Imposter

Let's start with yesterday...

I laid out my "must do's" list to my wife - after a long day of studying and working together on a Sunday in the city, despite a beautiful reprieve of 90 minutes at Manchesters loveliest contrast therapy venue (Fix) I was still fraught with anxiety... 24 hours in ahead of an event I was planning on attending.

Must do's

1. Dye hair - the faded pink had shown a grey hair - a solitary grey hair that had quite upset me as I headed out the door yesterday; but also the bold, brash red, spoke more for me, than I could sometimes. See me, now hear me. Or something like that.

2. False nails - I've become accustomed to my self-care treat of a 8 weekly BIAB manicure. However after a fraught December filled with fertility highs and lows, I haven't quite found my 2025 stride in regaining that time for me, and instead, as quite the coping mechanism (I know) I have instead, thrown myself whole heartedly into work. Cue, the less than glamorous alternative, but sufficient mask, stick on nails.

3. Face mask - clean, clear skin that says 37, not 47 as the grey hair has lead me into a quandary of self inflicted ageism!

4. - realising a list of must do's for something that merely requires my presence, my purpose and my passion is quite an over-exertion and thankless task in list making and fretting over nonsense.

Today, I got up, I got dressed, I washed and styled my hair, perfectly lovely.

I put on my makeup, a fine black suit, with casual cotton white t-shirt and some gold accessories. Girls bringing non-binary smart Cas and I'm here for it.

Paired with some vintage Nike high-tops, new bold black thick rimmed glasses, cutesy floral laptop bag and swishing long grey tweed coat - winning.

It's as if Smartworks themselves had dressed me for the day.

And off I toddled, to said event - Smartworks International Women's Day celebration event in the city.

I came, I grabbed coffee, I made a beeline to say hello to epic and incredibly beautiful in red suit Louise Minchin, bumbled a line about being in the same category at an awards do last year, and duly panicked at my imposter syndrome taking over as the words left my mouth. This is not a case of fan dangled celeb awe (well, a little, I've grown up like many women my age; watching BBC female journalists smash the patriarchy from within) but I realised, much like the Fran who makes "must do," lists - I'm so far out of my comfort zone in rooms like this, I feel consumed with anxiety.

Why,

I spend my day job, my love, my passion, advocating for, empowering, and providing a platform for WOMEN LIKE ME. 

My work is about showing the world OUR power, OUR place, OUR purpose, so why, as founder, facilitator, public speaker and propagator do I shrink in places like this?

It's because despite my absolute belief that women like me DO deserve to be in rooms like that - I don't whole heartedly believe it for myself. And that is a rather sad thing to realise at an International Womens Day event.

I'm thwarted by my own demons; the ghost of the past me that chase me through corridors of power and rooms of purpose to haunt my present.

Telling me - who I was.

But rarely reminding me - of who I am.

My therapist in prison taught me the power of "automatic thoughts," and the onus on us, to regard or disregard and have the ability and visibility to recognise the real, from the imposed/presumed/created not curated and that with minds like mine, that are warped by mental health disorders, trauma, and ghosts, the daily practice of mental housekeeping and sweeping out the irrelevant and untrue, is so important.

It won't surprise you to know, today, I did no housekeeping.

Instead, I let those thoughts sweep me, into the quietest, darkest corner.

And a little light shone.

A beautiful human being - the loveliest Lee Chambers.

"Hi Fran, how are you?" with a warm embrace of authentic care, followed by

"Still working hard at changing the prison system?"

Now; let me give this interaction context.

I've seen Lee at some of these kind of events, on the panel, in the audience, networking. Always incredibly dapper and exuding confidence AND kindness.

We've met, exchanged chit chats and I know him and he knows me, social media more so I'm sure but the fact that he's here, on the panel, to talk about allyship and has the ability to recall my name, my work and ask such a purposeful question - when we can often fall into the trap of networking, event, award, networking, event, award and to remember, recall and show care - it's the true reflection of a persons character.

As a teenager and in my early 20's I was dragged to more than my fair share of high society silliness, wining and dining and networking with parents who did not operate that same care; niceties and air kisses and gregarious acts of recognition often followed by complete loss and lack of interest or knowledge as to who they were speaking to, or why that person was there or sought them out.

I was wheeled round as the prodigal daughter, politics at University, job in London, blonde with a bust, from money. 

And then I wasn't.

And I still somehow found myself in rooms like that, parading and peacocking, holding onto who I was.

When I was in prison, my offender manager told me all I had to say to the Governors board to approve my release on temporary license to go out to work everyday were two magical words -

"Why did you commit your crime?"

Personal gain.

And I refused, because I didn't feel two words of such power, could boil down my choices, decisions, chaos, and ultimately deceit.

When I spoke with my therapist about why I refused, she asked me why, why did I commit my crime.

We went down a rabbit hole, lots of tears, thoughts and provocations, justifications and then the sentence which haunts me came out

"Because I wanted my parents to see what I was doing and what a success I had become, so they would feel proud of me,"

What a tragic admission for a woman serving a prison sentence at the age of 34.

Last year, I was shortlisted as a finalist in the same category as Louise Minchin and I laughed and said to Sarah; that there was absolutely no point in going to the awards ceremony because the women in my category were nothing short of phenomenal - truly phenomenal.

And then I ended up walking away with my own award for highly commended and I couldn't quite believe it.

And that thought lingered with me today.

If I can be in a category with these women, because of the work I do, because of the person I am. I can be in a room with these women and feel the ground is level, and it's not them and me. It's us.

True feminism is at my core, but I somehow don't apply it to myself.

I shout from the rooftops that empowered women, empower women, that women supporting women are my kind of women.

Today, I saw a room full of authenticity, equity and solidarity. Agreement that we all work together to bring the change, to be the change.

I hold that dear. I do.

Over Christmas a wise feminist warrior Gail Heath held my hand across a table and said "Fran, you just need to be brave. You need to braver,"

We were talking about this feeling - this second class citizen feeling and that if I am to wield my power, I need to feel my power, for me.

I'll take the title from Louise's book and run with it today.

Fearless.

Let's try that.

A fallen comrade. 1 year without Erwin James.

You once said to me "When I die, all they'll write is murderer, Exoffender, dies - they won't remember the good, or my legacy,"

And then you went and died on me.

And I'm still furious with you.

