Nobody puts baby in the corner - they put her on the stage

"I'm a criminal and I'm not,"

"I'm good and I'm bad,"

"I'm the bad thing I've done,"

Sweet jesus Gurpreet, let me take a breath whilst I regain my composure.

The script writing is so viseral, every she, he and they in Brixton House today felt like they were living Baby's life in one way or another.

I think I felt it in my soul.

At one point I locked eyes with Pearl - lucky me, what a stunner, but synergy and girl crushes aside, it was power.

"They don't care you know - public services. People. They don't,"

Forgive me if the line is not accurate, my little Fran brain is processing the feeling and the hearing and the learning simultaneously and the neurodivergent brain is locked in.

When I saw Lost Mothers from Clean Break, Birth Companions and my confidante and indeed companion in compassion - Laura, still saved in my phone as "Professor Abbott," - girl earned the title, I daren't change it to "Laura," but she is, to me.

The writing of Gurpreet and the acting of the 3 girls, forged a place in my heart, words burned and echoing in eardrums and feelings scorched.

The same happened tonight. Transformative. And for many, perhaps just a profound insight into the life of a complex woman of trauma, generational trauma, systemic failure and invisible to most, until seen for the worst. It's funny how we do that as a society - the ghosts that walk among us, with our convictions like nooses, skulking in the shadows, the cleaning jobs, the baristas, the hiding behind proper jobs because the walls to equality and equity are too high and the barriers to dignity too harsh and too relenteless to smash and bash your head against.

I am baby.

I'm the daughter of a woman who sold herself for addictions, abuses, controls, money, perceived safety. A roof and a bottle, a man about the house. Good enough. I was the profit, and the commodity, to yield worth when she had none. I was baby. Somebodys baby. For however long was necessary. And I was, a baby.

"I'm 12," baby says. "Double figures," her mother replies - mine was single digits. Early years. Double digits for as many men. Call me daddy.

"Bend your body into shapes, you're extrodinary, be extrodinary,"

I did, then, and many years later. Courtesan.

I once had a parents evening at school with my adoptive parents, where my French teacher said "Francesca is eternally on the cusp of turning over a new leaf, and yet, the leaf never materialises, but imagine if it did, such wasted potential,"

Wasted potential. That was once something the headmaster wrote on a school report. 

Don't I know it.

I'm wasted potential and wasted time, wasted opportunity. I just wasn't ready. And I didn't recognise it as choice. Because it never was. When I was plucked by social services from mothers brothel living and bad dads pimping, and thrust into white priveldge Cheshire living, I didn't know how to be anything other than - a baby.

I think often, if I had had the sense of self I possess now, grown, to realise, my fast track out of misery was in my own hands, to learn, absorb and make a life for myself, dependent on no man, no dad, no mum, no failed friendship, relationship, promise of love and security, perhaps life would have been different.

Judges don't like girls like me, the ones who squander opportunity. Waste their potential. It irks them and rustles their Russell Group feathers. To know, girls like me piss it all away and for what?

For what baby?

Misery. 

I was misery. I was darkness, I couldn't find myself in the bleak and stark, or wind my way back from all I had come to be. Useful vs useless. At least by biology I had purpose. By adoption, I had none. Not even a good facade of handbag child. The accessory for posh parents, was left wanting.

I can watch stage shows, I can focus on someone elses pain, because writing like that comes straight from the source, the words are so spoken, so unheard, I've said them, the women I work to support say them, every woman I served a sentence with says them, every woman I was in rehab with, felt them.

We are all baby.

And babied.

Like fucking naughty toddlers who should know better, scaleded by a society that says "NO! Don't do that, that's not nice,"

Well then show me how to be. Nice.

Kind. Safe. Loved. Trusted. Exceptional. Magical. Bliss.

Show me.

Don't berate and shame me into nothingness for the things no-one taught me, for the survival options I made, the warped behaviours and morals I learned, the coping.

"I don't have it,"

The breath. "I don't have it," said Baby on stage in Brixton.

I was born on the southside of the river.

Perhaps it was all just a little too close to home.

Front row, allies by my side, and a heart beating so loud in my chest, I'm sure beautiful Pearl could have heard it.

And why? Why now does it strike me so?

Ah, blog.

You know all too well, I only write when I feel. I write on the Avanti train up north.

