Mothers of Imprisoned Sons Struggle Emotionally and Financially With No Support

Every mother of an incarcerated son has the day her child entered state custody memorized: Whether she had been waiting in semiconscious dread for the call that started it all, or was stunned by a sudden pounding on her front door — she will always remember the moment her role as a mother fundamentally changed, bringing with it new and relentless demands on her time, mental health and finances.

My own story began at 6 am on Valentine’s Day in 2019, when 11 federal agents stormed my apartment in search of my son. I was a white, 66-year-old Jewish psychotherapist living in New York City, a single lesbian mother of a 26-year-old son who was not living with me at the time. I backed against the wall in my pajamas as the feds poured into my home in their bulletproof vests. I was confused, terrified and completely unaware of my rights, meaning that they easily intimidated me into telling them my son’s whereabouts. By day’s end, he was arrested in New Orleans, and I was no longer the person I had been the day before. My heart is irreparably wounded, and I have lost all confidence in the systems set up to keep me safe. Do not be fooled by how well I look and function on the surface.

There are over 2 million incarcerated people in this country, 94 percent of whom are men. A conservative estimation puts more than a million mothers dedicating a good portion of their personal resources to the care of their sons inside. Another study found that one in four women love someone in prison. If you are reading this article, you know a woman suffering (silently) over the absence of a family member.

Because of my privilege and upbringing, I knew no other mothers in my position, and my online research on this population produced a scant number of studies. In addition to a lack of data, there’s also few social services or resources available to mothers of incarcerated sons; support is mostly a grassroots affair. I turned first to moderated Facebook groups for guidance and support where I met mothers from backgrounds quite different from my own, but with many overlapping experiences. Several years later, I enlisted my therapeutic skills to lead two online support groups for mothers. It’s through the stories of these women that I’ve learned about the struggles and strengths we all face, regardless of our sons’ charges, ages, or marital status. They have all given me permission to quote them here, although to protect their privacy and that of their sons, I will only use the women’s first names.

Janetta is a 52-year-old single Black woman who lives and works in Atlanta, Georgia. She has three children and nine grandchildren. Her incarcerated son was sentenced to 20 years in 2012. He is now 36, with five children of his own. He was working in the music industry before he was arrested. Janetta knew he was stressed by trying to pay the children’s mother for child support, but she was totally unprepared for the poor decision he made to get his hands on more money. Her life-changing phone call was a shock.

Mothers are the most stable relationship in most prisoners’ lives; many friendships fade away and romantic partnerships often collapse under the strain of separation and resentment. Mothers don’t leave. We maintain our love and loyalty to our sons, even as we hate the crimes they may have committed. We serve as their bankers, counselors, administrative assistants, most frequent visitors and legal liaisons. This closeness to our sons’ basic needs can blur the boundaries between us. As Janetta said, “To have an incarcerated son is to be a prisoner as well. I have been supporting my son for every year he has been in prison. I take his kids to see him. I have custody of one of them. It’s hard to watch him struggle day to day and fight to stay alive.”

Katherine, another mother I met through Facebook, states it more strongly: “I was sentenced to 15 years when my son was. I’ve been doing time with him. We have went from prison to prison. We have been stabbed, beat, robbed and stabbed again and again. We have been addicted to heroin and overdosed several times. And we have cleaned ourselves up and successfully completed a drug program…. I use ‘we’ because my son is my heart. My son is my world, and as his mother I feel his pain!”

Society holds mothers to impossibly high standards. We are expected to provide nourishment, comfort and individualized guidance to our children — all while keeping a safe and clean home and a lucrative job. In the cracks of time and space left, mothers are expected to fulfill their own needs and desires enough to maintain a happy disposition for the family.

Mothers are occasionally credited with their children’s successes and more often blamed for any negative outcomes, such as addiction or crime. Mothers with incarcerated sons fear that, upon learning of their sons’ incarcerations, they will be judged and ostracized by those in their family and community. In fact, it does happen, leading many mothers to disguise the fact of their sons’ whereabouts. For those whose son’s crime were public, reported in the local newspapers and television, there is no hiding from this scrutiny.