I think about your stupid boat and your drams of whiskey and the icy cold weather last year and how I gave you a telling off on WhatsApp and told you to go to bed.

The missed call I had from you that night, and it haunts me.

Your WhatsApp activity haunts me "Last seen Friday 22:28"

And I found out on Twitter, of all the god forsaken places, that you had gone.

And there it was and remains on my phone.

Your name, with no activity and no blue ticks.

And I write to you every so often, not our daily back and forth.

But I give you updates that I know you would love to read, and I share just as we always did. The good, the bad and the ugly.

The life milestones, triumphs and tribulations. Photo's of Sarah and I, where we've been, what we've been up to. And the single tick remains. But it's soothing to talk to you all the same.

I sought out a church whilst away, to remember you.

There are few in my life I light a candle for, because loss is fleeting and I was never taught to feel it the way most do, but for you and my dear Grandma, our lapsed Catholicism, I light a candle wherever I go.

I had stern words with you this weekend. Quietly. In church. It was ice and snow on the ground outside, so already, I was furious with you. And then just sad.

Apologetic actually. I promised you more chapters, but then you promised me an editor. So I guess we're both letting the side down on the literary front comrade.

You were right, they did write about your past, because they don't know any better. They did reference your crime, and you knew that they would, but I promise the legacy was more beautiful than you wished for. The words of love, respect, kindness and acknowledgement, of the change you brought forth. Your wicked humour and words of wisdom, your naughty boy candid nature, but mostly, the lives you touched were so vast and so far reaching, if you knew, you'd sleep more peacefully.

It didn't feel right not writing to you, about you, for you, in memory and I tried yesterday but the words wouldn't come.

Here's to you dear friend.

Darling.

Sweetie.

Comrade.

Equal.

Your chosen words of choice for me.

Your legacy lives on  💕

Second chances? I blew mine. I'm on chance number 3. So why are we promoting second chances as the be all and end all?

 I had a pang of sadness yesterday that sat with me for most of the morning. In a tired haze from a delayed flight home from Norway; I was mentally and emotionally exhausted - which is usual for me, when I've had some "proper downtime," and actively, very purposefully not engaged in work, in any guise it presents; social media, engagement, emails, WhatsApp, the desire to keep abreast of what's going on in the world - I deliberately tried not to.

I'm not someone who is at ease with downtime. It's a common grievance in our household, as Sarah becomes exasperated at my inability to switch off and relax; it's common knowledge in our circle, Fran is work and work is Fran.

We've been taught for such a long time, that such as a connotation is a badge of honour; and I grew up in a household that worked. Privileged yes, but the people who raised me, could graft. And did. 

There's many flaws in my upbringing and learned behaviours, attitudes and judgement, that I criticise through the now learned and balanced lens of what is appropriate and healthy and what is not. More so of late, I realise this work ethic / work obsession, is one which falls into the unhealthy category. But it is who I am. I love to work, it gives me drive, purpose, pride, fulfilment, it is my passion to do what I feel is needed, it brings in money, makes me solvent, reliable, trustworthy... ok, so clearly there's more to this than "an honest days work," and it goes much deeper for me. For people like me.

Whilst in the airport, just a few days ago, drinking a mimosa with my darling wife, my privilege did not escape me - but much like the Barker life I grew up in, it was hard fought, hard sought, hard earned. When we have moments of escape, calm and time for us, I appreciate it all the more. But I won't deny, it comes still, with the weight of guilt - I don't know if this is unique to me, I doubt it; I think it may be a ripple effect of a life lived undeservedly at the cost of others; ironically, my crime never fuelled a flamboyant lifestyle, or holidays like this, it paid for idiocy and idealism and a sinking ship of a business that would give the Titanic a run for its money.

Alas, sipping said mimosa in the airport terminal, I felt it all the same. "Do I deserve this?"

We work so hard for the life we have. So why do I still feel like it's wrong?

Imagine then, my fury at seeing a Ministry of Justice promotional video waxing lyrical, with James Timpson at the forefront wearing designer glasses, looking ever so suave the businessman and one of the people, giving Andy Burnham "down with the kids" vibes like he's about to hit the Northern Quarter for a microbrewery tour and listen to some Oasis. Cool innit.

I digress, amongst the Specsavers promotional videography, there was a lovely man, working his bollocks off in a commercial kitchen - it gave me joy to see. The genuine pleasure on his face. I recognise. The joy of hard work and graft.

And then "This company welcomed you with open arms,"

So far so good.

"They literally said; we're going to give you a second chance,"

Fuck the fuck off.

So of course, before boarding my flight, I duly ranted about this in a post and hit send. Received with glorious agreement from many in our industry.

Phew.

Now, any employer venturing into the world of employing those with criminal convictions, I praise you. I am glad of you and I have no doubt, that given 1 in 4 people of working age who hold a criminal conviction, like me; are grateful of the turning of the tide and the much needed acknowledgement that people with convictions, are people. An equal workforce, of talent and readiness. 

What we are not, are people in need, and desperation, of piteous second chances - we are hard working, able, ready, skilled people with two pieces of paper, neither of which weighs more than the other. The DBS, the CV.

Neither define, only describe circumstance.

It is our character that speaks volumes.

I had a second chance. I blew it.

I had a second chance. I wasn't ready. I wasn't well. I wasn't able.

I had a third chance. I grew. I learned. I understood. And I fought.

Tooth and nail. To be better.

And with that third chance?

I was hired, fired, three times back to back upon release.

A custodial sentence that saw me serve 11 months inside a prison and the rest in the community on license.

11 months and a piece of paper that now defines the rest of my life.

Open and honest and visible, this is me, this is what I did, this is the impact it had - hire me.

This is my CV, I am educated, capable, have glorious references and a track record that speaks louder than my mistakes.

Apparently google speaks louder.

This notion of second chances fills me with fury.

Taking a "chance,"

Denotes you are taking a risk.

On who?

We are taking a chance on you - that you will treat us with respect, dignity, equality, equity and care. That you will treat us fairly, with honesty, with legality and not abuse our vulnerability, our inability, our conviction. That you won't abuse the trust and hope we place in your hands.

That you won't put it all on our shoulders, the asks, the overtime, the expectation, the notion we will work harder, longer and quieter - because you know we will. Through the fear.

The fear. That you now hold our freedom and our stability.

That our second chance, is our only chance. Because it was so publicly, gracefully given.

