a bookstore before Amazon became Amazon. I sang backing vocals on an aging classic rock musician’s (really bad) album. I have sourdough starter in my fridge. My favorite color is blue. I wear patchouli. I cannot stand bacon. I saw Pink Floyd in concert once and my bucket list includes a trip to Ireland to see where my namesake's family once lived (Happy St. Patty's, all).

I am all of those weird things and yet, none of those things. We are not our hair color or our professed religion or the brand of vehicle we drive. We are not even our stories. I am just a soul making my way out here with what I have at hand.

While this is not the story that I have planned or wanted or ever thought I would write— it is the one I have to tell.

As always, if you have any questions please write me or comment below. This week, I want to know if being Gen X is a bonus or a liability for me. Please DM or comment your thoughts!

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1. The day may come when he writes a blog about his mom— oh Lord, the stories he could write.