I never thought I’d be writing this. Not like this. Not as the wife of the man I used to guard, used to protect.
Not as someone on the outside screaming for help that should’ve been automatic on the inside.
But here we are.
I used to serve this system.
Now I’m exposing it.
I used to wear the uniform. Sixteen hours a day, six days a week, I walked those same yards. I protected inmates, respected them, loved them—because I knew most of them had never known compassion a day in their life. I saw their pain, their potential, their humanity.
And now?
Now I’m fighting like hell for the one who stole my heart behind those very walls.
My husband is being failed. Deliberately. Repeatedly. Brutally.
For days now—too many days—my husband has been locked down in complete isolation under what they call “observation.” No family contact. No personal belongings. No consistent monitoring. No treatment plan.
What he’s getting instead? A blanket and a pill.
They’re trying to medicate him into silence instead of assessing what’s really going on.
Treating symptoms, not people.
Avoiding accountability instead of offering care.
He's been moved from unit to unit more times in 9 days than in a typical prison bid, like a pawn in a game no one wins. He has no personal belongings. No way to call me—his wife, his POA, his person. He’s sleeping on a mat with two blankets, and they call this treatment?
Let’s call it what it is: negligence.
He is overwhelmed. Abandoned. Stripped of every sense of stability.
The one person who should be able to stand in the gap for him—me—is being blocked, ignored, and brushed off like I’m some stranger with a clipboard.
I am his wife.
I am his legally designated Power of Attorney.
I am the one he chose to speak for him when he can’t.
And yet, somehow, that still doesn’t mean a damn thing to the people who hold the keys to his cage.
And me? I’m left to sit outside this system I used to work for, begging for someone to follow the damn law.
They say they won’t honor my Power of Attorney.
That’s illegal.
Under Arizona law and standard medical ethics, a properly executed POA must be recognized, especially in matters of mental health. I’ve faxed it. I’ve emailed it. I’ve called. I’ve driven to facilities. And still—they pretend I don’t exist. They pretend he doesn’t matter.
But I am his voice.
I am his advocate.
And I’m not going away.
I’m documenting every violation. Every lie. Every cover-up.
They’ve violated policy after policy. Denied appeals that were never even entered into the system. Issued disciplinary tickets in retaliation. Isolated him further for having the audacity to need help.
And meanwhile, they still won’t tell me when I’ll get to hear my husband’s voice again.
The system wants to wear me down.
They want me to shut up.
They want to keep brushing Ryan off as just another number.
But he’s not a number.
He’s a man.
A husband.
A survivor.
And I am the woman who will never stop demanding what he’s owed: respect, safety, and treatment.
So I’ve taken this to the next level.
I’ve gone to the Superior Court to file the documents this system should’ve honored from the beginning.
I’ve started emailing EVERY “suit” I can find—directors, wardens, officials, lawyers, secretaries, and anyone else who gets a taxpayer-funded check and a title.
And now?
I’m going to the media.
Because when the internal routes are exhausted, the public spotlight is the only thing left to force change.
And I don’t care how uncomfortable that makes anyone feel.To the Arizona Department of Corrections—this is your warning.
You’ve underestimated me.
You assumed I’d tire out.
You assumed your lack of answers would eventually shut me down.
Wrong.
You tried to bury Ryan in red tape and sedatives.
You tried to silence me with walls, transfers, and radio silence.
But I’m louder than your excuses.
And I’m smarter than your system.
I will name every violation.
I will collect every lie.
And I will make sure your dirty laundry ends up in front of every reporter, every lawmaker, and every person who’s ever dared to believe this system was built for justice.
To the families out there with someone inside—hear me when I say:
You don’t have to stay silent.
You don’t have to accept what they give you.
You don’t have to settle for half-truths and empty promises.
You have rights.
Your loved one has rights.
And you are not alone.
And to my husband, if you ever get to read this—
I will never stop fighting for you.
Not until you're safe. Not until you're free.
Not until your voice is heard in every room I step into.
You are not alone in this.
Even when they won’t let you speak, I will speak for you.
Even when they try to break you, I will be the one on the other side holding you together with my words, my fire, and my fury.
I will not stop. Not until you’re safe. Not until they’re exposed. Not until someone finally listens.
You once told me, “Don’t let them silence you.”
And I won’t.
Not now. Not ever.