I gave a speech last year, where I quoted James Timpson - before he became Minister for Prisons, but my sentiment remains the same - all change for good is good, as long as the language, ethics and sentiment are true.

The notion of loyalty and dedication, motivation - reinforced by Dominc Raab proclaiming "Companies suffering labour shortages should recruit ex-convicts just out of jail because they are "more motivated", “reliable” and take fewer sick days than other workers," 

Yes, we take fewer sick days, because we're terrified any day off will be judged as "unreliable" or cast doubt on our ability.

Which is ironic given the ongoing barriers of mental health, PTSD and trauma caused by the experience of prison and incarceration meaning that not only are we facing our demons, living with our trauma, mental health and processing our experiences of the criminal justice system and indeed our crimes, we put on a smile, happy face and head into work with the weight of the world on our shoulders grateful of the second chance to work, put food on the table, and live an honest life.

The societal pressure we place on people with notions of a second chance is another feature of the criminal justice system setting you up to fail. 

It's an expectation that for some, may come easy, for others, who battle addiction, mental health, unstable housing, battling the care system for their children, fleeing domestic violence, moving to new localities to keep away from previous lives, social isolation, societal stigma. It's a cluster fuck of obstacles.

Work should be the easy bit. The joy.

It's one of the reasons I do what I do in the way that I do. Security. Stability. Peace of mind.

It's not without its flaws.

Working as a freelancer leaves you beholden all the same, to the vulnerability, to the exploitation. Even more so if you work in the criminal justice system and people see value in your lived experience; for them, but not so much for you.

Quick to give you a platform, but not to pay your bills.

Lived experience is the new influencer bamboozle.

Where people cash in on your story, your trauma and offer you the keys to the castle - exposure, opportunity, the chance to be part of the change. But not money.

The amount of lived experience champions, cheerleaders, fierce leaders, lionesses I see everyday on LinkedIn posting about the latest "Ask" they've had makes me angry.

International Women's Day is always a favourite of mine, where most of my tribe of ferocious criminal justice cheerleaders are approached to speak at events - and the perks for them? To speak at the event?

Our pain is not your profit.

Our profile is not there to maximise yours.

Share our story, share our strength, empower us, pay us.

No change comes from empty pockets and nice ideas. Trust me. Having a failed business and a fraud conviction under my belt as a consequence, I know this. Nice ideas don't pay the rent.

I suppose that's why I started Coming Home.

When I was in prison, in my weeks leading up to release, the employment officers asked for my CV - my wife emailed it in.

An officer asked me "What kind of jobs are you expecting to get with this?"

What a strange question.

"The same ones I had before I came here?"

She laughed.

"I think you need to manage your expectations Fran,"

It was that sentence that compounded this vision.

I was horrified.

Why should I manage my expectations?

Why should I want or achieve less now?

I was confused by the assertion I couldn't and wouldn't be able to.

Dare to dream Barker.

And dream I did.

And work.

And earn.

And learn.

And grow.

And within 6 months of being home from prison, was working back in education, on the same salary I was before I was sent to prison. Having been hired and fired 3 times on loop in the preceding months.

I was a dog with a bone when I came home from prison. I had to get back to work. I had to be an equal to my wife. To pay my way. To find stability. Dignity. I had to remember who I was.

And I did.

And I do.

But it's not because an employer gave me a second chance.

It's because I kept pushing, smashing the barriers, challenging the preconceptions, questioning the employer hiring practices, educating the change.

Being. Living. Visibly with pride and frustration in equal measure. On my soap box, day in day out. Exhausting for some, exhilarating for me.

Christmas lights don't look the same from the back of a prison van

We all have milestones, we all have memories, we all have dates of celebration and dates of avoidance in equal measure.

For me, today is one of those days. Etched in my memory and I wondered when sitting down to type this, for the third time today; whether to continue to give this date, this memory, this moment in time, oxygen. Feeding it seems couterproductive as it keeps it alive and perhaps if starved and left in the dark, it'll fade away.

Alas, it's nearly 9pm and here I sit.

Christmas tree lights sparkling from across the dining room table.

1970's teak furniture, g-plan dotted around a dimly lit living room, Christmas lights hung in the front window, dazzling passers by in the December darkness.

It's familiar. But it's not.

11 December 2020 saw me thrown into the back of a prison van and escorted to HMP Styal for what at the time of sentencing, I knew only to be 27 months. At the time of gavel banging and the judges words ringing in my ears, I didn't know that you only served half your sentence behind bars and the remainder in the community. So for me, 27 months, was 2 years without freedom. Two years without Sarah, without my wife, my life, my home, my friends, my job, everything I had rebuilt through the chaos and the crash. Gone.

I'm blessed, I am.

I sit now, in a home, which is safe, which is warm, which is ours.

The lights on the tree, we hung together on 1st December, as we have for the past 13 Chrismasses together. A real tree, the kind we don't know if I'm allergic too or not and the only way to know how is to have Sarah shove and brush me different variants in the garden centre each year. Spotty, blotchy Fran = NOT THAT ONE.

Sarah's on the sofa, working on her Phd, after a long day's work.

Yesterday she worked later than expected and text me an update as to why "Just been holding a ladies hand whilst she was having bone marrow done, distracted her talking about strictly,"

My wife ladies and gentlemen. The woman who fights cancer by day, and holds patients hands when they need her to, and then comes home, riding her bike like the Levenshulme lesbian she has become and finds her way home - to me.

We were just like this 4 years ago. Oblivious of what was to come. With terrible legal advice and a promise that everything would be OK, neither of us could have known a custodial sentence of such severity was coming down the line, we were looking at life objectively through our own lens - judges want to see rehabilitation and growth, and they would. Judges want to see there's no threat to society, and they would.

They didn't. They saw stuck up privileged posh girl who had her chance at redemption and blew it. They saw entitled little miss barkerbaker who had tricked even my character witnesses into kind words. The judge herself said "Much like you did with your victims, you have shown the best side of your character to the people who wrote these, and we both know, that is not you. You are a most deceitful, dishonest woman,"

Those words rang in my ears for the duration of my prison sentence. They still do. As I type.

But this post is not about the doom and gloom and horror of what came to pass, or how it came to pass, it is to mark the journey since.

4 years.

1 incarcerated.

1 on license and probation

And 2 as a free person.

What does life look like as free?

What does freedom look like? No license conditions? No bars? No prison vans?

