This holiday season, PJP editors asked formerly incarcerated writers how the holidays have changed for them since they left prison. Read the other perspectives here.
For six years, I dreaded the holidays. There were no family gatherings or gifts — only reminders of what I was missing.
Days were short, and so were moments in the sunlight; the nights were so cold I slept in three layers of clothing and cradled pop bottles filled with hot water just to keep warm long enough to fall asleep.
By Christmas No. 6 in prison, I felt numb to the season, quietly resigned to what I’d lost. What was the point of attaching meaning to any of it?
Then, one evening in December, a guard slid a red envelope under my cell door. Over the following weeks, the cards kept coming, one or two a night, then three or four, until they piled up. My mother’s church had organized a Christmas card campaign. Each card was filled with well wishes and stories from everyday people, each person sharing a piece of themselves with someone they knew would be feeling lonely.
Even though the cards were intended only for me, I wasn’t the only lonely soul there, and I wanted to share the warmth with everyone. I asked the staff if I could share the cards on the bulletin boards throughout the unit. To my surprise, they agreed (the institution had recently banned holiday decorations in housing units).
Soon, our bleak, colorless sections were dotted with images of snow-covered villages, angels with gossamer wings, sparkling trees and thoughtful messages.
I was particularly moved reading about a couple who had spent their lives in military service. They had wanted children someday, but their careers had kept them so busy it never happened. “Christmas feels a bit incomplete without the excitement of children on Christmas morning,” the note read.
So many women who are incarcerated have children waiting for them to come home; many women may never see their children again.
Whatever our differences, all of us were missing home and our loved ones. As the cards spread, so did a sense of peace.
Women who barely spoke to one another would stop by the boards, quietly reading each card, pausing to absorb a message or an image. By Christmas Day, each unit section displayed over a dozen cards, the only decorations we had.
When it was time to take them down, I left them on a table, inviting people to keep one. Not a single card was thrown away; they became makeshift keepsakes, traced and retraced, offering images of comfort — a silver thread to life outside.
In a place where kindness was scarce, those modest cards reminded us of the season’s simple warmth, reaching through concrete to touch hearts starved for connection.
