I entered the justice system in 1997 at the age of 24. I am now 50. Having been locked up for longer than I was free, I have missed out on a lot of what life has to offer such as building a career and having a family.

I believe that the experience of being incarcerated has ultimately helped shape me into a better human being. Today I am an advocate who can empower others. I have reached academic and personal milestones that would not have been guaranteed if I did not go to prison as a young woman. 

But these accomplishments cannot fill the voids of missed opportunities. The one that weighs heaviest on my heart was stripped away from me with a terrible choice and the bang of a gavel: the chance to become a mother. 

I was raised by a hard-working, single mother of four in urban New Jersey. My mother made sure to instill in us a fear of the consequences of teenage pregnancy. She herself was 15 and married when she gave birth to her first child, my eldest sister. 

She did not want us to struggle to care for children the way she did. She hoped we would each pursue a career that resulted in us being able to comfortably afford a home and family of our own. 

I can still see my mother standing inside our living room, a red bandana tied around her head, one hand on her hip, a Salem Ultra Light cigarette balanced between her fingers. 

I can hear her say, “Don’t bring no babies into this house for me to have to take care of! I have enough trouble taking care of us all as it is.” 

It was more of a plea than a warning. A plea that was heeded by my older siblings and passed on to me like hand-me-down clothing. My two siblings with children became parents at the ages of 22 and 30. 

My own choice to have children or not was made for me, in a courtroom, as a result of a horrible mistake that will haunt me forever. 

During an ongoing and escalating disagreement with my landlord, I made a decision with the intention of further provoking and annoying her. 

One night after work, my car would not start. I was able to get a jump from one of my supervisors and get home, but I was convinced that my landlord and her family had tampered with my car, as I believed they had done with my home and belongings previously. 

I filled my car at the gas station and asked the attendant to also give me a small amount of gas in a separate container. 

I was thinking of my landlord and the welcome mat on her porch. Once I got home, I poured the small amount of gasoline onto the mat and lit it with a match. I went back to my own apartment, thinking that the mat would be ruined and that the fire would ultimately burn out.  

I did not consider just how consequential my actions could be. In my emotional immaturity, I was thinking only of getting even for what I thought was her latest sabotage of my vehicle. I had noticed her sweeping the mat every day, and I wanted the satisfaction of retaliation. 

During my trial, from an expert witness, I learned that the wind, the building’s age and the ignition of the gasoline fumes contributed to a fire that ultimately took the lives of three children who lived in the building.  

It has taken me many years to accept and admit that something I did resulted in such a tragedy. It took many more to actually speak it aloud and tell my truth. I lived with it in my heart and my mind for a long time. It was never my intention that this would happen. If I could, I would change everything about that day.

I would never intentionally harm any human being. I have always loved children and always planned on having my own some day. 

At 24, I was labeled a violent murderer and sentenced to the maximum of 90 years to life. This kind of sentence was designed to guarantee that I would die in prison. And in some ways it really did end my life — and any chance I had of making a new one, for myself or others. 

Sometimes, sitting inside of this cell, I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t listened to my mother and had become a teenage parent. I would know the experience of bonding with an unborn child for nine months, laboring and giving birth to someone whose life I would love more than my very own. Or so I have heard. 

I have experienced thoughts of motherhood more frequently since a young woman in my facility gave birth last September. She became pregnant as a result of her relationship with a transgender woman in our facility. 

Once she began showing, staff and the incarcerated population shunned her. Her name was removed from lists to attend events that hosted civilian attendees. Because of all the controversy surrounding the pregnancy, she was hidden. 

Her baby girl turned a year old in September and lives with family members outside. She is walking, learning to talk and biting people. I am able to see mother and daughter on visitation days, and I admire the love and bond between them. It is bittersweet to witness, but more sweet than bitter.

On visit days I am also able to see my nephews and little cousins. My mother has been bringing them to visit me since they were babies. It was painful for me to have been gone when each of them was born, and to not be a part of their lives out there. But when they visit, it feels like we are a part of each other’s lives. 

When I see them, I get down on one knee. They all come running into my arms. I know that my actions prevented someone from having this experience with their children. I deeply mourn that loss. I mourn my own inability to have children. I mourn all of the losses.