I stood alone in my new cell nearly naked, covered only by a thin smock. I felt raw, exposed. 

Mentally, I was at a new low.

It was Oct. 8, 2025, and I had just been placed on suicide watch at Jefferson City Correctional Center. I was taken from the regular housing unit due to self-harm behaviors and strip-searched by a male guard, which was demeaning for a transgender woman like me. I was then handed my smock and placed in a small padded cell with a toilet set low into the floor. My new home was gross, to say the least. I felt defeated.

The only hope I had was my mentor, Big Mama, a towering trans woman who is incarcerated with me. Big Mama and I met in 2024 after a previous suicide attempt of mine. She visited me on watch as part of Bridging the Gap, which trains incarcerated people to be mentors to their peers. 

We bonded over the difficulties we faced being trans women in a men’s prison: not being seen as women by other incarcerated people; people using the wrong pronouns; and issues buying gender-affirming clothing. Big Mama taught me helpful phrases to remember in moments of crisis. HOPE, an acronym for “hang on, pain ends,” was one of them. 

Now that I was on suicide watch again, she came to my cell door daily to help me feel supported. Per Missouri Department of Corrections suicide intervention policy, my cell was sparse and I was visible at all times. The bright lights stayed on 24 hours a day. The cell smelled of body odor. It was freezing cold. All I had was the smock, which was padded, itchy and rubbed my skin raw. For months, desperate for a blanket, I had no way to keep warm. 

In an email to PJP editors, Karen Pojmann, a department spokesperson, declined to comment for this article, citing a federal healthcare privacy law. 

The worst part of suicide watch is the isolation. You are given no books to read, nothing to curb boredom. I found myself reliving past mistakes and past memories, both good and bad. I questioned decisions I had made and wondered, “Did I do that right?” I wanted to scream but I didn’t want to make the guard mad.  

Food didn’t provide any relief. On suicide watch, all meals consist of sack lunches that don’t require utensils. I was fed peanut butter sandwiches for every meal. After a while the taste of peanut butter made me gag. 

Luckily Big Mama came to my rescue. She made the commitment to be at my door daily for one hour, and she stuck with it. She was there on the days when I wanted to end it. I told her I felt unloved because some of my family had disowned me for being trans. She assured me I wasn’t alone, that I had family inside prison who loved me. She was the friend I needed to get me out of that terrible dark place. 

After about a month of suicide watch, I was put on a behavior management plan to address my continued self-harm behaviors. The plan included a weekly reward-incentive for not self-harming. 

The small luxuries made me able to focus on what I wanted for myself. One reward was a special shower with Olay body wash, Herbal Essence shampoo and conditioner and a soothing lotion. Another was access to my tablet, which allowed me to communicate with friends and family.

As a reward for working on my plan, I was even able to eat the prison’s special Thanksgiving and Christmas meals. They served your typical turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. But biting into the tasty food after weeks of peanut butter sandwiches was like eating a fancy steak. 

After two months I was taken off suicide watch and moved to a secured cell assignment, called close observation. People get placed on close observation when a qualified mental health professional believes they pose a threat to themselves or others. Functionally, it’s a step up from suicide watch and meant a new, bigger cell and a regular steel toilet, raised up from the ground. It also meant a mattress and a blanket. Sleeping on a mattress felt like sleeping on a cloud. 

Big Mama continued to visit me. The focus of our conversations shifted to helping me stay calm once I was released back into the general population. I was afraid of living with other people again and didn’t know what to expect. We spoke about what housing unit I would go to and how nervous I was for a new cellie. 

Rather than telling me not to worry, Big Mama recognized why I was afraid and advocated for me. She spoke to the deputy warden and had him assure me I would be placed in a good housing unit and that any cellie I was assigned had to be approved by him. 

But I was still anxious when they sent me back to a regular housing unit. For the first time in four months, there were people moving around me constantly. They were always talking and yelling at each other. I remember someone was cooking popcorn. My palms were sweaty, my heart was beating fast. 

This time, though, I had the confidence I needed.

As I readjusted to life with others, I reminded myself of Big Mama’s teachings. I practiced patience when things didn’t go as planned. I didn’t think about the future beyond the next 24 hours. Most importantly, I remembered that I had supportive friends. With these strategies, I knew I could make it through the darkest of times. Even when things seemed bleak there was a light, and her name was Big Mama.