- There is no freedom for women who have been convicted of crimes and reported so widely in a digital age.

If you googled me now, the press that scattered the globe on 12th December will still be the highest ranking in google. Not the work before and not the work since. Because the world loves a villain. And the world loves radiator bread bullshit.

What you won't read is that in my two years of supposed freedom, I have built a life of joy, love, truth and kindness. The foundations were already there, so many years ago, and I'll admit, it did takes part of the prison journey to see their true value, to understand the emotion, motivation, dignity, choice. But what prison really taught me; for the majority. There is no good and there is no evil. There is right and there is wrong. But by god it's a layer cake of who, how, where, what, when. Then we arrive at why.

Alas, the criminal justice system doesn't work like that. We have the who, when and what. Rarely the why. The why opens the door to muddied waters, and judges like sentencing guidelines and by the book, if they step outside of the lines, it's usually to punish harsher, not to diminish.

If you read my blog, you will know all too well, my prison OAYS offender management paperwork defined me as 0.07% risk of reoffending in a two year period. We are 3 years post incarceration and 8 years post criminal act in 2016.

It also noted the reason for my sentence - punishment.

Punishment.

Today, the government continued with their propaganda machine of making a safer society and fixing the conservative fuck ups.... in creating 14,000 more prison places and I quote for "dangerous criminals to be locked up," - I'm intrigued by the definition of dangerous in this capacity, does dangerous mean violent? Surely then the language used by the Ministry of Justice itself should be "violent criminals," and "locked up," perpetuates the societal desire to cage and segregate those deemed unsuitable for society. The language is always the same. Designed to inflame, shame, dehumanise.

Don't get me wrong, for the violent, the depraved, the sex offenders, rapists, child abusers, child killers, there's a place to keep society safe, where behaviour needs to moderated, mediated and modified. But for the thousands of non-violent offenders? What of them? Dangerous?

I was dangerous. To myself, my family, the people I stole from. I was dangerous. In 2016.

But in 2020 when in prison, found by offender managers, prison officers and psychologists to be 0.07% risk to the public. But incarcerated non the less.

I was literally the definition of who we don't send to prison and who we deal with in a community setting through appropriate, proportionate measures and means.

My pre-sentence report recommended a suspended sentence. My barrister recommended a suspended sentence. 

Prison. Punishment and public humiliation and annihilation.

Still.

Just a few months ago, I was sat in a classroom space, ready to deliver a Coming Home session to 10 new faces. Nobody turned up. Someone involved in my court case (again from 2016!) had ghost booked all 10 spaces and delighted in contacted me 1 hour into said session to let me know it was them. To remind me, they're still there. In the background.

And I suppose, it made me evaluate my purpose and my place, and my freedom.

In 2024, still not free and still held to account of the actions of a Fran that hasn't existed for a long, long time.

When I look at my life and what I have achieved post-prison, I'm proud.

And I struggle with pride as an emotion, it's not something that's been part of my life, my childhood, my adolescence, and I've always strived for the approval of people, parents and more so it's a novelty and a joy to be so completely in awe of my own action, integrity and direction of travel, with no care or emotional investment or need of the approval of others.

Women like me, who began as children like me, we become the needy, insecure, desperate for love and approval creatures we evolve into. That presents in trauma bond relationships, impulsive outlandish behaviour, dependence, addiction to substances, people, lies. Everyone has a vice. A familiarity. A safe place.

I had a moment yesterday, I stood on some weighing scales, and I weigh less than when I came home from prison. When I came home from prison I was 15 stone, but I looked emaciated, sallow, pale, unwell. And I was. I was untamed, unkempt, undernourished. It was like going back to the beginning.

And as I stood looking at the numbers flashing at me yesterday, I was met with a surge of anger.

My relationship with food, is a lot like my relationship with addiction in general. It comes from deprivation. It comes from shame. It comes from defiance.

Before I was adopted, I was a malnourished street rat from London, a ward of court, poor, emaciated, sallow and pale. In care. Not cared for.

I was taken in by a final foster home, a joyous experience of love and safety. Where food was plentiful and never shameful. But I still sexually propositioned my foster father for the sake of a buttery crumpet, because I didn't know any other way to please a male figure in my life than to offer myself.

It made me think of prison. If someone had offered me a buttery Marks & Spencers 5 grain crumpet for the sake of flashing a tit, I probably would have. Sadly, prison officers lack such taste and merely coax hungry women behind bars with chocolate bars and vapes.

That cycle of deprivation got me thinking. Ages 0-4, impoverished, feral, famine, sex object. Trafficked in my 20's, locked in a warehouse, impoverished, feral, famine, sex object.

But most disturbing, it brought back memories of my purported privilege, where food was plentiful, but shameful. Where my mother would count the biscuits in the cookie jar, to ask how many I had had, and then berate me if I told a lie.

I got clever. I counted the biscuits too, binged the packet, went to the nearest shop (a 1 mile walk away) and bought a new packet, ate the right amount and lo' - child brain Fran, satiated on biscuits and misdemeanour. But with the upper hand.

She used to look through the recycling outside the backdoor to see if I had snook or bought in treats and naughty food - pulled packets out to ask where they came from, did I eat in one sitting. Disgusting. I was disgusting.

Where food orders in restaurants were commandeered and commanded - I'll have steak and chips, interrupted and silenced with - No, she will have steak and THE salad.

Body shamed into body dysmorphia. Homophobic jibes rampant, I dressed like a dyke because I was a big girl and if I just lost the weight, I'd find a nice man and I'd learn to dress better, feel a sense of pride in myself.

"Do you want to be the fat girl who can no longer shop in Selfridges? Do you want to be the fat girl shops in Evans? Do you?"

And so, this strange creature from care, became this secretive beast, sneaking food in the night, hiding garbage in strange places, and eating eating eating. And lying.

My parents found out I was gay - not through any diction from me. I was on a school trip and they had gone through my things in my bedroom whilst I was away and found a love letter from a girl. I came home from said school trip and the letter was placed squarely in the middle of my bed. Words were had. Blows exchanged.

My father would always say he was never violent, if he ever raised a hand in anger; I had pushed him to it. And I must have. Because he never hit anyone else at home.

I could always sense the rage before it landed. A bad day at work. A baggy pair of jeans on me. An empty wrapper on the side. An unwashed plate. An un-ironed school skirt once resulted in being hit with the ironing board.

