“The Subject No One Wants to Talk About”
It’s the subject no one ever wants to talk about.
Because it’s sad.
Because it’s uncomfortable.
Because it’s unknown.
Whether you’re behind prison walls or out here in this messy, chaotic world—we all share one truth: one day, our loved ones will leave us. And sometimes, there’s nothing we can do about it.
But there’s a difference—a painful, cruel difference—when you’re inside the prison walls and can’t say goodbye in the way your heart aches to. When you’re forced to grieve behind steel doors and concrete silence. When you’re locked in a cell while the world outside continues on.
Some try to be strong, surrounded by a few friends. Others choose to grieve in solitude, retreating into their own minds. But either way, they don’t have the privilege that we on the outside so often take for granted—to hold a hand, to whisper a final goodbye, to be present in the last sacred moments.
Now, imagine your mother is dying… and you’ve been wrongfully convicted.
You didn’t commit the crime. But you’re still in prison.
Still waiting for someone to finally believe you.
And while the system drags its feet—delays hearings, debates DNA tests, shifts your case from one desk to another—your mother is running out of time.
This isn’t just a story. This is David’s reality.
David sat in a prison cell while his mother took her final breath.
He didn’t get to hold her. He didn’t get to sit at her bedside.
He got a phone call. That’s all.
The chaplain came and gently broke the news: She’s gone.
And just like that, another mother died waiting.
Year after year, season after season, Christmas after Christmas—David’s mother picked up that phone, hoping this would be the call when her son would say, “Mom, I’m finally coming home.”
But time ran out.
And in the end, it was David who had to let her go. He told her, “It’s okay. You don’t have to wait anymore.”
Today is a sad day.
But even outside of those prison walls, I feel powerless.
We didn’t make it in time.
He didn’t make it home in time.
That’s the reality no one wants to talk about.
But we must.
Because silence won’t bring justice.
And silence won’t bring them back.
For Grandma Elaine: A Story of Love, Advocacy, and Time
In my work as an advocate, an activist, and a former lawyer, I’ve had the honor of walking alongside people who have been wrongfully convicted, unjustly accused, and those navigating the difficult path of reentry. I don’t just see clients—I see people. I meet their families, hear their stories, and often, those connections stay with me long after the case files are closed.
That’s how I met Grandma Elaine.
It started with Dave, a man I’ve worked closely with on his innocence case. One day, during one of our conversations, he softly said, “I just worry about my mom. She’s older now, living in a retirement home… I just want to make sure she’s okay.” Without hesitation, I promised I’d check in on her. Because when you commit to helping someone behind prison walls, it’s not just about them—it’s about the people who love them, who suffer silently on the outside.
The first time I visited Grandma Elaine, it felt like I’d known her my whole life. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation—just warmth. Her kind smile, her neatly combed hair, and the way she immediately knew who I was, as if Dave had painted a perfect picture of me in her mind. “My baby boy sent you,” she said proudly, and she meant it.
She welcomed me into her world, showing me photographs—some faded and decades old—of Dave as a little boy. One photo must’ve been over 50 years old, but she held it as if it were taken yesterday. Her memory was incredible. The stories flowed—some funny, some nostalgic, all wrapped in the love only a mother could carry.
I stayed for hours that day. I checked her room, fluffed her pillows, made sure everything was tidy. I brought her flowers to brighten her space, but truthfully, it was she who brought light into mine. That day, I gained a grandmother—my Grandma Elaine. And from then on, I made it a point to visit, to be there, to honor the commitment I made not just to Dave, but to the woman who raised him.
That was over a year ago.
Since then, I’ve walked with Dave through every step of his legal process, hoping each day would bring him closer to freedom. Hoping for one thing most of all—that he’d have time. Time to sit by his mother again. Time to hold her hand. Time to thank her for never giving up on him.
But time… it’s not something we can control. And sometimes, even with all the hope in the world, time runs out.
Grandma Elaine couldn’t wait any longer.
I carry the weight of that deeply. I carry the sorrow, the feeling that I couldn’t make it happen fast enough. That somehow, despite all the fight, all the advocacy, all the love—I failed them both.
But what I also carry is the memory of her kindness. The joy in her eyes. The stories she shared. The quiet strength she held onto until the very end. And I know this: she knew she was loved, not just by Dave, but by me too.
And that love… that is what advocacy really means.
For Grandma Elaine. Always.