Tonight, I was booked to stay the night, in central London. I couldn't do it. So from Brixton to Euston in 20 short minutes, I hurried, across the city in the night sky, to catch the last train up north.

Desperate. To be home. With my baby.

My soon to be nearly here baby.

Yesterday, Sarah and I went to an antenatal class that is facinating to me - not your bog standard birthing, babies, bathing, burping. This is emotional and psychological, development of child and parenting.

And it has become somewhat of a therapy session, by its virtue, faciliated to just us, as no other couples have turned up and I can see why if you're not ready. Baby ready. Emotionally ready? Perhaps thats a different thing.

Clinical psychologist led. It should strike the fear of god into me. A trigger. A fear factor. A woman with a pen and paper.

It doesn't. It hasn't.

We were given an example last night about "shark music," - how you react as a parent unconsciously through your own learned behaviour and / or trauma. The example was - your child is screaming in the playground because you've said that its time to go home - how do you respond?

So I looked at Sarah and I asked - how would your mum have responded. She shared. Very Val. To be expected. A human response, but not without an echo in 2026.

And I looked at Sarah again, bemused, and said "how do you think my parents would have dealt with it?"

And she knew, because she knows me. She looked me dead in the eye and she said "they would have smacked you and told you to stop making an embarassment of yourself and causing a scene,"

A smack perhaps. But I know she knows the story of the yellow trousers in Portugal where my father took it a little too far, publically, spanking like the 1950s red raw for all to see. If only it had have stopped there and never became what it did over the years. 

So I watched the stage show, of a woman, torn through to her very soul, at the loss of her child and the maternal obsession to be whole, to be part, to be mummy, to her baby. And every part of me, had to come home tonight. To my baby.

Sarah frets, as we prepare for our child. In an enabling but equally empowering way of allowing me to overcompensat and provide the things I want to - the perfect cot, the perfect crib, the clothes, the safety, the nappies, the creams, the warmth, the blackout curtains in the nursery, the books, my favourites and hers - for Sarah, the tiger who came to tea, for me; the jolly postman, although I am increasingly partial to any of the Mog books.

It's the dream baby, in the dream baby space, that we built. Because everytime I open that nursery door, I flood with pride knowing - I did that. After all thats come to pass, all the hurt, pain, and persons I've been

"I'm good and I'm bad,"

I'm now a mother. I've created space in my heart, head, home, to become this. The want. The hope. The love. So unrelenting. It's all consuming. The inbuilt desire to make a life of safe space, to be loved, seen, heard, empowered, guided, rebuffed and brought back around when things don't go to plan, to accept, to adore, to account for. All of it. What a joy and what a priviledge.

Not everyone gets that. Some don't want it. Some squander it. Some relinquish it. Some have it taken from them. All are victims unto themselves and this god forsaken system. All.

I choose not to be. I sit on the train back to my little terraced house in the north, with a wife asleep in bed, pregnancy pillow, ridiculous cat, a bump bigger than our bed will allow for, and I'll sneak in, quietly, because shes still working like a mad woman, and fall asleep. Safe. With baby.

I am baby. So is our future.

And I'll pave the way in work, life and love to make sure Brixton Baby gets to be extrodinary and if I can't do that, I'll at least make a world where she can be equal.

I re-watched Sweatbox, so I wrote about handcuffs... as you do.

 Don't give me jewellery.

I don't wear bracelets.

I never have.

Don't give me chains,

They don't work well with this smile.

They don't hold me,

They just choke for a little while.

Slow me down,

Not for long, 

Don't give me jewellery

It doesn't look good on me.

Don't steal the crown jewels for me,

Diamonds, sapphires,

It's all just distraction tactics,

Dazzle you like a lie

When it's zirconia

When it's fire.

Liar.

I don't want the tiaras

Femme was never my thing

I don't want the rings,

Keep your heavy bangles,

Keep your trash

Your shiny bling

I shake the shackles loose

Clatter to the ground

Like a robbery in broad daylight

Smashed glass and broken pieces

Hit the floor

Run for the door

Thief

I told you I didn't want any jewels

Dont steal for me

Dont feel for me

The chains that bind

Are only in your mind

Because mine were never tied

Never bound

Just outloud

Words not tapers

Not clasps

Not clicks,

One, two, tight, more.

Sat in the dungeon

The hangman comes to call

He jingles, jangles,

Keys down the hall.

Hand, fair maiden

Hand.

