My Truth, My Hurt, My Life

I can remember the day my life changed like it was yesterday. It was August 12, 2022. I had just gotten off work and called to check on my son. He told me he was at a friend’s house. I checked his location and drove over to bring him some money. It was an ordinary Friday. After that, I went to get my nails done and planned to meet my cousin for something to eat. Nothing about that day felt unusual.

Around 7:30 that evening, I heard my Ring doorbell notification go off. I remember feeling relieved because I knew my son had made it home. What I didn’t know was that an incident had happened earlier that day, and it involved him. I had no idea that the normal life I had been living was about to disappear.

The next morning, I woke my son before leaving for work and told him he needed to go help take care of his great-grandmother because his sister had helped the night before. I kissed him goodbye like it was any other morning. I never imagined what was about to happen.

As I was driving, police officers pulled me over. I was confused because I hadn’t done anything wrong. Within seconds, officers had guns pointed at me and were demanding to know where my son was. I told them he was at his grandmother’s house, but they accused me of lying. They ordered me out of my car, told me I couldn’t call anyone, and said I couldn’t drive my own vehicle. They made me take them to my son.

Watching officers point guns at my son is something I will never forget. They pointed guns at me too. I was terrified. I tried to speak to my son, and an officer yelled, “Shut the f*** up, now.” I remember feeling completely powerless. I recorded part of what happened because I didn’t know what else to do. As a mother, every instinct in me wanted to protect my child, but there was nothing I could do.

That moment shattered me.

As if that wasn’t enough, only a few days later, my home was shot at while my children and I were sleeping inside. My youngest son was only 10 years old, and a bullet narrowly missed him. Even now, I cannot describe the fear of knowing how differently that night could have ended. I realized my family was no longer safe. I had to leave the city where I had grown up and where I had raised my children. Overnight, everything familiar was gone.

People often assume they know my son because of what they heard or read. They don’t know the little boy I raised. They don’t know the child who earned good grades, who went to church with me every week, who was respectful, and who had the sweetest smile. When he was born, he had long black hair and seemed to glow. The nurses kept coming back into my room just to look at him because they thought he looked like an angel. Those are the memories I hold on to. Before any headlines, before courtrooms, before prison, he was simply my son.

The years that followed were some of the hardest of my life. I sat through two jury trials. Every court date filled me with anxiety. Every decision felt like another piece of my heart breaking. I believed my son had been influenced by others, yet I watched him bear the consequences. Whether people agreed with me or not, I carried the pain of watching my child face a future I never imagined for him.

Throughout all of this, I continued working in corrections. Every day I walked into a prison while carrying my own heartbreak. My coworkers whispered about me. Some talked about my family as I walked by. The youth in the institution knew my son’s story because it had been all over the news. There were days I wanted to turn around, go home, hide under my blankets, and disappear. But I couldn’t. I still had bills to pay. I still had two other children depending on me. I still had a job to do.

I fought depression while trying to be the mother everyone needed me to be. I had to be careful not to let my anger, hurt, frustration, and grief spill over onto my son, my other children, or my coworkers. Some days I cried alone because I didn’t want anyone else carrying my pain. Other days I smiled simply because it was easier than explaining what was happening inside me.

The hardest part has been learning how to be a mother from a distance. Every phone call matters. Every visit matters. Every letter matters. I worry about my son every single day, but I try not to let him see how much I struggle because I never want him to feel responsible for my pain. Instead, I encourage him, pray for him, and remind him that he is still loved.

People often ask what prison is like. I tell them prison doesn’t only affect the person behind bars. It reaches into homes, marriages, siblings, parents, and entire families. It changes everything. I have lived that reality every day since August 2022.

I am still healing. I am still grieving. I am still raising my other children while carrying my own pain. I am still working inside a correctional institution. I am still trying to take care of my health. And every day, I choose to keep going because that is what mothers do.

I wish the world understood that when a child goes to prison, a mother’s heart goes with them. We continue loving them, praying for them, and hoping for them, even when the rest of the world has stopped seeing them as human. That has been my journey, and it has changed me forever.