Before the Bars, Beyond the Sentence | Unspoken Health Kalendar by JBE Mindful Pathways
Unspoken Health Kalendar | JBE Mindful Pathways
Prefer to listen instead of read? Here’s a calm voice to guide you through the story — take a breath and press play. 🎧
Some stories don’t knock on your door.
They live in the silence between headlines. In the shadows of conversations we avoid.
They show up in the body — in the trauma we carry, the breath we hold, and the scars we stop explaining because no one listens anyway.
This is one of those stories.
It’s about what happens before a person ever touches a courtroom.
About the childhoods spent navigating survival instead of support.
About health conditions ignored, mental illness criminalized, and pain met with punishment.
It’s about what happens inside—in the cold, in the fluorescent light, in the waiting rooms that never call your name.
Where you’re sick but not sick enough. Where glasses, prenatal vitamins, and depression meds are luxuries.
Where asking for help makes you a problem.
It’s about what happens after—when you’re told you’re free, but you still walk through doors that lock behind you.
When the job doesn’t call back.
When Medicaid won’t cover you.
When your past shouts louder than your voice ever could.
This is about incarceration.
But not the way they show it on TV.
It’s not about courtrooms or cell blocks.
It’s about what it means to be human in a system that is designed to forget you — and what it takes to survive not just the sentence, but the silence that follows.
🔴 Before the Bars
Most people don’t fall into incarceration. They are pushed—by poverty, untreated trauma, unstable homes, broken school systems, and health conditions no one ever named until it was too late.
According to the Prison Policy Initiative, over 60% of people in jail report having a mental illness. Many enter already battling addiction, PTSD, bipolar disorder, or anxiety—undiagnosed and unsupported.
They needed therapy. They got probation. They needed a home. They got a cell.
Let’s talk about what “before prison” looks like:
- A girl skips school to protect her younger siblings from a violent stepfather. She’s labeled truant and ends up in the system.
- A teen self-medicates with weed because he can’t afford therapy. He gets picked up on a possession charge—and it snowballs.
- A young woman runs from abuse, ends up in survival sex work, and is arrested while the man who hurt her walks free.
We don’t talk about the foster care pipeline. How 1 in 4 incarcerated people have histories in the child welfare system. We don’t talk about how schools punish Black and Brown children for behaviors linked to trauma while ignoring the root. We don’t talk about how someone can be molested, ignored, unhoused, and then criminalized for the way they tried to cope.
Instead, we call them criminals. Instead, we erase the fact that they were survivors first.
🔴 The Sentence That Outlived the Sentence
Once you’re inside, your health becomes negotiable.
Behind bars, having a medical condition doesn’t guarantee treatment—it guarantees delay. According to a 2022 DOJ report, incarcerated people are five times more likely to die by suicide and are routinely denied consistent access to care.
And the care that does exist? Often subpar, delayed, or weaponized against you.
You’re sick? Wait. You’re in pain? Prove it. You need meds? File a grievance and pray someone reads it.
Let’s name what we’ve seen:
- A woman five months pregnant given a granola bar as “extra nutrition.” No prenatal vitamins. No consistent OB-GYN follow-up.
- A man with terminal liver disease quietly released weeks before his expected death—because it was cheaper to let him die outside.
- A young girl with depression denied mental health services. Her behavior worsens. They put her in solitary confinement instead.
And even the basics?
- Glasses? Denied unless completely blind.
- Dental pain? Here’s Tylenol.
- Mental health? You might get a worksheet packet. That’s it.
This is not correction. This is neglect disguised as justice.
Some don’t make it out. And some do—only to carry the untreated wounds that began long before the bars and deepened while behind them.
The body remembers. Even when the paperwork says you’re free.
🔴 What the Walls Don’t Say
There’s a kind of silence that lives inside correctional facilities — but it’s not peaceful.
It’s the silence of swallowed pain.
Of screams that don’t echo.
Of a thousand traumas sitting in cells side by side, pretending they’re fine.
Before release.
Before “reintegration.”
Before the paper says time is served—
There’s the moment the cuffs click shut.
From the arrest alone, a person can be shattered.
You don’t forget the flashing lights, the way your face hits the hood of the car, the way they tell you to stop resisting — even when you aren’t.
