There’s a version of me that everyone sees...

She smiles. She laughs. She cracks jokes like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

She shows up. Every single day. Even when she doesn’t want to.
Even when she’s running on fumes and silence and the kind of exhaustion sleep doesn’t fix.

People think that version of me is me.

But she’s not.

She’s the one I built a long time ago…
when I learned that pain makes people uncomfortable, and survival means making sure everyone else is okay… even when you’re not.

And the truth is…I’m tired. Not just “I need a nap” tired. I’m soul tired.

The kind of tired that comes from missing someone so deeply it feels physical.
Like there’s a constant ache sitting in my chest that never lets up.
Like no matter how much I try to distract myself… it’s always there, waiting.

I miss my husband in a way I don’t even know how to explain to people.
There are no words big enough for this kind of missing.

It’s in the quiet moments. It’s in the mornings. It’s in the nights when everything slows down and there’s no noise left to hide behind.

It’s in the empty space beside me. In the conversations I can’t have. In the life we were supposed to be living right now… but aren’t.

And somehow… I still get up. I still smile. I still laugh like everything is okay.

Because that’s what I learned to do a long time ago. I learned how to take pain…and tuck it away so deep that nobody else has to feel it. I learned how to perform “okay” so well that people actually believe it.

And if I’m being honest…sometimes I don’t even know where the real me ends and that version begins.

There are moments I feel completely numb. Like I’m just… existing. Going through the motions. Checking the boxes. Breathing… but not really living.

And then there are moments where it all hits at once. And it’s heavy. So damn heavy.

The loneliness. The sadness. The weight of holding everything together by myself.

And still… I’ll wipe my face, take a breath, and step right back into that version of me the world expects.

Because that’s what I’ve always done.

But here’s the part I don’t say out loud very often-

Just because I’m strong…doesn’t mean I’m not breaking sometimes.

Just because I keep going…doesn’t mean this isn’t hard.

And just because I can carry it…doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

I’m still here. I’m still standing.

But some days…it’s not strength that gets me through.

It’s survival.

And right now…that has to be enough.

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Four days.

That is what is left. Four days until I walk through prison gates; not as the correctional officer I once was, not as the prison wife who has spent years fighting this system from the outside, not as the advocate who knows policies, procedures, inmate numbers, classifications, grievances, disciplinary reports, and all the bureaucratic bullshit that comes with incarceration. In four days, I walk through those gates as an inmate. And I am fucking terrified. There. I said it. I am terrified. Six days ago, I wrote a blog called This Isn't Goodbye. It's the Chapter Before I Come Home. I wrote about faith. I wrote about trusting God. I wrote about believing that He would go with me. I wrote about trusting the Author even though I couldn't skip ahead and read the ending. Today? Today I cursed at that Author. Today I told God I fucking hate Him. Those exact words. Not a cleaned-up Christian version of anger. Not, “Lord, I'm struggling to understand Your plan.” Not, “Father, ple...

Exposing the Deadly Reality at La Palma Correctional Facility: How Many More Have to Die?

For years, La Palma Correctional Facility in Eloy, Arizona, has been a hotspot for controversy, yet little has been done to address the rampant corruption, officer misconduct, and systemic failures that have turned it into a living hell for those incarcerated within its walls. Most recently, another inmate has died—one of many whose deaths could have been prevented if those in charge had taken real action instead of covering up their negligence. On January 2, 2025, I fought to have my husband moved out of La Palma due to the sheer volume of drugs flooding the yard, which were being brought in by correctional officers. I reported specific names to the Special Security Unit (SSU), thinking that doing the right thing would bring change. Instead, my concerns fell on deaf ears. Now, here we are, with more inmates losing their lives—many of these deaths are suspected overdoses, yet little to no investigation ever seems to result in actual change. A History of Negligence and Deaths This lates...

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There’s something I can’t shake today. And honestly… it makes me sick. I just read about a correctional officer at the same prison my husband is sitting in right now —Lewis Prison Complex—who was caught smuggling heroin, fentanyl, and cell phones into the facility. Not using. Not struggling. Not trying to survive addiction. Smuggling. Trafficking. Profiting. Investigators didn’t just catch him once either. This wasn’t some “bad decision” moment. This was a full investigation—months long—with surveillance, evidence, and tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of drugs tied to it. Let me say that again… A man with a badge, authority, and access was bringing poison into a prison —into a place already filled with men fighting addiction, trauma, and survival every single day. Now here’s the part that I cannot wrap my head around… My husband is serving seven years for doing drugs. Seven years. For addiction. For a battle that started when he was a child—before he even had ...

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

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