Both

Clasp

Together

Like a prayer

On your knees

Please

Pray

Say

You are sorry.

No bracelets for me

Just the jingle jangle of the lock

The key

Not for me

Not today

I must have a sweet face

As I'm the only one not bound

In my little rat warren

My little box of charm

There's blood on the ceiling

There's piss on the floor

From the princess who was bound here before.

I wonder why I dazzle

Like a magpie in the light

Looking at shiny things

So clear, so bright

I wonder why they didn't chain me

Why I got to go jewelerry free

Maybe they were invisible

A new kind of bling

Like a chain that binds me

In the dark

It glows a little more

A brand perhaps

A souveinier of sorts

A reminder

That we're never far from thoughts

Of solace

Of silence

Of systems 

Of silos

New ring now

Time for something different

Put down the shackles of the past.

New bracelet?

It looks good though.

Moral Faith? A week on from Vienna, what did it teach me....

 I've travelled solo before, this wasn't so different to that.

When one of my beautiful best friends got married in Canada, my visa was denied and so instead of moping around at home, I decided to fly to the first place I could find on "cheap flights from Manchester," and ended up in Bordeaux. That was a few years ago now, and I've since visited the French city I love, more times than I can count. 1) it is indeed "cheap flights from Manchester," and 2) I now have a die hard French bestie who happens to be 80 years old and my air bnb host from my original trip - now forever friend with whom I speak and share French, food and wine with.

She's gently named herself Cha-nou-nou pending Baby Barker-Mills arrival, she's far too suave and sophisticated in her elder years to be a grandma, and the woman lives for Chanel, and as such, wanted a cute namesake, not an old lady vibe. Valid. She carries it well.

I digress.

Cue me, meandering through Manchester Airport, little backpack on back, filled with workwear, notepads, a selection of pens (for any occasion), and my magical macbook. Passport clutched in one hand, coffee in the other. Its all very Mrs Barker; if my parents taught me one thing in their privilege, it was how to navigate the airport like a boss and I was giving boss.

A glass of prosecco as is now fundamental to all air travel for me; dutch courage, I proceeded to board my flight to Vienna, close my eyes and listen to playlist my wife had made me for take off - airpods in, noise cancellation on, volume as loud as possible, and as the plane lifted from the runway, I had eyes scrunched, knuckles white, with the Beach Boys "Don't Worry Baby," our wedding song - belting out.

Needless to say, I survived the flight and duly found myself meandering the train system of Austria's capital city with delight. A U-bahn akin to Berlin, a REX, a Flughafen triple decker train running with the efficiency one expects in Europe and is thrilled by as a British citizen used to overpriced, underwhelming, more often than not, cancelled archaic monstrosities - particularly in the North (so if our king of the North would care to turn his hand from Bee buses and to Network Rail, that would be most welcome)

And lo' - hotel found, unpacked, debunked, and snacks bought, I battened down the overwhelmed neurodivergent hatches, closed the curtains, and sat upon my double bed with biscuits, and Disney+ - grateful of the space, as my wife and child now take up the abundance of our bed at home. Between pregnant wife, pregnancy pillow, aging cat - there is little room for me. I expect that shan't change going forward! 

My state of emotional overwhelm arriving in Vienna was palpable, still reeling from an identity crisis induced by a less than enjoyable hiring process with an academic institution, my sense of self was somewhat obliterated upon my arrival and still circling my thoughts and feelings, fuelling my imposter syndrome by the second. When I broached the idea of coming to this summit to my wife; she told me immediately "Go! You need a reminder of who you are!" I could feel her frustration at my wallowing in identity questioning and purpose, and yet, she did what she does best - told me to do what I do best. And she won't be surprised to know, but possibly to read - she was right. A wifes perogative I find!

Wednesday came, and I was still discombobulated in my new found country for a few days - lingering at my hotel, unable to gather myself effectively to get out and see the world. But I did. And I found myself wandering the state library, in childlike awe, staring up at wooden bookcases, laden, burdening with literature of time and history, little ladders creeping up their heights like Beauty and the Beast. I found myself in my youth, creeping out of the care system and into white privildge life with new parents identifying abjectly with Belle in beauty and the beast; my parents on paper would often draw disdain at "my head always in a book," escapism even at a young age was welcomed through the pages of imagination and other worlds - it remains so at the age of 39.

So my wonder and joy at this place, this space, was immeasurable and remains so in the abundance of photos, videos and more that I took wandering the halls in Vienna.