You don’t forget being strip-searched. Processed. Numbered.
You don’t forget handing over the last pieces of yourself — a shoelace, a photo, your own name.
And then…
You’re told who you are now.
You’re Inmate #246144.
Felon for life.
And everything about who you were before — the trauma you carried, the reasons you unraveled, the pain behind the choice — is erased.
There is no intake form that asks:
“Have you recently lost a child?”
“Are you on medication?”
“Were you homeless, hungry, hallucinating, or holding in grief?”
There is no care plan for mental health.
Only punishment. And protocol.
COs will call you a liar if you say you’re in pain.
They’ll say you’re manipulative if you cry.
They’ll treat kindness like a risk and vulnerability like a threat.
And some of them?
They enjoy breaking people down.
You’ll meet inmates who have been there longer than you, who’ve learned how to intimidate, manipulate, or isolate others.
You’ll meet women who mock your anxiety attacks.
Men who demand respect they were never given in their own lives.
People who mirror their abuse, because that’s all they know.
Inside is its own world.
And it is not built for healing.
The programs you’re offered? They’re not for you — they’re for statistics.
The judge wants proof of “rehabilitation.”
So the jail gives you “anger management” and “job readiness” workshops — without ever asking why you’re angry, or how your nervous system shuts down when you try to focus.
You get a folder. A workbook. A fake smile from a counselor who’s never done time.
You get told to be grateful.
To play the game.
To write the apology letter — even if no one ever apologized to you.
You go months without touch.
Years without hearing your name spoken gently.
You feel yourself forgetting how to be soft, because softness is dangerous here.
And sometimes…
you did commit the crime.
Sometimes you did hurt someone.
But what no one wants to admit is that hurt people hurt people.
That untreated trauma leads to more trauma.
That abuse survivors are overrepresented in prison.
That neglect, poverty, neurodivergence, and mental illness don’t go away just because a sentence was handed down.
People don’t just come to prison with wounds —
they gain new ones while they’re there.
And even the strongest minds crack after years of being:
- Micromanaged like a threat
- Denied basic health care
- Monitored in showers, bathrooms, sleep
- Called “inmate” more times than their own name
So by the time someone gets to release?
They’re not just someone who “served time.”
They’re someone who survived a war.
And we wonder why they come out disoriented, traumatized, and unable to navigate “freedom.”
Because we never helped them survive the cage.
🔷 Release Is Not the Same as Freedom
The day you walk out should feel like a beginning.
But for most, it feels like a test they weren’t taught how to pass.
Let’s talk about what happens when the gates open.
You don’t get a ride.
You don’t get a therapist.
You don’t get a social worker greeting you at the door.
What you do get?
A trash bag of your belongings. A list of rules. And a ticking clock.
Some are given a bus pass.
Some have no ID. No birth certificate.
Some aren’t even told where the nearest shelter is.
And many have been gone so long, they wouldn’t know where to go even if they were told.
For people serving long sentences, release can feel like re-entry to another planet.
There are men and women who went in before smartphones existed.
Before cars were electric.
Before public transportation had digital passes.
Before banks let you deposit a check through an app.
One man released after 25 years was quoted as saying:
“I asked what a QR code was, and they laughed like I should’ve known.”
But he didn’t know.
Because in prison, the world stops—
And outside, it just keeps evolving without you.
📊 FACT: According to the Prison Policy Initiative, over 600,000 people are released from state and federal prisons each year.
Within 3 years, more than two-thirds are rearrested—many for technical violations, not new crimes.
What does that tell us?
That our “reintegration” system is designed for failure.
You can’t get a job without an ID.
You can’t get housing with a felony.
You can’t apply for some government benefits.
You’re told to “start over” while everything still punishes you for who you were.
And then there’s parole.
You can’t leave the county.
You can’t miss a meeting.
You can’t have contact with other “offenders” — even if they’re your own family.
You have to pay supervision fees out of money you don’t have.
And if you slip up?
Even by accident?
You’re “non-compliant.”
Not a human trying.
Not a person overwhelmed.
Just “non-compliant.”
📊 FACT: In some states, parole and probation fees can cost people between $50–$100/month, with added charges for drug testing, ankle monitors, and court-mandated programs. Many return to custody simply because they couldn’t afford to pay.
