By Jen Szenay
My mom was incarcerated for 33 years — about 80% of my life. Because of that, I’ve spent most of my life navigating our relationship across distance, barriers, and systems that made connection feel almost impossible. Over time, I found myself taking on a caretaker role, especially as she got older and as we worked together to keep our bond strong despite everything working against it.
When she finally came home, reentry was overwhelming. After three decades of incarceration, everything was new — the pace of the world, the technology, even the simplest routines. She had to learn how to live outside again. Learning to take care of herself was a full-time job.
During that time, I was there — holding space, translating the outside world, and helping her adjust. Our roles didn’t flip overnight. I was still mostly the one holding things together. That’s just what our relationship had become over time — rooted in love, survival, and a lot of patience.
Recently, an event occurred that gave me reason to stop and think
She texted to let me know she’d done two things for me: forwarded some of my mail that had come to our old place, and sent me 50 bulbs of garlic grown by a neighbor. Simple things. Everyday things. But they meant everything.
It wasn’t that she had never done things for me — not at all. Even from inside prison, she found ways to show care. She asked people to check in on me. She made sure I was okay in the only ways she could. When we lived together after her release, she would help around the house in small ways that were totally new for her. The care has always been there.
But this felt different.
These small acts — mailing the garlic, sending the envelopes — weren’t about survival or crisis or maintaining contact. They were quiet, intentional, unprompted. They took time, planning, and presence — things that are hard for her, in a world that still overwhelms her daily. And maybe that’s why they hit so hard. For the first time in a long time, I felt what it was like to receive care from her in a way I hadn’t experienced before — care rooted not in necessity, but in tenderness.
I’ve lived most of my life separated from my mom — not just physically, but emotionally, too, because of incarceration. I missed out on so many of the everyday moments other people get: having your mom send you something just because, thinking of you in the middle of her day. And now, finally, I get to feel that.
It’s a reminder of what incarceration takes from families. But it’s also a reminder of what healing can give back. Being part of Citizens for Prison Reform has helped me understand that my story isn’t rare— it’s just rarely told. Families all across Michigan are living through the long-term impact of incarceration, often in silence. CPR exists to support, advocate for, and walk alongside those families. They fight for systemic change, but they also make space for healing. If this story resonates with you, I hope you’ll consider supporting their work — by volunteering, donating, or simply listening to the voices of those most impacted.