Many mothers equivocate when asked about their sons, replying evasively that “he’s in the Army,” or “living in another state” or “with the government.” While this ambiguity may work to stave off immediate judgment, it comes at the high price of isolation for women who need support. It’s why these online groups are lifesavers for many mothers; these are the only people many mothers can be honest with.

Diane lives in Kansas. She is a separated, white 48-year-old mother of five children, the oldest of whom has been in prison for the last three years. She is currently not working due to a disability. When asked how her son’s incarceration has affected her relationship with others, she replied, “It has impacted me greatly. I have always been a loner, but even more so now. I am scared people will realize who I am, and say things about my son that I can’t handle hearing. We actually went back to our hometown and were treated very badly, even two years later. Many places invoked their right to refuse service to me and my children. One place went so far as to ban us from returning. That broke my heart.”

Internalizing the imagined public scrutiny, every single mother has, at least temporarily, suffered through a phase of intense parental self-doubt. Diane said, “I absolutely blame myself for my son’s arrest. Not a day has gone by that I have not hated myself for not doing something different. The what-ifs have never gone away. I have just learned to live with them. The guilt eats away at me, and I don’t know that I will ever forgive myself.”

Fortunately, however, most mothers find that the intensity of the self-recriminations fades over time, replaced with more acceptance of their own limitations, and a shifting of responsibility to their sons for their own actions. Diane adds, “I wish I could tell you, after all this, that I now know what I should have done differently. But the only conclusion I have come to is [that] there was no right answer. There was no good outcome for him or those that love him.” As the shame dims, these mothers are more willing to speak honestly of their sons to others, opening themselves up to potential negative judgments but also allowing for real connection and support.

Having an incarcerated child is often a financial drain on mothers, even for those who have used court-appointed lawyers for their sons’ legal processes. Jails and prisons are required to provide three meals per day, but the food offered at chow is neither adequate in volume nor nutrients. Nearly all prisoners find means to supplement their diets, either through commissary money or illegal bartering of services with other prisoners. Commissary money is also needed for toiletries, shower shoes, pens, paper, and other items we would consider necessities. Not all mothers are in a financial position to contribute what is needed or requested. Diane is disabled and living on her Supplemental Social Income benefits. Phone calls to her son cost a fifth of her checks. “Texts, emails and phone calls are a necessity for both of us, so I do without other things. And that is not counting commissary needs. The burden of this financially is such an added stress on a heartbreaking situation.”

Denise is 67 years old and lives outside of Chicago. She has four children. After becoming disabled following a work injury, she got a bachelor’s degree in paralegal studies to help guide her incarcerated son. She has spent over 27 years in the prison system with her son and a nephew. When she began in 1996, her phone bills were over $1,200 per month. “Anything I did for him was more costly than it is today. Yes, while he was incarcerated, I lost homes, vehicles, jewelry I pawned to take care of him. I now live in a senior community because of the prison system.”

The stress of these demands takes a severe toll on mothers’ physical and emotional health. Unlike the shame, which can diminish over time, the damage to a mother’s health tends to compound as the incarcerated years add up. Of course, the effect of a child’s incarceration on maternal health will vary based on characteristics of the mother, any preexisting conditions and the state of the son’s own mental health. The most commonly expressed psychiatric diagnoses are severe depression and suicidality, felt most intensely at the beginning of the carceral journey. Over time, mothers in my own support groups reported increased blood pressure, diminished eyesight, diabetes, problematic alcohol use, weight gain, long COVID and cancer. One woman felt like she had changed so much that her old name no longer fit her. She chose a new one.

Where are these mothers, and why must they hide their struggles? Why are there few supportive services for this population? Mothers of incarcerated sons are often too overwhelmed by the demands on their time, hearts and wallets to organize and demand change. Those still tangled in shame are even less able to advocate for themselves. It is up to the rest of us to recognize the enormous roles these women are playing, and the steep but silent price they are paying. We can do better for mothers. With knowledge comes responsibility; those who have learned about the mothers’ plight, firsthand or through stories like this, need to work toward changing the system. Phone calls to family are a mental health necessity for prisoners and those who love them; calls should be free and unlimited. Visitation hours must be extended to allow for working mothers and those who travel long distances. Finally, to help mothers deal with their self-doubts and isolation from others, we need to develop more support groups. Mothers don’t give up on their sons; we must not forsake mothers.