This is not freedom.
This is surveillance dressed in second chances.
And the worst part?
When someone does everything right — works, stays clean, shows up — society still whispers:
“That’s the one who did time.”
There is no applause.
No finish line.
Only quiet bias and closed doors.
And yet…
Some of the kindest, strongest, most insightful people I’ve ever met — have a record.
Because sometimes?
It’s the ones who’ve been buried deepest who know how to bloom hardest.
🕊 Reborn Into a World That Forgot You
Imagine this:
You give birth to a child and, instead of guiding them,
you place them in the middle of a busy intersection — no warning, no map, no language for survival.
That’s what re-entry feels like for many who’ve been incarcerated.
You walk into a world that speaks a new dialect of life:
Everything has changed. And no one stopped to explain it to you.
Touchscreens.
Digital job applications.
Automated phone systems that don’t let you speak to a human being.
Online-only appointments.
QR codes.
Two-step verification.
Bank apps.
Self-checkout lines.
Facial recognition.
If you’ve been gone long enough, this world feels like science fiction.
Some are embarrassed to ask, so they pretend.
They nod like they understand.
They smile while their shame quietly strangles them.
You’re not just relearning how to live.
You’re relearning how to exist.
And you do it while carrying a criminal label stamped onto your chest like a second skin.
📊 FACT: A 2023 report by the Sentencing Project revealed that 1 in 3 adults in the U.S. has a criminal record—yet many face up to 44,000 legal restrictions when it comes to employment, housing, and civic engagement.
You’re expected to integrate, but the world never stopped to ask:
“Do you have the tools to do that?”
Let’s be honest—this country doesn’t offer “fresh starts.”
It offers mazes.
Mazes with moving walls, hidden exits, and alarms set off by your past.
Some folks try to adapt.
They go to halfway houses that feel like probation dressed up in different clothes.
They attend reentry programs that treat them like checkboxes.
They go to churches that smile wide but tighten when they hear their story.
Others don’t try at all.
Not because they’re lazy.
But because they’ve learned the cost of trying.
Trying means opening up. Asking for help. Facing rejection.
It means risking another “no.”
And for someone already burdened with 10, 15, 20 years of rejection…
Another no might just break them.
So they stay quiet.
They stay stuck.
They stay in survival mode.
📚 Example:
One woman, after 18 years inside, was released to a group home.
She asked how to turn on the shower, and her roommate mocked her.
She didn’t bathe for three days.
Another man was handed a smartphone.
He held it like it might explode.
“How do I call my mama on this?” he asked, trembling.
There was no manual.
Just laughter.
And this is where we lose people.
Not because they’re criminals.
But because they were never given a bridge.
Just an expectation.
🩺 The Quiet Crisis of Health After Release
Here’s what most people don’t see:
Freedom isn’t a finish line.
It’s another battleground.
Especially when your health has already been sacrificed to a system that never meant to heal you.
When people leave prison, they carry trauma in their bones, sickness in their bodies, and silence in their spirit. And guess what? The world is not waiting with open arms.
📊 FACT: Formerly incarcerated individuals are 10 times more likely to experience homelessness and 13 times more likely to die within two weeks of release, often due to untreated physical or mental health conditions, substance use relapse, or suicide.
Let that sit for a second.
Thirteen times more likely.
You don’t get discharge papers that say “trauma” or “untreated PTSD.”
You get told, “You’re free now.”
But freedom doesn’t cancel pain.
It doesn’t undo the neglect of years without adequate care, medical screenings, therapy, or compassion.
Some leave still recovering from surgeries they never should’ve gone through in shackles.
Some haven’t had a dental cleaning in over a decade.
Some were taken off medication cold turkey and now walk around carrying a shadow of the person they were before the arrest.
You try to get a doctor’s appointment.
But you don’t have insurance.
You don’t have an address.
You don’t have your records.
And when you walk in with a record, you feel the shift in the air.
The nurse stops smiling.
The receptionist’s tone changes.
The provider barely makes eye contact.
They might hand you a pamphlet and refer you somewhere else.
That “somewhere else” has a two-month waitlist and a judgmental intake form.
