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Fifteen minutes. That’s all my mom got on the phone from federal prison, and reading what she wrote about those calls hit me in a way I didn’t expect. I remember being 11 and trying to sound “fine” so I didn’t make things harder for her. On the page, she hears the crack in my voice, tells me it’s OK to cry, and admits the one thing every parent wants: to hold their child and make the pain go away. If you’ve ever swallowed your feelings to protect someone you love, this one will sit with you.

I also share the journal entry that stopped me cold: learning my mom self-surrendered in 1993, and that her brother went with her. His reaction brings them both back to childhood trauma, and it pulls me into a truth that feels healing and hard at the same time. Our parents weren’t just our parents. They were kids once too, shaped by experiences long before we entered the picture. Seeing that doesn’t excuse everything, but it can change the way we understand family stories, generational trauma, forgiveness, and why people do what they do.

The journal is full of mental toughness, faith, and surprising humor, including my favorite line of all time: “This isn’t club med. This is club fed.” We talk perspective, gratitude, and the reminder that prison doesn’t always have bars. Sometimes it looks like a toxic relationship, addiction, a job that slowly kills your spirit, or a mindset that insists you’re not enough. The biggest takeaway I’m holding onto: your circumstances don’t define your growth, and your past may explain you, but it does not get to define you.

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