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 The records requests, unanswered messages, missing paperwork, changing explanations, outdated handbooks, disciplinary appeals that seem to vanish, medical decisions made without medical appointments, and the endless task of documenting every single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...