Grandma Elaine: The Heart That Never Gave Up
Grandma Elaine was a fighter. A true matriarch with grit, humor, and a heart that held her family together through storms most people couldn’t imagine. Every time I visited her, she’d remind me, in that firm, unwavering tone:
“Take care of my baby boy, Dave.”
And I’d always tell her, “I will. He’ll get home one day, Grandma. I just wish I knew when.”
She never stopped believing. Not for a second. Her memory was a treasure chest of stories, details, and timelines—she could recount every moment from the day Dave was arrested, right down to what shoes he was wearing and what song was playing on the radio. She knew the case inside out. And she always said the same thing: “They set my boy up. It was all planned, all premeditated, all designed to put him away for a crime he didn’t commit.”
One story she never let go of was the mysterious letter—someone had once sent a letter claiming Dave was innocent. No one ever found it, no one knows where it ended up. But she remembered it clearly. The day. The envelope. The handwriting. Like it happened yesterday. That letter stayed alive in her memory, even when everyone else seemed to forget.
She was sharp, sassy, and full of life. She had this way of cutting through nonsense with one sentence. There was a neighbor she always talked about—she called him “that little bitch,” without a second thought. It was hilarious. That was Grandma—she didn’t spare anyone. She told it like it was. And that’s what I loved about her most—her honesty, her devotion, her fire.
She carried a deep grief, too. She’d lost her oldest son to cancer. She didn’t talk about it much—it was a wound too tender, too sacred—but I knew it shaped everything. Still, even with that weight, it was always about “little Dave.” Even though prison guards and inmates call him “Big Dave” now, to her, he was always her baby boy. That nickname—Big Dave—used to make her chuckle every time.
I spent holidays with her. Birthdays. Ordinary Tuesdays that turned into some of the most beautiful memories of my life. She had this way of making every visit feel like a homecoming. If I ever forgot something about Dave’s case—some date, some detail—she’d remind me right away. Her memory was sharper than any court transcript, and everything she said always made sense in the bigger picture.
There’s one thing I’ll never forget—a mirror hanging on the wall in her room. A round, beautifully crafted piece, etched with “1959.” That was the year she got married. I told her my dad was born that year, and she lit up with stories—stories of her husband, of love, of life before everything became complicated. That mirror became a symbol for me—of her, of everything she’d lived through, of everything she never let go.
She adored her husband. And her grandson, Patrick—oh, she had stories about him too. “That little shit,” she used to call him with laughter in her eyes, because he was always getting into something. But she loved him fiercely. I’ll never forget the day Patrick got out of prison and we went to visit her together. She cried, laughed, touched his face over and over again like she couldn’t believe it was real. “It’s a dream,” she kept saying, over and over.
“No, Grandma,” I told her, holding her hand. “This is reality. He’s home.”
And I think, in that moment, something inside her softened. She knew that no matter how hard life had been, love still won in the end.
I carry her with me every day. Her voice. Her fight. Her faith in her son and in the truth. Grandma Elaine wasn’t just Dave’s mother—she became mine too. My friend, my guide, my reminder of why I do this work.
And that mirror on her wall? I still see it in my mind. Not just a reflection of the past—but a reflection of a woman who never stopped believing in justice, in family, and in love.
When Grief Comes Behind Prison Walls
When my husband was in prison, his father passed away.
He said it was the most horrible thing that ever happened to him. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to move. He slept for two days straight, curled into the kind of silence only grief can bring. He just wanted to be left alone. And yet, the very next day, he still showed up for a powerlifting competition. I’ll never forget that photo—his face pale, drained, his eyes heavy with sorrow—but he pushed through. He showed up. He lifted. Then he went straight back to his bed and disappeared into that darkness again.
You might wonder how someone in prison even finds out about something like that. It’s not like on the outside, where family gathers around or you get a comforting phone call. No. In prison, when the chaplain shows up or calls you out—unless you’re regularly attending services—you already know something is wrong. That’s the call. That’s how you find out your father died.
And then life just… goes on. The world keeps turning, the walls stay cold, the routine remains the same. But something in you changes forever.
There’s not a minute that goes by where I don’t think about Dave—how he feels, what he thinks, what that moment must’ve been like. Who was around him when he got the news? Did anyone hold space for his pain? Did anyone say anything that made it hurt less?
He had the chance to say goodbye—if you can even call it that—over the phone. Not in person. Not with a hug. Not with one last hand to hold. Just a phone call. That’s it. That’s all he got.