But even that was my fault - for being too lazy to help my mother with the ironing. The audacity of a 13 year old girl.

It just so happened my mother had an ironing lady who came once a week to do the lot, so I was particularly perplexed that day at the scalding.

A split lip in a city centre hotel, having staggered in pissed, 17 and having clearly been to the gay village when I had told them I was out at Deansgate Locks. An incredibly gay looking friend walking me back to make sure I was safe gave the game away, and for me. It was game over.

I type for catharsis. On a December night, when I wonder, how did I get it so wrong in life that I put myself in prison.

It's all tied together. Fran who tells lies. Tell lies, because that's all she's ever known and all she's ever been. To protect yourself. From the fat shaming, the homophobic insults, the jokes at my expense, the berating and belittling. To hide the scars on my arms. Lies. To cover up the truth. I was miserable and I was alone and I was nothing, to no-one.

All compounded and consolidated when finally disinherited and made the pariah of it all, the black sheep gone too far, the hooker, the druggie, the homeless rif-raf, the criminal, the dyke. 

Women in prison are not there because they want to be. Not because they saw their lives playing out that way. They are there because somewhere, somehow, they didn't know how to be anything other than what they became. They learned to exist. Sadly, often at the expense of others. And that is true sadness of it all. Those who are victims, become perpetrators.

Which is absolutely why we need to address the trauma, the behaviour, the interventions and preventions, because sending women to prison only adds to the Tetris build up of harrowing life experiences, but worse, it sends the message - this is all you, this is all you are worth, this is all you can and will be and it doesn't inspire change, it doesn't install hope, it doesn't promote engagement and rehabilitation, it takes more than it gives from people who have nothing left in the tank to fight for.

Where 37 year old women write blogs like this, because the trauma thread gets pulled, what starts with Christmas lights in a living room of love, verges into prison van whizzing past city lights and saying goodbye to Christmas and to hope, to wondering what Christmas is about, remembering what it was, and what I wouldn't want it to be again.

Where Christmas is food and family, and the memory of those make me want to curl up in a ball and cry - or worse, eat a packet of biscuits.

But I look up, and there's Sarah typing away, completely oblivious to this little EUPD spiral on paper, but it's to remind me, remind you.

All progress is progress. All acknowledgement of pain and finding the path through and not around is vital to sustained recovery. I became my own therapist, my own food coach, my own cheerleader. I map my choices, thoughts, traumas and logic and I look at them with balance. In a world of black and white, I have taught myself to find the grey. To see the impact, consequence and outcome of everything. Work, life, family, finance. It's exhausting. Second-guessing and safeguarding against your inner chid and its defence mechanisms which have existed much longer than your new way of living but it's worth it.

4 years ago today, I was looking at a bed sheet and wondering if I could loop it around a pipe. Forgive the stark nature of that statement.

I didn't see a future and certainly not one as beautiful as this.

But thank god I didn't pull, thank god I didn't tie.

Thank god I didn't die.

But for the sake of Fran who came before and serving a short sentence for a non-violent crime. I almost did.

Some are not so lucky.

We are fast approaching the anniversary of Annalise and the fact we are 4 years on from that tragedy and no real change has come to pass and no accountability has been upheld - that keeps me awake.

27 months for me.

0 for the prison who aided her death.

Grotesque.

And so, the fight goes on.

Always

It's criminal

This morning, I sat at my desk, in my office at home printing like a wild woman. Pages of inspiration for today's Coming Home session. Excited. Anxious.

I'm always anxious when I teach. Even when I was working 9-5 in apprenticeships, I was filled with dread and excitement all the same when facing a room full of students. Imposter syndrome paralyses me on a daily basis but never more so since I came home from prison.

Despite knowing and trusting in all that I know, all that I do and the work I deliver, I'm still plagued with self-doubt. Can I do this? Should I do this? Will anyone want it? Need it? Take something from it? Is all my well scoped, planned and curated idealism just that - idealistic.

And then I remind myself of every session, lesson, workshop I've delivered over the past 6 years in my time as an educator, facilitator and public speaker - I'm good at this. I care about this. This is my passion and my purpose. 

When I designed the Coming Home project course content, I did so in an academic remit, Ofsted stylised lesson plans, neurodivergent adjustment plans, teach, ask, activity, recap. A beautiful combination of all that my TAQA, PTLLS and cert ed taught me - summative and formative assessment. It's the foundations of all good learning, but being passion about what you teach and being a reflective learning role model is just as important; if not more so.

For those of us who have been involved in the criminal justice system, a lack of strong role models is a significant and reoccurring factor of low self-esteem, confidence, purpose, direction and it can perpetuate offending behaviour traits. Negative experiences of school systems, lack of education, too much education, the pressure of the systems; it all ties into what I'm trying to address : engagement with someone who's been there, understands and can help you find your way out of the darkness.

At least, that's what I'd hoped for Coming Home and that's what it has shown to do thus far in it's short lifetime.

Today's session is about all about the digital you, professional vs personal online persona and presence, digital footprint and how to get out from under the media listings on google that cite your crime and not who you are now. Free, trying to be better, do better and rebuild.

Today's session activity - a variety of press print outs of newspaper articles written about female offenders - we were to examine the use of language and how the press dehumanise and demonise women who commit crime or live lives outside of the society norm and that "pressure" I refer to.

"Caged," "Sex-worker," "Addict," 

When referring to women who have been brutally murdered - "Ex-murderer found dead," "Ex-heroin addict,"

Fascinating. Saddening. And all the more reason we use our power within these walls to change it. To be the living, breathing examples of what change can be.

Alas, there is no-one in my classroom today.

The session began at 10am. No-one is here.

Odd. As the event was fully booked online, as a first foray into the world of non-referred work, I let fate decide what women wanted to sign up and attend without the suggestion from their probation officers, offender managers, mental health practitioners, I wanted to test free will.

So imagine my horror upon receiving this text message en-route to my classroom today

I felt sick. Because whilst this is a surprise. It's not.

I've been dealing with shit like this before I went to prison, and after I came home.

Some of the people involved in my court case, rightly, in the moment, felt betrayed by my actions, my dishonesty. But, many years after the fact, they got their day in court, and they got to see me lead down below the crown court and put into a prison van. I was sent to prison. I received a proceeds of crime order. And more than that, I was publicly, nationally, internationally humiliated and maligned in the press far and wide.

