From Guard to Wife: My Journey in the Shadows of the Justice System

  I have started and stopped this blog more times than I want to admit. Maybe because I know there is a very real possibility that this will be the last one I write for a while. And there is something incredibly strange about trying to find the right words when you know your entire life is about to change. How do you write about that? How do you put a period at the end of a sentence when your whole life feels like an ellipsis? I don't think you do. So this isn't a goodbye. It is simply the chapter before I come home. For the last several years, so much of my life has been lived between phone calls, prison walls, courtrooms, paperwork, emails, sleepless nights, unanswered questions, hope, anger, faith, frustration, and a love that has somehow continued growing in circumstances that probably should have destroyed it. When I wrote Prison Wife 101 , I wrote from the perspective of a woman learning how to survive loving someone behind the wall. I wrote about the things nobody tells ...

There are now three books with my name on them. Even after writing that sentence, part of me still wants to look over my shoulder and ask, “Who, me?” Yes. Me. The woman who has written through tears, anger, fear, exhaustion, love, disappointment, recovery, incarceration, and more unanswered emails than any sane person should ever have to send. The woman who has questioned herself, lost pieces of herself, fought to reclaim them, and then sat down at a computer and tried to turn what she learned into something another person could hold in her hands. I did not set out to write three books. I was trying to survive. These Books Were Not Born From a Perfect Life I did not write these books from some peaceful office with sunlight pouring through the windows while inspirational music played softly in the background. That sounds lovely, but that was not my reality. These books were written in the middle of real life. They were written while loving a man behind prison walls. They wer...

I have not written here in a while. Every time I thought about writing a new blog, I felt the weight of everything I had not yet said. There was so much of it that I did not know where to begin. Do I begin with the prison? The records requests, unanswered messages, missing paperwork, changing explanations, outdated handbooks, disciplinary appeals that seem to vanish, medical decisions made without medical appointments, and the endless task of documenting every single detail because I have learned that if I do not keep proof, someone will eventually claim it never happened? Do I begin with my husband? With loving a man I cannot simply reach for when I need him? With trying to hold a marriage together through scheduled phone calls, monitored conversations, interrupted connections, institutional rules, emotional exhaustion, and hundreds of miles of separation? Do I begin with school? With working toward my master’s degree while researching, writing, advocating, publishing, and tryi...

People understand grief when someone dies. They bring casseroles. They send flowers. They tell you they're sorry. They acknowledge your pain. But what do they do when the person you love is still alive? Nothing. Because they don't see it. They see me posting memes. They see me smiling in pictures. They see me talking about books, advocacy, faith, and prison reform. What they don't see is the grief. The grief of birthdays spent apart. The grief of holidays celebrated through letters. The grief of hearing bad news and not being able to call your husband. The grief of sitting in a trailer in Nevada while the man you love wakes up in a prison cell hundreds of miles away. People think grief requires a funeral. They're wrong. Sometimes grief looks like waiting. Sometimes grief looks like surviving. Sometimes grief looks like loving someone who is still alive but completely out of reach. And that's the kind nobody talks about. There are no sympathy ca...

Video that explains it better than most people ever could: https://www.facebook.com/reel/1594568355098862 People always ask me the same question when they hear about what happened with my husband and I: “How the fuck did you not know?” Well… here’s your answer. Before my husband, I had NEVER been around street drugs. Never around addicts. Never around meth. Never around fentanyl. I didn’t grow up seeing it. I didn’t know the signs. I didn’t know what functioning addiction looked like. I thought addicts looked like what TV shows and documentaries tell us they look like. I had no idea that people with ADHD sometimes use meth or fentanyl to feel “normal.” I had no idea some addicts know EXACTLY how much to use to appear calm, focused, functional, energetic, social, or “fine” to everyone around them. And when someone has been doing it long enough, they learn how to hide it incredibly well. So no… I didn’t know. I wasn’t stupid. I wasn’t blind. I wasn’t ignoring giant neon warning signs. I ...

This is 50. Not the cute, filtered, “aging gracefully” version people like to post with a glass of wine and good lighting. This. Sitting in an ER room alone, staring at a monitor that says my blood pressure is 89/53… and the staff looking at me like I’m about to drop dead. For me? That’s high. Yeah… let that sink in. My body doesn’t even play by normal rules anymore. My legs swell because my lymphatic system has decided it’s just… done cooperating. My head spins between vertigo, migraines, and constant dizziness like I’m living on a damn carnival ride I never bought a ticket for. And that’s just the physical side. Mentally? I carry more diagnoses than most people can pronounce. PTSD that doesn’t clock out. Anxiety that doesn’t take a day off. Panic that hits whenever it damn well pleases. Depression that lingers even on the “good” days. This isn’t a phase. This isn’t something that’s “going to pass.” This is permanent. So yeah… I’m on disability now. Let that one settle...