I made a friend - this quieted little creature, creeping from hotel, to U-bahn, to tourist incognito, a moment in time with a Mexican beauty - Marianna and what a joy, what a time we had; she too in adolescent wonder at Europes grandeaur and magic, finished off with an Austrian beer or two purveying the gardens adoring the state library in 27c heat. And then to cake - a traditional Viennesse coffee house, strudel for me, of course, and a pink something or other for Marianna, forged friends in moments and life stories, we shared and cared and went our separate ways - she returned to Mexico to the tacos of dreams; and an agreement that Sarah, baby and I will visit and enjoy the best tour of Mexico city one could ask for. The offer for her to come to Manchester perhaps less appealing for all - our tacos are shit.

And so, to Thursday, the big day. Suited and booted in casual attire, suitable for the strange weather of September days in central Europe, circling 22-23c. Unsure as to who, what, where I was about to embark upon. A new part of the city.....

My journey of remembering who I am began.

I approached some ladies, as I had heard their English speaking voices and London aesthetics - "Hi, I'm Fran, I'm here on my own and I don't know anyone, so I thought I would come and introduce yourself and tell you what I do," and I did. And it was met with joyous rapture and an acknowledgement from all in the group that to travel to Austria, to go to a conference, and to introduce myself with such energy and bravery was indeed....brave. The introverted extrovert was living and breathing life.

A kind face I recognise, and a booming slight cockney twang and I turned to see a new found confidant and ally - lovely Caragh. The woman I once referred to as "me living in another timeline," having listened to her "After Prison," podcast and thought "fuck, this is me, this is my life,"

A mirror image, living a few years ahead of me. 

A warm embrace like old friends lost, and we were bound in familiarity and friendship from that moment on. And an introduction to her wing woman and prodigé - the lovely Tassie, who henceforth, will be my unoffical work wife - I have run it by Sarah and have approval. What a thing to travel to another country and fall in love with hearts and souls of familiarity - perhaps it's what happens when lived experience worlds collide, our broken and repaired souls find one another. I've come to see this more and more in my life, love and work - that the energy we emit from our passion for change and endless hope that it will come, attracts those like us. Once upon my time, my energy was a magnet for chaos and calamity, cocaine and catastrophe. Now? Well.... these women. No greater reflection of the life I lead now.

And so, the conference began, prison leaders, probation officers, prison officers - day one began and I wondered what my place in that room was.... I don't believe in the "us and them," diatribe. I never have. Not even whilst serving my prison sentence. It made no sense to me. A respect for hierarchy and the punitivism that comes with place, power and purpose but an understanding that regarding my keepers as my enemy served no purpose - not in emotion, energy or ability to heal or move forward.

That much stands true. But I felt it in that room, that the echo of us and them is something that those of us who work in the justice system, have to dance around one way or another, whether we buy into it or not. That said, the overarching and resounding tenet that came from eclectic, eccentric voices from across Europe - whichever side of the justice system we sit on - behind bars, behind desks, behind policies, procedures, our hope is the same, regardless of the path it takes to get there - less offenders, less harm, less victims, less burden = more community, more cohesion. Lord knows we need more of that right now.

Thursday night, I met with lovely Tassie and perhaps even lovelier Nina - for schnitzel. I dare you to say that out of context. But schniztel we did, the three of us, and talk about life, love, family, opportunity, commanility and it was a reminder, that even in the moments where you feel lost, you're always found, if you're walking the right path and Vienna, and this glorious summit, was my right path. For work of course, but to meet these women, in this moment. I had few out of this world moments I'll admit, teetering on fan girl if I'm honest - and it starts with Nina, whose work I've followed, whos ethics I've embedded; she's one of those women in my sphere of influence, whether by the parameters of LinkedIn or indeed now; real life of whom I've looked at and thought - "if i can forge a career like that, I'll know I've achieved what I set out to do," - be it Caragh, or indeed lovely Nina, I was surrounded by women who I've looked at through the lens of social media, academia, and professional profile and thought in my childlike idealism "when I grow up I want to be," and thats not to purport these ladies of power and purpose are older than me, more that my evolution of self, only began at 30, so I'm still in the early stages of discovery of Fran, life, love, puporse and soul. 

