‘I Refuse to Celebrate Mother’s Day Until We Are Together Again.’

It was the first touch of soft velvet skin, the first look into those sweet and innocent eyes, and the unmistakable smell only a newborn carries. That’s when it dawned on me. Motherhood. Honestly, it was more than an epiphany or even a feeling. It was like something clicked into place. 

I experienced my first childbirth while I was incarcerated in a county jail. 

When the police officers told me that the hospital would allow me only 72 hours with my child, I felt a wave of determination. I knew in my soul that I had to fight for that smell and touch of my baby, that I had to engrave the next 72 hours into my memory without forgetting the smallest detail. Those three days were the best days of my life. They were filled with pure bliss and love. And some disgusting diapers, too. 

The time I was allowed was only enough to admire (well, stare and obsess, really), cry, and repeat until I was exhausted from lack of sleep. I refused to miss one moment of the time I was granted with my baby, so sleep was not on my agenda. Sometimes nurses would have to pry my newborn daughter from my arms and insist that I just take a few hours rest. I was sleep-deprived and anxious, but ultimately I was happy. I was at an eternal peace. To me, that is what describes motherhood the best. Even when in a hectic situation, we as mothers can always just stop, see our creation, and find balance again. If I could relive any part of my life, it would be those three days when I became a mom.

As an incarcerated mother, the pregnancy was also a highlight of my parental experience. I was six months pregnant with my first child when I was arrested. I’ve been incarcerated ever since. Even while pregnant, I already had a strong bond with my daughter. The idea of going into labor away from the comfort of my own home and freedom was terrifying. I would hold one-sided conversations with my protruding belly bump, focus on her kicks and movement, and silently dread the day I would be without the presence of my child. 

My experience becoming a mother was full of trauma and beauty all at once. A trauma that I would gladly go through all over again for my beautiful baby. That is what it is to be a mom. To have that internal fight, the willingness to feel pain if it means protecting your child. You have an instinctual reaction to love and protect your children no matter what. 

My family wasn’t allowed in my delivery room and were unable to have even the slightest form of communication with me. I felt like an alien at my own child’s birth, surrounded by strangers, and deprived of any level of comfort. I labored for 11 hours alone with only the support of nurses. I was under 24/7 physical police surveillance with two officers present at all times, including my labor and even in the delivery room. I was shackled to the bed by one leg and constricted from moving, walking, or changing positions to make myself more comfortable. Inconsiderate police officers soured the birth of my first child—and my entrance into motherhood—by being rude to me and telling me to stop making noises as I groaned from labor pains.

After my cesarean section, I was too weak to properly move on my own, but the sheriff’s officers still insisted I wear leg shackles. I was allowed to walk with my newborn daughter and her rollable bassinet with an officer at my side for 30 minutes once a day or until the officer escorting me got tired of walking. They would un-restrain me so I could bathe myself and my daughter, but I had to keep the door open. And every two hours, a stranger would hand me my child in order to feed her. This living hell was all worth it at the time because of the promise my daughter’s eyes held for me whenever I would look at her. The promise that I could make it through the next few years without the freedom of having her touch. 

My experience with motherhood has been short-lived and humbling, but ultimately my child keeps me driven every day to reunite with her. 

When I finally reunite with my daughter, I just want to be present with her—to absorb everything that she is in that moment and enjoy who she is. With so much time lost, I can’t deny that there will be awkwardness and uncertainty. There will be a lot of adapting on my end. I’ve learned to adjust to who my child is growing into as the years pass. My only plan is to embrace that. 

I will first become eligible for parole when she is nine years old. If I’m not released early, I won’t be able to freely hold my daughter again until she is 19. I refuse to celebrate Mother’s Day until we are together again.

ICYMI—From The Appeal

When residents of Leyden, Mass., started investigating their former police chief, they didn’t know it would end with criminal charges—and a successful push to reform the town’s government. Published in collaboration with The Shoestring. 

The Appeal has tracked 2,500 arrests of pro-Palestinian protesters and contacted over 100 prosecutors and city attorneys to ask if they’ll file criminal cases against campus demonstrators. So far, only three expressed apprehension at doing so. 

Senior Reporter Meg O’Connor and Research & Projects Editor Ethan Corey went on KPFA to discuss The Appeal’s arrest tracker.

Washington DC’s draconian crime bill is “a performative illusion designed to distract constituents who are rightly frustrated by the punitive status quo’s inability to bring true safety to their communities,” writes Patrice Sulton of the DC Justice Lab. 

Many of the most widely covered property crime phenomena can be better understood as the predictable result of a callous corporate push for profits, argues commentator F.T. Green.