People outside those prison walls don’t understand. They don’t understand what it means to grieve behind bars. They don’t understand how dehumanizing it is to lose someone you love and have to process that pain in a cage. There’s no counseling. No support groups. No comfort. The system doesn’t care. The system is just that—a system. No feelings. No compassion. No mercy. You’re expected to just keep going like it didn’t happen. You push through. Or you break.
Dave is a powerlifter. And I hope—God, I hope—that this morning he gets up and lifts those weights. That he pours every ounce of that pain into the cold steel plates and lifts until his body trembles and his mind gets quiet. Maybe if he pushes hard enough, if he exhausts himself enough, he’ll finally get some rest. Maybe then the grief will loosen its grip just a little.
But nothing—nothing—is worse than knowing he can’t go to the funeral. Not unless we could magically come up with thousands of dollars for the Department of Corrections to arrange special security, transportation, and custody for him to attend. Because yes, that’s what they require. It’s just another way they profit off people’s pain, another burden placed on already broken families.
And you’d think—maybe just maybe—they’d have some kind of provision, some small act of mercy, for those grieving a parent from behind the walls. But no. Nothing. Just another day on the inside. Just another page turned in silence. They make you deal with it on your own. Quietly. Invisibly. Like your grief doesn’t even matter.
And maybe that’s how people inside start to go numb. Maybe that’s how they begin to shut down. You learn not to feel. You learn not to cry. You learn to bury it deep because no one asks how you are. No one talks about it. But it’s real. It happens every day. Someone out there loses a parent, a child, a friend—while serving time for a crime they didn’t even commit.
Imagine that.
And still—he lifts. He fights. He survives.
And I stand with him, always.
Anyone Can End Up in the Gray Area
Anyone can end up in the gray area.
That place in life where things aren’t black or white, right or wrong—just blurred lines and broken systems. And once you’re in the system, it’s almost impossible to get out. You may walk in thinking you’ll do your time and move on, but the truth is, the system rarely lets go. It holds you in ways people outside can’t begin to understand.
Sometimes, you’re not even guilty. You’re serving time for something you didn’t do. You’re wrongfully convicted. You’re living out an illegal sentence, paying the price for someone else’s mistake or a system that failed you. And suddenly, you’re no longer just a person—you’re a number, a file, a name on a roster. You’ve become another victim of the system itself.
And you might be asking—how do you get out of this?
The answer? It’s hard. Very hard. Sometimes, nearly impossible.
Even if you do everything right, even if the truth is on your side, time is not. Time is a cruel master inside those walls. You don’t get to move at your own pace. You rush against the clock, and sometimes the clock runs out before you ever get your shot at freedom.
Many of you reading this may have never done time. You might think: “Well, if you committed the crime, you do the time.”
But this isn’t just about guilt or innocence—it’s about what happens to families. It’s about what it means to be locked away from the people who need you the most. It’s about missing life’s most sacred moments—births, holidays, graduations, and, most painfully, goodbyes.
Because when someone you love passes away while you’re behind those walls, you don’t get to be there. You don’t get to hold their hand. You don’t get to whisper one last “I love you.” You don’t get to say goodbye in person. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you get a short phone call. Maybe.
That’s the reality for many incarcerated people. But what society forgets is that the families on the outside are victims too. There are children left without parents, spouses waiting endlessly, elderly parents who grow frail and tired waiting for a son or daughter to come home. There’s pain that doesn’t make headlines. There’s grief that never gets a funeral.
Just a few weeks ago, everything seemed fine with Grandma Elaine. She was strong, still fighting, still holding on. And then, just like that, it all changed. It was like she ran out of gas—her body said no more, and her soul let go. Dave gave her permission to rest, to stop waiting. He said goodbye, the only way he could. And she let go.
People often say, “It’s just life. It’s the circle of life.”
But when that loss hits behind prison walls, it doesn’t feel like a natural cycle—it feels like a stolen moment.
So to those of you who are free today—cherish it.
Don’t take time for granted. Don’t take your loved ones for granted. Visit your parents. Make that call. Hold that hand. Say “I love you” before it’s too late. Because you never know when life might shift, and you won’t always have the chance to say goodbye.
And remember—there are many people living in that gray area. Some who made mistakes. Some who didn’t. But all of them are still human. All of them still love, still grieve, still hope. And all of them deserve to be seen.
Justice Unlocked. 
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