Ironically, those words I was due to discuss in today's session; some of them were littered in the articles written about me.

The press reporting of my crime, was a click bait hyperbole of something quite black and white : woman had business, woman got investment, woman lied to investors, woman business went bankrupt, woman lied to investors, investors lost money. 

Imagine then, something from 2016, convicted 2020, released end of 2021, remains so prevalent for the people involved that they feel the incessant need to fuck with my life.

Continually, but sporadically, like some twisted game of cat and mouse, always in the background, lurking, and waiting at the most vulnerable moments in time, to appear in the most hideous of ways.

It could be text messages of hate; when I came home, it was barrages of Facebook messages from various accounts wishing me dead, and disappointed I hadn't hung myself in prison.

It was hounding money, telling me a prison sentence didn't get me off the hook and there was still a debt to pay "one way or another,"

It's been like this for years. And I've had enough.

So now, as I sit in my empty classroom surrounded by Coming Home project workbooks and newspaper examples of what women who commit crime are. Let me tell you.

We are human. We are vulnerable. We are broken and recovering.

We are honest. We are working hard. We are changing. We are a constant state of evolution and hope.

I had a waiting list for today's session; I don't know if it was genuine or not or part of this elaborate scam - the irony - a fraudulent act to spam my eventbrite with non-existent people and faux email addresses. The police may not find it as ironic with yet another harassment complain I have filed this morning.

That makes 5 formal complaints of harassment.

The first I placed in 2018. They police told me it was a civil matter. They then came knocking on MY door in 2020 as it was then decided it was a criminal matter - not the harassment; the money. I had committed a crime and these people were acting in frustration.

Second complaint - whilst I was prison. They were harassing my wife, taunting her knowing she was suffering, home alone, with me in jail. They hacked my accounts, they trolled her with false take away orders sent to our apartment, to make sure I knew, and she knew, they knew where we lived.

The third, on the day I came home from prison. On my way home from prison, to probation office, to my apartment, an online complaint - the barrage was incessant. The police took no action; they felt these people were again; frustrated.

I HAD BEEN TO PRISON FOR 10 MONTHS. I HAD PAID MY PROCEEDS OF CRIME. I had lost my liberty, my marriage, my job, my income, my future.

What more did they want from me?

The fourth, a year after coming home from prison, message after message, toxic, hurtful, wishing me dead, reminding me why I wasn't fit to be a mother, hounding me for money.

Re-issuing a county court judgement from 2018 so that my now 2022 salary was deducted with an attachment of earnings order for £350 per month. My first full time job post-prison, having had the conversation with my employer about my conviction, done the DBS check and chat, worked hard to show I'm more than my conviction and got back into education only for the HR department to receive a notification that my salary was to be deducted every month until the debt was paid - it would have taken nearly a decade.

I contested it, wrote to the court, I had been paying the CCJ pre-prison, been sent to prison, instead paid of proceeds of crime order for my fraud, and been released.

The county court said it was a civil debt, it had to be paid, if I wanted to appeal it would cost 10% of the debt to intiate. As if I had that kind of money or strength to fight something that had taken everything from me.

For the people in my case, I know, it was never just money. Yes, a financial loss. But a betrayal.

That's hard to overcome.

But never a slight enough to condone this life sentence.

It's 2024. 

I've just won an award for highly commended inspirational woman for my work with Coming Home. A moment of glory and pride. And redemption for me if I"m honest. Setting right some wrongs and rewriting a history that should never have come to pass.

So to have it thrown in my face with yet another anonymous text, another torpedo to my life, my work, my ability to cope and overcome. It makes me sick.

I'm branded, for life, but I unpick that publicly and privately with positive changes to myself, my life, my relationships and my work. It's a lifetime in the making and it will be forever. It's an exhausting task to self-check, self-monitor, overcome the fear, the judgement, the imposter syndrome. It's a wonder I get out of bed on some days, let alone give enough of shit to do what I do, which is go back into the fire and pull other women out. Because if I don't who will?

The system won't. The press won't. The victims won't.

They let us burn.

So who's the victim and who's the perpetrator anymore?

I'm a free woman, I have been since the end of 2021. I've done nothing but claw my way back to stability and hope since then. Overcoming the trauma of prison.

Is it right that I sit in an empty classroom wasting my time and the opportunity for women who need this course, who need this time, who need this hope too?

For what? Some sad little man's games so many years after the fact.

I don't believe in women being sent to prison, but I do believe in justice.

And it's coming for you. As it did for me.

Fairs fair and I'm done being the bad guy.

3 years home on 13/09/24, then why did I go back to prison today?

Presenting my passport at reception to verify who I was, the lady on the desk waxed lyrical about her holiday plans - she's off on her jollies next month.

She tells me as she holds my passport up and looks at me, looks at the passport, looks at her screen that she had her blue post-brexit passport out last night whilst booking flights. She's giddy. Excited.

As we all are when we book a little holiday, to break the dreary rat race of work, sleep, eat, repeat. I imagine her job can be a thankless one at times, manning the gate, the entry, the exit, of this prison. The comings and goings of staff, prisoners, outsiders, couriers, deliveries and the never ending verification of who's who and why.

She doesn't show a glimmer of recognition, why would she? I was here in 2021, for 6 months at best in the second part of my prison journey and we rarely crossed paths unless she tannoyed my name through the prison compound - "Barker-Mills to centre," "Barker-Mills to employment hub,"

Still... Barker-Mills, a bougie double-barrel name is not as forgetful as some, a Smith? A Jones? Perhaps.

And so, I meander through the prison hallways once again, lead by the lady I'm meeting, who leads the way as if I've never been here before, it's an assumption many make when I set foot inside the prison walls now free, that I'm "one of them," and not "one of the other," 

Even whilst incarcerated I was mistaken for a member of staff in a meeting, whereby someone addressed me as a regular human being and asked when I might be available for a meeting; I laughed and looked perplexed at the question and responded "always? I live here?"

Cue red faces all round and an air of horror at the mistaken identity of prisoner, masquerading as professional.

I suppose you could say the same now as I walk side by side with those who have keys, and those who do not.

As I sat waiting in reception for this meeting to take place, I could hear the keys jangle down the corridor and whilst it tingled the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck, it less so instilled fear. Time and distance from this place and who I was here has quieted that trauma response. And a lot of work.

