There are moments in federal prison that stay with you long after your sentence ends. For me, it’s a Mother’s Day visit I never talk about without feeling that knot in my chest again.
I was only in prison for 18 months, so I didn’t have to suffer through many holidays more than once. But I did endure two Mother’s Days. The first one taught me a lesson I didn’t fully grasp when I walked into federal prison. The second reminded me that some things hurt more than confinement itself—especially watching your family suffer for your mistakes.
The Reality of a “Celebration” in Prison
That first Mother’s Day, the visiting room was packed. You had crying kids in one corner, frustrated spouses in another, and a long line of people just trying to hold it together for the people they came to see. You’d think it was a celebration, but it didn’t feel like one.
At one point, staff cut the visit short to make room for more visitors. That’s the reality when the system’s over capacity—people show up after driving hours or flying in, only to be told their visit is done before it really started.
My mom, sitting across from me, was devastated. Her youngest son—me—was in federal prison. She tried to smile, tried to be strong. But I could see it on her face. I wasn’t just watching her heart break; I was the one who broke it.
I tried to reassure her, told her I was planning and working and learning. But it all felt empty in that moment. The truth is, when you’re the one in prison, it’s easy to forget who else is doing time with you. I didn’t fully grasp the weight my choices placed on her shoulders until I saw her in that chair, trying not to cry.
It’s Harder on the People Who Love You
People think the sentence is the punishment. But if you’re a parent, spouse, or child of someone in prison, the punishment spills over.
Your kids grow up with visiting room memories instead of weekend hikes. Your spouse handles the bills, the judgment from others, and the lonely nights. Your parents? They carry the shame, the fear, the helplessness of watching a child spiral into something they never saw coming.
That first Mother’s Day opened my eyes. I looked around that room and saw it everywhere—devastated mothers, exhausted wives, confused children. All trying to hold it together for someone wearing khaki.
This isn’t a sympathy play. It’s a warning: when you’re facing prison, don’t fool yourself into thinking you are the only one suffering. The sentence might have your name on it, but it sticks to everyone close to you.
The Second Mother’s Day Was Different
By the second Mother’s Day, I had about two weeks left before release. My mom visited again, but the mood was lighter. We weren’t crying. We were counting down.
Why the shift?
Because I spent that year working toward something. I wrote. I planned. I made amends. I got serious. I did everything I could to give my time in prison meaning, not just for me, but for the people waiting for me to come home.
Too many people treat prison like a timeout. They watch TV, play cards, argue about nonsense, and wait. Then they get out with nothing to show for it—and worse, their families still carry the pain from every lost holiday.
I didn’t want to waste that second Mother’s Day. I wanted my mom to know that I was walking out better than I came in. That I heard her. That I saw her. That I’d never put her in that position again.
If You’re Facing Prison, Start Preparing Now
If you’re heading to federal prison, hear me on this: it’s not just about surviving your time—it’s about making sure the people who love you don’t suffer more than they already have.
Write letters. Educate yourself. Set a daily schedule. Limit the time you spend complaining or gossiping. Make the most of every day so when your kids or your spouse or your mom visits, they see progress, not just a stalled version of you in khaki.
This isn’t about some abstract transformation. It’s about real steps you can take that help everyone carry less weight. Want an example?
One client of ours, a physician, started journaling daily and used it to create a personal narrative. He shared it with his wife and kids—not to ask for forgiveness, but to explain what he was learning and how he was changing. That simple act helped rebuild trust that years of apologies couldn’t.
Do something. Anything. Just don’t let your family come visit you on Mother’s Day or Christmas or your child’s birthday and see the same version of you that walked in. That’s how you waste time and relationships.
Justin Paperny
P. S. If this resonates, join our team this Monday at 1 p.m. Pacific, 4 p.m. Eastern. We host a free webinar to answer questions, share lessons from real cases, and help you avoid the most costly mistakes people make during a government investigation. Bring questions. Come ready to learn.