Friday rolls around and I stride into the summit, caffeinated and excited for the day ahead - a foray of speakers, workshops, dialogue islands - what a joyous concept; and it was - to sit in small circles of commonality, difference, politics, policy, academia, research, sociology and philisophical debate on human nature, criminality, deviance, reform, rehabilitaiton, methods in the madness. To hear of the great and profound work taking place across Europe - and I'll admit, my fury at Brexit was at surface level for the duration because to see and hear such good work, vision, and drive from our European friends, and to know that we are so isolated in our ignorance and island, was all the more compounding our idiocy of Farage fuck wittery and rhetoric. Regardless, I was heartened and healed to hear of the real work taking place - the human work. The absolute centering of humanity in justice, something we've lost, quieted or been too shy to champion for fear of push back, policy, punitive media narrative drives, public backlash and more, and quite literally hidden the good and the light of the criminal justice under our bushel.

Friday became a shining beacon of hope for those front line facing, across prisons, probations and for those of us with our badges of honour - ex prisoners, hope.

Compounded and summarised beautifully by none other - cue fan girling - Professor Alison Liebling, not just a LinkedIn gaze for me here, but a citation, a motivation, a reason to invest my time and passion into a degree in Criminology. When returning home from prison, I wanted to continue the work of understanding criminal deviance - my own, and others. Where does it come from? How is it quieted, ended, and moved on from, built good upon? Is it nature or nurture? And here, the woman who wrote the book on it, literally - one of my core textbooks for my degree talking on a panel about something of paramount and fundemental importance for all of us, not just those of us involved in criminal justice...... moral faith. Not a concept for venturing into theology or Kant-esque wonderings, but one that suggests we live and die by our ability to have just that - moral. Faith.

Professor Liebling went further to summise that we are all in the justice system because it's profoundly human. An openess of statement, that didn't attach any judgement, assumption or other. Just a fact. Either side of the bars. Its human. And if that is not the resounding message I take from the European Justice and Education Leadership Summit; I don't know what is.

My fan girling alas, was not restricted to the summit, it was allowed to roam free at a dinner, where we all relaxed into that humainty and sense of self, with a beautiful meal, shared with what felt like friends, and I do take that sense and feeling home, as I sit and write just one week on. Absolutely, friendships were forged. Is Professor Liebling my new BFF and will I ever call her Alison? Absolutely not, but we shared honesty, and compassion and you guessed it - humanity. And for a woman who has worked with many incarcerated, I imagine the feeling our exchange left me with, is one that stays with many like me. Feeling seen. Feeling heard. Equally. And of value.

And let me tell you. That is what I needed. For a child lost in a system, to become an adult so failed by it, abused and furious at it, to become all that I did, the good, bad and ugly; always seeking external validation, so unable and incapable of sourcing it from within - perhaps Austria went a long way in teaching me that. I have it within. I recognise it more so now than I ever have. My happiness. My purpose. My sense of self. My desire for external validation doesn't exist like it used to, because in fact, what might seem like reassurance and validation from others, is in fact just a reflection of ones own self - a mirror. I started this piece of writing saying that the energy I put out, brings those with similar energy to me. If thats not a huge reassurance my life, hope and heart are in tune and filled with hope and humanity - I don't know what more I could ask for.

5 years free.... but the shackles of prison still bind.

 Let me set the scene, as those of you who read along, and so many of you do (this blog recently tipped into over 125,000 views!)

I'm sat, at my vintage g-plan dining table, circular, with the drop leaf sides - precarious in 2026, that sometimes, it makes for great entertainment if our now ageing cat Gordon Ramsay sits upon one of the sides - his weight is no match for a 1970's classic and he disappears out of view rather swiftly.....

I'm sat upon a cleaned up upholstered Remploy dining chair, a set of 4 I bought on Ebay as an upcycling project when we moved into this little house of ours 3 years ago.

Gordon is watching me typing, wondering why I'm sat at my laptop at 9:10pm on a Sunday night, and more so, where is Sarah?

Dimly lit, by a lone lamp, the ebb of yellow orange light reaches me just enough to be acceptable writing light. I look around, as I type to you know, content, in a way I'm not sure many could or would ever understand.

5 years ago, I came home from prison. To a different home. One that was a home once, but lost its dazzle the moment I disappeared into a December night to not be seen again for 10 months or so. It was a strange return, the home, the hope, the thing I'd dreamt of, night after night in prison cells, bunk beds, pad mates, solo, and anything and everything in between. Good mattresses, bad. Green sheets, pink in summer, a luxury of open prison.