Up to the governors corridor, into the meeting. Familiar faces. All familiar as figures of authority, now peers; although I'm not sure if they see it that way, but treat me as such whilst we converse.

We talk of Coming Home, its work in the community, data, impact, outcomes, women, names, places, faces, some who walked these halls, some who left as I did. A shadow, but stepping into the sunlight at their own pace - no thanks to the scarring the prisons left upon them.

I'm pleased to hear of changes taking place here, it already had a solid model for redemption and transparency, as best any HMP establishment could, failings of course, prisons are never without failings, but where there are failings; there are learnings and unlike other womens estates, the learnings have been put into place here but I'm always aware that the free woman walk around, is very different to the prisoner experience and I never let that stray from my mind when in meetings like this.

It smells the same.

The cleaning products that douse the floors, the polish that waxes the wooden staircase of grandeur, the air freshener that covers the chaos of 100 women sharing living spaces and bathrooms. However, less like cattle here, there's dignity in that.

And so plans are made, discussions had.

The beauty of the day is in meeting an officer who was in situ whilst I was incarcerated, most animals would not want to see their zookeeper or fraternise with the enemy, it's almost a betrayal amongst prisoners to do so - sit on the other side of the fence, now with the people who caged you. But this woman was different then, and remains different now.

I have written about her before "I come to work and hope I can make a difference, and I like to think that I do,"

I quoted it back to her today. Told her of the impact those words had on me. Sat on a picnic bench debating my mortality and decision to live until the following day.

If ever there was a ledge, she helped pull me back from it.

Sincerity can be found in the power dynamics which exist behind prison walls. Empathy. Understanding. Always treading the boards of professional privacy in a volatile and unknown environment. It was always fascinating to me, as an educator, understanding the need to engage and share tit bits of real life and lived experience, but know the limitations. In prison, that's amplified.

And I wonder, as we bring the program into the prison setting, how I will tighten that narrative and teaching style, to share, but not share in a way that allows for vulnerability and exploitation.

I'm an open book, I was before prison, even more so after. I share because I care. This blog is testament and reflection of that, but it's not something that can exist in a prison setting, which makes me wonder, if Coming Home can have the same level of authenticity and care behind bars as it does in the community - the answer is yes.

Anyone who knows me, has met me, read my work, attended my sessions, seen my public speaking, listened to my podcasts, knows. There's a way in the criminal justice arena to share in a way that inspires, without the occupational hazard of that being used against you.

And yet, the lady I set the meeting with, greeted me with a hug, a warm hello, asked about my wife by name, work, how the new house is, I don't doubt she cares, because I'm very much a product of this place (although that takes away from the work I put in to become this person, this version 2.0)

The next lady I meet, she too "remembers me," - for my writing. A sly smile. I wrote a piece you are now all accustomed to - "Fuck The Patriarchy" 

It won a competition, it was created for stage through Clean Break Theatre. A true piece of art. Still, the greatest piece I've ever written or will write.

Alas, there were those amongst the professional education team at this prison who happily shared "we googled every line, and we can't find it anywhere, where did you copy it from?"

They couldn't believe "a prisoner could write like that,"

That doubt continued as I wrote articles for the prison newsletter, on topics like LGBT pride and use of language, on neurodiversity, on equality. 

One claimed my piece of work on LGBT equality was originally written by Tony Blairs daughter in Grazia magazine.....

What a joy, to be tarred with the same brush in prison as I was in the press.

The baker who put bread on the radiator was also the writer who plagiarised politicians children's prose.

Alas, for anyone who has read this blog or my articles in publications, and equally, anyone who has eaten my bread; will know, neither are true. And both, to my credit, are my true joy and success in life.

My art.

So as I type and wonder - can I work with women and institutions that have the prepencity to cast such doubt over a woman's abilities and ambitions in such a way as they did me, the answer is yes. Because for every doubter, there's a Miss Jones, or there's a Fran.

This prison will be the better and the richer for my balls to the wall approach at education, employability, empowerment and ownership of who you are, what you did and what you can and will become if you work to overcome the trauma of prison and the trauma of who you were once upon a time.

I will be the one who reminds these women, these allies behind bars, we all succeed together. We are the change.

We are the girls who go back to prison in nice suits, with big smiles and say "I'm here,"

I type, sat in a first class carriage on my way home. To my wife. To my life.

It's not an ostentatious over-reaching of luxury, it's a pragmatic planned purchase that says "I can, so I will,"

For those who have travelled in the prison van to and from York or Cheshire or elsewhere, to travel HOME, like this. You should.

I'm the furthest away from the Fran of 2021 who came home from prison in the front seat of my wife's car, wanting to be anything else, anywhere else, not that person, not there.

3 years on.

I go home to our little house in the suburbs, where the rent is paid on time, but it's paid because we work our socks off to make it happen.

Where the fridge is full because prison starved me and I wasted away in body and mind and now we feed ourselves our of self care and self love and worth.

Where the bills are paid because I don't lead debt collectors to our door anymore or peep around curtains to see who's knocking and why.

It took forever to get here.

But if I can, anyone can.

I like to think I can play a part in that.

I can be that moment of inspiration or hope.

To know, life gets better.

It's not prison bags, prison pals, prisoner numbers for life.

And just when I think I'm adjusting to my place within the prison walls, I'm chatting, walking towards to exit, take my laptop and things from security, a hug farewell from the lady I've spent time with and she says to Mrs-going-on-holiday

"Do you remember Fran? She's one of ours, an Askham girl,"

My heart sinks a little - I'm not one of yours. I made me, but she says it with such pride, it's hard to be mad.

The other woman's body language changes instantly. Cold. Closed and horrified.

"Barker-Mills, I thought that name sounded familiar,"

Nobody has called me Barker-Mills in this establishment for some time and I don't like it.

I nod through the gap and give a wave 

She looks like I've hit her with a shovel.

And I'm reminded, just like the officers who tread the boards of professional / privacy - there are those within these walls who will always see a prisoner first and not an equal.

She's shared her holiday plans with an ex-con.

She's shared her excitement and humanity, with a prisoner.

Hunni, you enjoy that all-inclusive - nobody cares.

I'm sure you deserve the break, it must be hard existing in your world of judgement of "us," and "them,"

But I can promise you one thing - you'll be seeing a lot more of me, so practice those pleasantries.

Because I'll be back.

It's more than a cardigan

Sometimes a blog of mine will write itself.

