Your browser window currently does not have enough height, or is zoomed in too far to view our website content correctly. Once the window reaches the minimum required height or zoom percentage, the content will display automatically.
Alternatively, you can learn more via the links below.
The length of a sentence behind bars changes how time is felt, and how society reacts once it’s done. There’s a tendency to think that longer sentences are automatically “harder” and that short-term prisoners somehow got off lightly. But that’s too simple. Both come with unique burdens, and both deserve recognition.
Prisoners doing long stretches often face deep psychological and social isolation. Years away from family can mean missing key milestones, children growing up, parents aging, relationships ending. The world outside doesn’t wait.
Technology moves fast, slang changes, even money looks different. The longer the sentence, the more the prisoner risks becoming invisible. Friends fall away. People stop writing. Sometimes, even family fades. That isolation cuts deep. And while time can soften public memory, it can also erase a person’s sense of belonging. But long sentences also demand inner strength. Doing it hard doesn’t just mean enduring time, it means holding onto identity and hope when everything else has changed. That’s not easy. And coming out after a decade or more is rarely the “fresh start” people imagine. It’s a social and emotional free fall.
On the other hand, short-term prisoners often walk straight back into the chaos they left. People are still talking. Family and friends may not have had time to process what happened. Shame, judgement, and strained relationships are waiting at the gate. There’s pressure to “bounce back” quickly, to get a job, fix things, act normal. But the emotional toll is real, even if the sentence was short.
Those on remand are often overlooked, yet facing some of the harshest uncertainties. Held without conviction, they exist in limbo, waiting months or even years for their case to be resolved.
The length of a sentence behind bars changes how time is felt, and how society reacts once it’s done. There’s a tendency to think that longer sentences are automatically “harder” and that short-term prisoners somehow got off lightly. But that’s too simple. Both come with unique burdens, and both deserve recognition.
Prisoners doing long stretches often face deep psychological and social isolation. Years away from family can mean missing key milestones, children growing up, parents aging, relationships ending. The world outside doesn’t wait.
Technology moves fast, slang changes, even money looks different. The longer the sentence, the more the prisoner risks becoming invisible. Friends fall away. People stop writing. Sometimes, even family fades. That isolation cuts deep. And while time can soften public memory, it can also erase a person’s sense of belonging. But long sentences also demand inner strength. Doing it hard doesn’t just mean enduring time, it means holding onto identity and hope when everything else has changed. That’s not easy. And coming out after a decade or more is rarely the “fresh start” people imagine. It’s a social and emotional free fall.
On the other hand, short-term prisoners often walk straight back into the chaos they left. People are still talking. Family and friends may not have had time to process what happened. Shame, judgement, and strained relationships are waiting at the gate. There’s pressure to “bounce back” quickly, to get a job, fix things, act normal. But the emotional toll is real, even if the sentence was short.
Those on remand are often overlooked, yet facing some of the harshest uncertainties. Held without conviction, they exist in limbo, waiting months or even years for their case to be resolved.
There’s no sentence to prepare for, no release date to anchor them, just a relentless state of instability. Access to programmes is limited, support is minimal, and the stigma is just as heavy. Some may even walk conviction free after trial, but the damage to employment, family ties, reputation, and mental health is already done.
Being on remand isn’t a lesser form of imprisonment, it’s a distinct kind of psychological punishment and often served alongside convicted criminals.
When I left prison, my court case was still in the news. Colleagues across the country were only just finding out about my offending, and I spent months having the same conversations, answering the same questions again and again. At a time when I needed space to process what had happened and think about my future, I was surrounded by judgement and stress that made it hard to maintain my mental health.
At one point, like many others I’m sure, I thought it might be easier to just go back to prison. The idea of avoiding everything, trading real-world problems for the controlled isolation of custody, crept in far too easily. It was confronting.
I pulled myself up from that train of thought quickly, but in that moment, the word institutionalised became very real to me.
Short sentences don’t mean short consequences. A few months inside can still cost someone their job, their housing, their kids, or their mental health. And there’s often no real support on release. In fact, shorter sentences often come with fewer programmes, less preparation for reintegration, and more risk of being pulled straight back in.
Time doesn’t just pass in prison, it shapes people. Whether someone has done six months or 16 years, they carry the weight of that experience long after the gates open. Every sentence has its own challenges, doing time is never easy. No matter how long the clock runs.
There’s no sentence to prepare for, no release date to anchor them, just a relentless state of instability. Access to programmes is limited, support is minimal, and the stigma is just as heavy. Some may even walk conviction free after trial, but the damage to employment, family ties, reputation, and mental health is already done.
Being on remand isn’t a lesser form of imprisonment, it’s a distinct kind of psychological punishment and often served alongside convicted criminals.
When I left prison, my court case was still in the news. Colleagues across the country were only just finding out about my offending, and I spent months having the same conversations, answering the same questions again and again. At a time when I needed space to process what had happened and think about my future, I was surrounded by judgement and stress that made it hard to maintain my mental health.
At one point, like many others I’m sure, I thought it might be easier to just go back to prison. The idea of avoiding everything, trading real-world problems for the controlled isolation of custody, crept in far too easily. It was confronting.
I pulled myself up from that train of thought quickly, but in that moment, the word institutionalised became very real to me.
Short sentences don’t mean short consequences. A few months inside can still cost someone their job, their housing, their kids, or their mental health. And there’s often no real support on release. In fact, shorter sentences often come with fewer programmes, less preparation for reintegration, and more risk of being pulled straight back in.
Time doesn’t just pass in prison, it shapes people. Whether someone has done six months or 16 years, they carry the weight of that experience long after the gates open. Every sentence has its own challenges, doing time is never easy. No matter how long the clock runs.
I’d never have guessed at the amount of movement happening within the prison system. Not just within a particular prison – that in itself was eye-opening – but movement between prisons.
Prisons de-individualise and dehumanise people. This is often more apparent for people who already do not fit the mold of a “normal person”, such as those with autism spectrum disorder (autism).
The entertainment and news media loves to show a confrontational and violent “don't back down” version of prison life, but what they don't show is the genuine care and openness between strangers in prison.
I am raising this issue in the hope that sharing my story will spark change in the future.
Help keep the momentum going. All donations will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
All donations of $2 or more are tax deductible. If you would like to pay directly into our bank account to avoid the processing fee, please contact donate@abouttime.org.au. ABN 67 667 331 106.
Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
Leave a Comment
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Suspendisse varius enim in eros elementum tristique. Duis cursus, mi quis viverra ornare, eros dolor interdum nulla, ut commodo diam libero vitae erat. Aenean faucibus nibh et justo cursus id rutrum lorem imperdiet. Nunc ut sem vitae risus tristique posuere. uis cursus, mi quis viverra ornare, eros dolor interdum nulla, ut commodo diam libero vitae erat. Aenean faucibus nibh et justo cursus id rutrum lorem imperdiet. Nunc ut sem vitae risus tristique posuere.