The home I came back to in mid September 2021, was not the one I left behind. And to a degree, the person who lived there, the Fran who came before, she never returned either. So it was a ghost town. A ghost ship. Sat in the Manchester sky line. Tall in the darkness of the city lights, but a reminder, that no good could come from that place now. And a realisation, perhaps too many months later, that home, real, true, north.... is this life. This wife. This silly cat. This Fran.

In 2021, I came home, a literal shadow of myself. My identity had upended, my friends jest now, kindly but still with a sadness of remembering - "prison Fran,", iconic and ironic in 2026 as we all cast our minds back to whoever that person was. I don't know her, neither do they, but they held her all the same, in the hope of the real one finding the way home.

Shaved head on one side, not unusual for me, depending on the delicate presentation of my sexuality and what job I hold at the time, with my mothers voice in my head "no-one will hire you if you look like a bloody dyke,"

Turns out its not the shaved head thats the problem; its the criminal record. But we will return to that later.

Shaved head, with "go-faster," stripes. A fellow prisoner had given me the buzzcut ahead of release day, we'd gathered on picnic benches with our canteen haul, a farewell, but not forever. It was a promise made in time, that was held to be true, but died and washed away all the same.

No sadness tied now, memories that fade and a person who lived in that moment, but doesn't exist anymore. It's like remembered a dream. An echo.

Prison binds us so tightly to those around us, we trauma-bond something fierece, especially those of us who are headed in their still broken and lost, but with the veneer of being OK. Everyone in prison is OK, until they're not. And for me, it was the not, where those women found me. Note written, razor ready, and a despair I've felt before, amplified by the severance of it all. The isolation. The guilt. The shame. Crushing and cold that you don't see a way from under it.

It's strange, I feel that feeling still, not the abject ending, of course not, but the crucifying familiarity of the guilt, shame and hate I can't shake for the things I've done, who I've been, was, can be. The fear, that the worst parts of me are buried in a box within, so well managed, but dangerous, like a beast.

What a way to live ones life, knowing you have such capacity to hurt. But loving yourself enough now to know that you won't. Or you'll die trying to make sure you don't. If there was ever to be a victim of mine henceforth, I'd only allow to be me. Morbid in it's truth, but a safeguard of sorts. 

That shame shakes loose sometimes, never more so than of late. Those of you who read my monologues here and watch my videos of haste and emotion, will know, the paste few weeks have hit hard. What to some is just a job lost, an opportunity wasted, was so much more stark than that for me. I don't suppose it helps, when those of us who have been to prison and more, and worse, have dates etched in our hearts and minds, and this job saga was just a little too close to today to feel comftable or safe. Safe enough to deal with anyway.

And I'll share why, in brief, because this musing is a celebration I promise.

The risk assessment that came with the job rejection of late (after the job recinding) is as burnt into my retinas, as my court case documents, my sentencing report, and even that damned DBS.

You'll be forgiven for thinking the statements made here are from a pre-sentence report, it is indeed the kind of language I'd expect to see in such a report - not a risk assessment for a job. Alas, the words have haunted me, perhaps because they prick my greatest fear - that because life moves on, and I move forward, it's somehow seen as something I don't care about anymore? Or ever did?

"the candidate did not any any point during the discussion demonstrate any remosrse and / or accountability for the significatnt impact her actions had on the victims of her offences,"

Let that sink in, as I have had to do.

A risk assessment for a job, specific to lived experience. And consider how well you know me. Perhaps I should have sent them this blog; although it's very existence seems to give them pause, so perhaps that is enough.

It's sat horribly with me for the past two weeks whilst I've let it settle in my mind. That two abject strangers in a professional setting could take from a risk assessment meeting about my DBS such gross, personal, presumtive and defining thoughts. (Even more so when you consider there's a robust transcript of the conversation I hold that undermines it at every juncture - knowing well enough to record the conversation and protect myself having had my request for a supportive person denied!)

Alas, we are venturing into dangerous territory where I will be told to quiet down - as I have already, so I leave this here only to hammer home - I am 5 years home today. From the prison sentence that upended and nearly ended my life. It was never about me. It was always about what I had done, and it always will be. But perhaps, to know that, you have to know me, or someone who has indeed commited a crime, or two, or ten.

