Its a topic close to my heart. Its actually personal because its relatable to me. I hope it helps someone who feels alone on this journey.
For me, incarceration became real the day my son was taken into the system. In one moment, everything changed. I went from watching the news like everyone else, to suddenly being on the phone trying to figure out where he was, what his DIN number meant, and how to send a letter just to let him know he wasn’t forgotten. I didn’t have anyone to walk me through it. I didn’t know what questions to ask. I was scared, overwhelmed, and trying to stay strong for him while falling apart on the inside.
That experience opened my eyes.
It taught me how little support families actually have.
And it made me realize—if I felt this lost, others had to be feeling it too.
This reflection is part of a larger conversation about healing, family, and holding hope through difficult seasons.
If this resonated with you, what was the hardest part at the beginning of your journey?
I recently wrote about supporting families impacted by incarceration, because for me, this isn’t theory — it’s lived experience.
Today, I want to talk about what families aren’t prepared for when incarceration becomes personal, and why so many of us feel alone at the start
Families aren’t prepared for how suddenly everything changes.
One day, life feels familiar. The next, you’re learning a new language—DIN numbers, intake, classifications, mail rules, visiting procedures. You’re expected to understand a system you’ve never had to think about before, all while managing fear, shame, and worry for someone you love.
Families aren’t prepared for the silence.
Phone calls are limited. Letters take time. Information doesn’t come easily. You’re often left waiting—waiting to hear where your loved one is, waiting to know if they’re safe, waiting for answers that never seem to come when you need them most.
Families aren’t prepared for the emotional weight.
You’re expected to stay strong, but no one tells you where to put the grief, the guilt, the anger, or the helplessness. You’re navigating your own pain while trying to be a source of stability for someone who is also scared and adjusting.
And families aren’t prepared for how alone it can feel.
Support systems grow quiet. People don’t know what to say, or they say nothing at all. And somehow, you’re left carrying something heavy without a clear place to set it down.
What do you wish someone had explained to you at the very beginning?
Holding Hope Family 