My fingers will hit the keyboard, moments pass, and I've pressed publish.

I'll spend the next few minutes reading back the blur and correcting the typo's and bad grammar for fear of my lovely Erwin rising from his rest to critique my writing.

This one however, has taken some time.

Like a therapy session on paper, it's been ruminating. Being cultivated. So much to say, but how?

It starts with a cardigan.

A cardigan bought in peak pandemic, 2020, online from our little lockdown home. I had swerved the mass redundancies at work and duly been given a promotion, to celebrate this unknowing short lived success, I bought myself something I had been hankering after..... a Taylor Swift Folklore cardigan. And lo' a splurge, which came with all sorts of conflicted emotions. I bought this cardigan whilst facing down a court case that was due to upend my life and the lives of those around me. So many years after the fact, after the crime. No-one could have prepared me for what 2020 would look like. From Covid, to cell block. The cardigan by and large seems rather insignificant in the grand scheme of things and yet, for me. It was an anchor. A focus.

I probably wore that cardigan all of 5 times before I was ripped from life and banged up in HMP Styal. A short lived joy and something I obsessed about whilst incarcerated.

It was my little symbol of hope, of change, of growth, of success over failure, of change. It was my tie to Sarah. Our covid love story, our first wedding anniversary together in lockdown, not what we had imagined for our marriage, but it was a strange and wondrous joy to spend so much time together. Days, weeks, months together. We listened to Folklore together, the beauty of it achieved something wonderful - Sarah became a Swiftie. Her indignant and defiant indie coolness, eroded a little in the love of the co-creation of this incredible album, she justified her new found love in it's links to Frightened Rabbit, to acoustic talent, authenticity of art, of Taylor Swift's vulnerability. It was hard not to love.

And so, the cardigan became so much more to both of us.

So much so, the day Sarah came to pick me up from prison to come home, she brought said cardigan in the car, all the way to York. My best friend in the backseat, clutching my favourite possession and the Fran essentials that marked true freedom : wife, bestie, cardigan, an ice-cold can of Diet Coke and a little box of Tim Hortons Timbits (an ode to my favourite Canadian friend)

By the time I got to the prison gate, holding my black prison holdalls in each hand, my life for 10 months packed into two tiny black bags, I felt pain. Pain at leaving the prison estate and not knowing what I was coming home to. Not knowing who I was anymore.

All the things you think make you who you are, are bit by bit taken from you in prison. Fragments of identity are stripped through the isolation, humiliation and degradation of what prison is. Brutal, futile and without purpose, fuelled by violence, sadness, frustration, bad behaviour and loss.

The gates opened, as they did for my every day coming and going to work from the jail and back. 

They opened for the final time, and I was embraced by the loves of my lives, but I know they felt it just as much as I did.... it wasn't the same. It wasn't the hype. It wasn't the hope. The moment of relief we had all been waiting for.

It was like holding someone who looks and feels familiar but isn't. Like a dream. 

And as they blasted a "Fran playlist," all the way back to Manchester, and I wrapped myself in my Taylor Swift cardigan which smelled like home, drank my Diet Coke, I was still in prison. I didn't come home.

It's taken a long time for that version, that person, to fade away. It came with waves of anger, sadness and loss from all involved. Heartbreak and angst at the loss of life inside to bring it into our home all the same. This echo of the person I was before.

Piece by piece, I came back.

It was like waking up from a pro-longed nightmare, that somehow felt like a dream, there were so many mixed emotions about my time away.

We're a month away from my 3 years being home.

Only 3 years.

It's been the longest and shortest period of time in my life all at once.

At face value, it's nothing short of miraculous, the recovery, the return, the reset and reunification of past and present.

I sometimes look at our life now and have to hold back a cry, a burst of emotion at the gratitude of how far we've come, together.

From wearing a cardigan in an apartment building in lockdown, prancing around to Taylor Swift, to wearing it in the car coming home from prison.... to....

Sarah wearing it in London as we went to see Taylor Swift.

To see the actual bloody cardigan and the V & A museum.

Now; seeing Taylor Swift in concert is an impressive feat in 2024 regardless of our whirlwind lived experience - the most sought after tickets ever (until tomorrow when Oasis go on sale obviously!!!!)

It's the context that gives it power.

My little Canadian bestie (Timbits) after many many many attempts at getting tickets, achieved the impossible and got us some epic tickets for Wembley, we booked our accommodation, travel and off we toddled to London Town.

Now, two things here - I met Timbits in 2019 when I had gone through a huge period of recovery, to become the person I am now. So she had the joy of meeting Fran 2.0, and we became fast friends. It turns out if you're a good person, you attract good people, and she's the best of the best.

Just one year into our friendship, I disappeared off to prison and the press had a field day at my expense plastering my so-called criminality in every local and national rag even making the New York Post, who knew people were so interested in a failed fraudster baker from Manchester?

I digress. My lovely, normal, functional friend, had to read these things without any real context from me. I had shared with my friends the ins and outs of the court case and what I was looking at - not the sentence I got that's for sure, but off to jail I went.

That could have been the end of this new found friendship. I asked Sarah to check in on her and if she still wanted to know me after my very public downfall. Naive, childish and the mind of a lonely woman on 24 hour bang up.

Fast forward, summer 2024. Singing our hearts out, handmade swiftie bracelets a-plenty, curated era's tour outfits, co-ordinated geekery, and for 3 hours we screamed and sang and danced and loved along with 92,000 people in Wembley stadium.

In my freezing cold jail cell in December 2020 with snow coming through the broken window, wearing every item of clothing I had come in with to keep warm, writing letters home with shaking hands, did I think I could get to a place like that with the people I love and have them still love me?

No.

But we did it.

And we took the damn cardigan with us.

There were hundreds of women and girls in London with the Folklore cardigan and it made me wonder what the stories behind their cardigans were? Or were they just nice knitted items bought online to celebrate a songstress that's taken over the world?

Sarah and I got Taylor Swift tattoos on New Years Eve 2023.

Mine says "This Is Me Trying,"

Someone asked me recently, what did that mean to me?

I said it reminds me that trying is enough, that I try to be good, kind, honest, healthy and happy.

It's quite the Wishlist, but I'm living up to my own expectations in achieving those ideals.

I've joke a few times with Sarah now that when I make the documentary of my crazy life, I want this to be the soundtrack song, because if you start life and love with Taylor Swift, you end it the same way.