The SHAME AND SILENCE of Mothers
with Incarcerated Sons

One in four women in this country love someone in prison. For Black women, the number rises to one in two. Many of these women, like me, are mothers of incarcerated sons. After arrest, our hearts are broken but our love remains intact; mothers are often the most stable relationship in their sons’ lives. As such, we are often others carrying the lion’s share of the responsibility for our imprisoned sons, even when our sons are married and have children of their own. We serve as their counselors, bankers and legal liaisons during their time inside. 

Where are these mothers, whose numbers may be as high as a million? Why are there so few services available to meet our needs? And why do we feel so isolated?

I am a white and Jewish psychotherapist. Until my son’s arrest, I led a privileged life of relative ignorance about the criminal justice system. After his arrest, I found myself alone, terrified and confused. No one in my family or social circle had more to offer me than mutual hand-wringing. I turned first to Facebook groups for support, and six years later, I still lean on these women. We are a diverse group of mothers from all classes, races, criminal charges, and locations. For the last two years, I also lead two national support groups for mothers.

I sought more information through published research on this population, only to come up nearly empty handed. There are plenty of books and articles on children of incarcerated parents, and spouses of prisoners, but mothers remain invisible. And, without good data, there is little impetus for organizations to offer support specifically for mothers. Most organizations that serve prisoners and families do not yet understand the outsized role of mothers for their incarcerated sons.

To find out more, I interviewed 15 mothers from across the country who responded to my requests on five different Facebook groups. I wanted to understand the toll that maternal support has taken on their own lives. How much support have they received from others and how much are they struggling alone?

The mothers I spoke with ranged in age from 38 to 67 years old, with an average age of 52. They are from all parts of the country, evenly distributed among urban, suburban, and rural communities. They live everywhere from the state of Washington to Florida, including Colorado, Alabama, Pennsylvani,a and Wyoming. Slightly over half are White, one woman is Latinx, and the others identify as Black and mixed race. To date, their sons have been locked up for 1-16 years. One woman has two incarcerated sons, and one mother’s son died last year in prison from an overdose. The sons range in age from 20-36 years old.  These men lean heavily on their mothers. Three of the sons are currently in “the hole,” meaning that they can neither receive visits nor have regular phone calls. The other inmate sons, however, are in constant contact with their mothers. Two mothers receive calls two to three times per day. Most others speak to their sons daily or nearly so. The mother who receives the least calls, only twice per month, has regular supplemental contact through texts and hand-written letters. Regardless of the specifics, incarcerated sons are part of their mothers’ daily lives and never far from their thoughts.

The job of caring for incarcerated sons is daily, unrelenting, and emotionally draining. It alters who we are. When I asked the mothers how this experience has changed them, some report positive shifts, like the mother who told me, “It’s given me more compassion for other prisoners. I have a deeper love for my son. It has brought my other children and I closer together. And, it’s brought a closer relationship for me to God.” But others express only difficulties. As one mother revealed, “The level of anxiety I had and still have, is something I don’t wish on anyone. I’m scared of everything, and don’t do well now in situations that I can’t control. I’m constantly in a state of anxiety, no matter how happy or sad I am. My “fight” is gone. My self esteem is gone. Through all of this, I’ve had to stay “normal” for the sake of my son’s mental health. I know he worries about me a lot, so I fake it a lot of times, something I’ve never done with my son. I have hope that these things will change one day. For now, I continue working on myself with the help of a therapist, and try to always give myself grace.”

All the mothers I interviewed love their sons deeply and fully. They acknowledge their sons’ mistakes and even their own, but that does not in any way compromise their love at all. One mother told me, “Whether they’re innocent or guilty, it’s our child. We did the best we could. We are not responsible for their mistakes.” Another mother said, “Just because he’s in prison doesn’t mean he’s a bad person. As mothers, we love our sons no matter what.” 

I did not ask the mothers about their sons’ charges, as that information has little influence over the experience of caring for them from outside. I do know, however, that their sons are in country, state, and federal facilities, with security levels ranging from low to max. The prison locations are between eight minutes and eight hours away by car from their mothers’ homes. Given that, there is a large variation in the frequency of in-person visits. Two sons get weekly in-person visits. Half of the mothers see their sons once or more per month, and most others make in-person visits to their sons’ prisons several times per year. One mother has only seen her son once in the entire year he’s been incarcerated, and another told his mother to never visit him. He doesn’t want her to see him “like this,” and, as a result, she hasn’t seen him in six years. The mother with the dead child cannot visit ever again.

