For years we had been dragged through court hearings: the prosecutor asking for more time, prolonging the process, wasting the little money we had, and trial delays due to COVID-19. Each court attendance made me feel sick to my stomach with nervousness as rich strangers decided my husband’s fate – and our future. Our lawyers would joke and laugh with the prosecutor before presenting their argument riddled with factual errors.

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For years while on bail we had endured curfews, travel restrictions, daily check-ins and sometimes twice-nightly police harassment. But in the court’s eyes this was not considered “onerous” or difficult. Only someone who has not been on bail could possibly think that.

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And then it was the day and the unthinkable happened: “Guilty” the judge said, and it felt like a knife had pierced through my heart, the world fell away to darkness. All I wanted was to be held by my husband, yet it was he who was suffering most of all, sitting alone in that wooden box. It was forbidden: no kiss goodbye, no final hug before he was taken into the depths of the building.
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They line us up to visit, guilty by association. We are photographed, fingerprinted and submitted to numerous drug searches.

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One of the hardest things ever is to leave the person you love in prison, to walk away willingly and not take them with you. Every visit trying to keep a brave face and the tears at bay as you try to bring them a small moment of happiness and relieve the monotony.

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And still we endure, because one day he will be free, and prison won’t touch us again.

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In the meantime? We will not be broken. When they want us to cry, we laugh. When they want us to hate, instead we love and keep going. When they want us to lose hope, we dream of the future and a life together outside of those walls. We take back our power and agency by being true to our values.  

For me out here, life feels lonely and empty. I have to walk down the street acting like everything is normal when my husband has been torn from my life leaving a gaping hole in my chest. Can people not tell when I walk past them that he is in prison and my heart is broken? For him, he tells me stories of what life is like inside, the things he has seen, and I cannot imagine withstanding it. We must both be strong but in different ways.

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Our strength lies in our community. No matter how we came to be entangled in the criminal justice system – bad luck, poor choices, poverty, addiction or wrongful conviction – we are all in the same boat together now.

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I reach out to other families I meet in the visiting room –  striking up conversation, building connections. Sometimes we message each other or catch up for coffee. Other people don’t truly understand and there is always the fear of being judged.

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Inside, my husband supports other prisoners, helping people learn to read and running exercise drills. This has become his solace. In many ways it is the people inside who help you get through it. Sharing a joke with one another, playing a game – camaraderie born from lived experience.

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Don’t let the “system” win. Hold your head high and endure. Find what opportunities you can: to learn, to build your skills and to find happiness.

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It is not an easy road – I struggle to get out of bed every day – but I will not let it beat me. I work hard to build our life out here so he has something to come home to. Our liberty, our money, our time might be taken from us, but we will not let prison take our relationship and future away too.