The sound of excited chatter filled the air as the children approached, their ages spanning from infants to elementary school. Dressed in their finest attire—little girls adorned in purple and white dresses complete with bows, and little boys sporting sweaters and vests—their anticipation was palpable as we waited for the door to open. They bounced in place, playing among themselves in the family visiting area at Rikers Island.
When the door finally swung open, the room erupted into laughter, kisses, and joy-filled exclamations like “you’ve grown so much!” and “look at your new tooth!” Despite the cold, concrete surroundings, the energy in the room was lively.
I remember my first visit to Rikers, New York’s largest correctional facility, carrying a precious baby boy named Max*. As correction officers conducted their routine checks, I held Max, who was only seven months old and tightly clung to me. As a clinician focusing on family trauma, I was there to facilitate his monthly visit with his mother, who was facing drug trafficking charges. Max had been in foster care since birth due to his parents’ substance abuse issues.
Every third Friday, we would travel to the Child Protective Services center and board a large van filled with other clinicians and children for the hour-long trip to the prison. Over the year I worked with Max, I observed how these mothers, whether awaiting trial or already convicted, endeavored to stay connected to their children. Motherhood, for them, didn’t solely exist beyond prison walls.
“Max, you’re getting so big!” his mother, Sarah*, exclaimed, her ponytail swaying as she smiled brightly—a stark contrast to her drab prison uniform. Sometimes, Max would cling to me when I tried to hand him over. From his viewpoint, this was fully understandable; he saw me weekly and naturally formed attachments to those he spent time with. I noticed a slight flinch from Sarah when her son hesitated to let go.
A significant hurdle for incarcerated mothers is maintaining regular visits with their children. While some kids are placed in foster care and others with family, the waiting period between visits can be challenging for these mothers. Initially, people questioned why I was taking a child to a prison visit. However, these encounters, which are now facilitated by various programs across states, play a crucial role in helping mothers and children preserve their bond.
Since their mothers were absent in their daily lives, these visits provided a means of continuity and helped ease the trauma of separation. “I count down the days until the next visit,” Sarah often shared, but for those without mandated visits, the frequency often depended on family members who lived far away and had work commitments or transportation challenges.
“Before today, it’s been two months since I last saw my son. My mom can’t take time off work for this long commute. I try to call collect every few weeks, but it’s become too costly,” shared another mother sitting with Sarah as others nodded in understanding.
At Rikers, case conferences were held with Sarah to discuss Max’s placement and her legal situation, but the uncertainty weighed heavily. The fear of being transferred to a more distant facility if convicted compounded her anxiety. These mothers felt the stigma of not being able to care for their children, sharing their sorrow over missed milestones. Nevertheless, during these visits, they formed a supportive sisterhood, expressing their worries, regrets, and gratitude for those caring for their kids.
Many mothers articulated how visits, letters, and phone calls were vital lifelines during their incarceration, motivating them to seek sobriety and change. For instance, Jessica, a formerly incarcerated mother who has been sober for seven years, recounted, “When I was in and out of jail and treatment, I desperately wanted to maintain contact. My daughter was my reason to improve. The letters, phone calls, and rare visits, although sometimes painful, kept me going. Without that hope of reconnecting with her, I might not have fought so hard to stay out of prison.”
Saying goodbye was always the hardest part. As visits concluded and we heard the announcement to line up for the van, mothers rushed to give hugs, kisses, and last-minute directions, telling their children to “study hard” and “listen to grandma” as they watched them walk away.
As we drove away from the prison, the guard towers fading from view, the kids typically felt exhausted. One time, Max struggled to calm down, his fussiness escalating to tears as I held him close, feeling his warm tears on my cheek. I thought of his mother and the moments she longed to share with him.
On my final visit before transitioning to another program, a prison staff member captured photos of the mothers and their children using an instant Polaroid camera. Mothers hurriedly adjusted their children’s clothes and hair, ensuring they looked perfect for the camera. Max sat on Sarah’s lap as I helped arrange his outfit for the photo. When I prepared to leave, she touched my arm, smiling, “Stay and take some pictures with us.” We posed together, sharing laughter while the photos developed. The last picture was the best—Max grinning between us. That photo still holds a cherished place in my album.
*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.
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Summary:
Being a mother in prison involves profound challenges, particularly the struggle to maintain connections with children amidst separation. Regular visits, letters, and phone calls serve as vital links for these mothers, who face stigma and regret over missed moments. Despite the harsh realities of incarceration, many mothers form supportive communities that help them navigate their experiences, inspiring them to strive for a better future for themselves and their children.
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