What toll, if any, is this support taking on mothers? The limited published research tells us that the responsibilities, worry, expenses, and tasks associated with having a child in prison result in increased vulnerability to multiple physical and mental health disorders. The mothers I interviewed report noticeable changes in their health status since their sons’ arrests, the most common being severe anxiety and depression. In several cases, this has led to suicide attempts and psychiatric hospitalizations. Many use psychotherapy and antidepressants to cope. The next most common ailment is excessive weight gain, followed by exhaustion and PTSD. Other physical changes include high blood pressure, migraines, and pancreatic insufficiency, and one mother developed a stutter whenever she spoke to men in authority. The stress of it all overwhelms our systems.

The most effective antidote to suffering is compassionate connection. Mothers need supportive and knowledgeable others to help us though. Yet, mothers with incarcerated children often feel a vast gulf between their own experience and that of their peers or family.  While other mothers boast about their children’s accomplishments, weddings, or job promotions, the mother with a son in prison can feel alienated and alone, wondering what news to share and how her news would be received if she was brave enough to say it aloud. Will they judge her, blaming her son’s arrest on inadequate parenting? Will they recoil in disgust and fear? Or will they offer support, kindness, and sympathy? It is a risk to reveal the truth. 

I asked the mothers I interviewed about disclosure —who they told about their sons’ whereabouts and the responses they received. Some of their sons have very public crimes, meaning that the mothers didn’t have the choice about sharing the information; the story was controlled by the media, accurate or not, and available for all to see. When mothers do have the choice, they make a broad range of decisions, from telling everyone to moving away where no one knows them or their sons.

Among those I spoke to, every woman has told at least some members of her family that her son was arrested, although not always immediately. The children in those families (nieces, nephews, and grandkids) all know, as well. Most mothers have also told their closest friends, if they have any. Some mothers have met new friends through visiting their sons and/or the Facebook support groups. Across the board, mothers are far less likely to tell co-workers, except a supervisor or manager who may need to know if they require time off. 

Perhaps unexpectedly, most of the mothers report few negative effects from sharing the information, although they are extraordinarily careful about who they tell. Most wait to be asked about their sons before revealing anything. Even then, some mothers give only vague and misleading answers, like, “He’s in Ohio” or “He’s with the government.” Silence from those who DO know but never mention their son is exceptionally painful for the mothers. When no one asks about the incarcerated child, it can feel like he’s dead, leaving the mother alone in her love and care. Not surprisingly, mothers report feeling more distant from unresponsive or critical family members. 

Mothers who retreat from revealing that their sons are in prison may not be excessively paranoid. We know that our culture holds mothers to impossible standards and criticizes moms for their children’s struggles and failures. While boasting mothers are taking some credit for their children’s accomplishments, mothers of incarcerated sons are often holding themselves responsible for their sons’ crimes. This becomes internalized as self-blame. There is not a mother out there who has not wondered if any of her decisions around work, love, and/or parenting contributed to her son’s arrest. As one mother told me, "I used to be proud of myself for the job I did raising my family; now I question everything I did.” 

The good news is that the most intense maternal self-recrimination tends to fade over time. And with that comes more disclosure. Nearly all the mothers report a growing comfort with sharing information about their son’s incarceration. Often, they have traded shame about their sons’ crimes (and their parenting) for loyalty to their sons and pride in their accomplishments in prison, such as finding God or earning a GED. One mother noted, “I also feel guilty that I am not more vocal about the issues our prison systems have... It’s because I don’t want to have to explain it to people should there be any questions. But I am gradually beginning to work through that mind block.” 

When a mother can share her struggle with another person, the closer that relationship can become, breaking the isolation. It’s an upward spiral, meaning that the more mothers can safely speak their truths, the more support they can receive and the better their physical and mental health will be. They will hide less, tell more, and increasingly find the support they need.

What is the rest of the country doing for this invisible and steadfast population? Where is the recognition for the work these mothers do every day to keep their sons in commissary and good spirits? Where is the research on the best treatment for the anxieties that grip these mothers? From all I have gleaned, it barely exists. Without data that describes and proves mothers’ needs, there are nearly no services available. Clearly, for the good of us all, research, policy and social services needs to change.

In the absence of research, social support, and community services, we mothers have no choice but to take better care of ourselves and each other. It’s tough. As one mother told me,
“It’s OK to be in that moment, it’s OK to cry, it’s OK to support your child, no matter how anyone else feels. It takes a lot of self care. If you don’t make it through the process, you can’t take care of him.” Another mom said, “We are trying to deal with their turmoil and what it’s done to us. It’s hard to breathe. That’s what we have to learn to do, learn to breathe.” 

This is an excellent reminder for us all- breathe and connect!