Your trauma becomes a referral.
Your pain becomes a form no one wants to fill out.
🧠 EXAMPLE: A man released from prison after 25 years sought therapy for night terrors and hypervigilance. He was told he could qualify for services only if he was a danger to himself or others.
So he lied. He said he was fine.
He hasn’t slept more than 4 hours in years.
💊 EXAMPLE: A woman with diabetes was released without insulin.
By the time she got into a clinic, she was in diabetic ketoacidosis.
“You should’ve come sooner,” the nurse said.
And when it comes to mental health?
Most people don’t even have the words.
Because no one taught them how to say “I’m not okay”
without it being weaponized or used against them.
So they go silent.
And silence, in this country, is often mistaken for stability.
🏚 No Place to Land—Until We Build One
They say it takes a village.
But where’s the village when the world has already written you off?
You walk out of prison expecting a second chance…
But instead, you enter a maze of closed doors, long waitlists, and people who look through you, not at you.
There are few programs that offer real reentry—not just a checklist, but a welcome.
And even those that exist are often underfunded, understaffed, and overwhelmed.
You go to shelters where the beds are full.
You call clinics that don’t take walk-ins.
You ask about jobs and they ask about your charges.
The system lets you out—but society keeps you fenced in.
📊 FACT: Over 60% of formerly incarcerated individuals remain unemployed one year after release, and lack of stable housing is one of the top predictors for recidivism.
But here’s what the statistics don’t show:
The ones who rise anyway.
The ones who build what they never had.
The ones who look around and say, If no one’s making a way, I will.
A man in New Orleans who turned his grandmother’s home into a sober living house for men who had nowhere else to go.
A woman in Chicago who started a mobile health unit offering blood pressure checks, pregnancy tests, and hygiene kits in neighborhoods with high incarceration rates.
A reentry mentor in Atlanta who runs weekly circles—not just for advice, but for belonging.
“I didn’t need someone to tell me what to do,” one man said. “I needed someone to sit next to me while I figured it out.”
These aren’t just programs.
They’re sanctuaries.
They’re proof that healing doesn’t always come from the top—it rises from the ones who were buried.
And they’re built by people who were told, again and again, that they would never be more than their worst moment.
But they are.
They are leaders.
They are healers.
They are walking proof that people don’t need punishment—they need possibility.
And when they don’t find it, they build it themselves.
✨ We Rise From the Ruins
There is no clean ending to a story that’s still being lived.
We’ve spoken about the cracks beneath our feet…
The cages built from silence…
The hands that cuffed without care…
And the struggle to breathe in a world that forgets to make room for return.
But if you’re reading this—if you’ve made it this far—then you know something most don’t.
You know what it means to carry invisible scars.
You know what it means to rebuild when the foundation is still shaking.
You know what it means to survive a system that hoped you wouldn’t.
You are not weak for being broken by it.
You are human.
And you are not alone.
Because somewhere, right now, someone is speaking your name in prayer.
Someone is waking up in a halfway house, gripping their sobriety with shaking hands.
Someone is applying for the job—even though they’ve been told “no” a hundred times.
Someone is walking their child to school, determined to be the parent they never had.
And someone—you—has dared to believe that their past doesn’t cancel out their future.
This world may not have made room for your healing,
But that’s why you’re here.
You are the room.
You are the place where shame ends and legacy begins.
You are proof that bars can hold a body—but never the soul.
So keep going.
Keep building what didn’t exist.
Keep becoming what they said was impossible.
Keep reaching for the ones behind you and showing them: you can come through this, too.
You’re not just surviving.
You are restoring a truth this world forgot:
That every life holds value.
That healing is a birthright.
And that redemption isn’t earned—it’s inherent.
The system failed you.
But you did not fail.
And that is the beginning of something holy.
With grace, grit, and a love that refuses to quit.
Keep showing up—even when it feels like no one’s watching.
Your presence is powerful. Your love is building something they’ll one day thank you for.
From one survivor to another—
With strength and softness,
~ Juju Divine Empress
Founder, JBE Mindful Pathways
Wellness Advocate | Writer | Mother | Still Learning, Always Loving
Explore more empowering stories like this in the Unspoken Health Kalendar collection.
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