The shackles that bind, I wrote previously, they exist like Jacob Marley, longer or shorter by virtues on earth, mine, I hope, are shorter and lighter than they have been in my 39 years, weights lifted, sins and errors, improved upon. But if we live in a world where summarising ones life, light and heart, can be so easily done to such detriment. I don't know how we move forward. Or at lease, how I do.

I yo-yo, between abject despair, that the weight of this is what will crush me in the end. It's not the burnout, it's not the endless idealism and work, and hope and dreams of change. It's the past that I can't let go and won't let go of me.

And the beacons in the darkness, come. As they tend to. In hours of need.

I need not name, there are perhaps to many to do so. But the light that fought off the dark these past few weeks has been abundant, in love, solidarity, care, compassion and truth. And if I'm honest, the rally cries of "fuck them," and "we love you," have been roaring in my ears and my heart more than I ever thought possible.

Is it therefore possible that this reprobate and defiller has built a life of love, compassion and integrity after all?

It's not even the words, it's the hand holds, the hugs, the shoulder thumps for those as neurodivergent as me, that say "we're here, we've got you,"

Is it, truly, the life I've built I'm scared of?

For someone who feels the shame and shadow, it feels uneasy to lean into the pride and the passion.

I have it in my work, in buckets. In me? In this life I built? It would mean acknowledging the one thing I may be criticsed for.

It's OK to put it down now. It's OK to let it go. It doesn't have to define or consume you anymore. Just be.

Perhaps this is the beginning of that, and I let the toxicity ebb away.

9:35pm, still typing.

Sarah is currently at a gig in the city with one of our dearest friends, bopping along like a cool indie kid, with a giant pregnancy bump under her cool aesthetic, still madly beautiful in all her larger than life aura. She would disagree but I can tell you, she's never been more magical.

I have classical playing, candles lit on the side, that Sarah lit before leaving, demanding I "get cosy and chill," after a day sorting out the nursery upstiars.

The nursery.

My god. 

I type on the vintage dining table, because my home-office is no more, and I'm thrilled. I bid farewell to my glorious desk, a facebook marketplace lady appeared and promised to love it as much as I did. And lord, it's brought magic into this life. A business, a hope, a dream, realised. A degree, empowered. Articles, essays, journals, blogs, all of it. Created on that giant Victorian-esque dream. 

In it's place sits a cot, a beautiful white, bright, light cot.

Something I never had. Sarah said to me yesterday as we put it together with instructions and screws all over the floor, huffing and puffing as she directed from her "pregnant lady," chair.....

"I want this to be just as you dreamt it, because I know how important it is for you to make baby feel safe,"

She says these things with a look in her eye that borders on love like you've never seen, with a twinge of sadness and protective pity that says "I'll protect you too,"

And so, we put it together, slid it into it's new spot in the newly painted nursery, amongst furniture filled with tiny people clothes, neurodivergently allocated and folded intrinsically in their specific places. Newborn, 0-3, 3-6, 6-9 and so forth. More nappies than you can shake a stick at. They're everywhere. We are poonami ready in any room in this house.

And then tonight, as I went upstairs to look at it in the night light, the first thing I saw was this 

In our childs room sits my childhood toys. Those who know me, who know this blog, will know, my childhood was complex. Miserable by and large for various reasons.

Beginning in a way no child should, created for a profitable purpose, and not for love or adoration, well, I suppose that's not necessarily true; for the love and adoration of other people, but not for parents.

A strange way to wander the world, knowing you were a commodity; and so, the joys of cots, small person clothes, cuddly toys, lampshades, freshly painted walls - they're a luxury. I know that. I feel that, in every change I make in that tiny little room, I feel it. 

Daisy duck sits besides Daisy cow. Sarah bathed them the other day, and they had 30 years of life on them; now they sit pretty and pampered in our childs room; next to Fran Bear. The bear that Sarah had made when I went to prison. Our friends dragged her to Build A Bear in Manchester Arndale and created a mini-Fran - tartan PJ's and a starbucks... close enough. Sarah pinned one of my wedding earrings to it, so not only is Fran Bear, Fran like, shes also got some serious bling.

What a hodge podge of life sitting upon that shelf.

With books, the room is full of books, our shared favourites, some I've already ready to the bump.

5 years home from prison, and I can moan and feel pain, it's all valid and human, but the joy?

It's unrivalled.

In this house, this home we built, Baby Barker-Mills will arrive in just a few short months, ahead of Christmas 2026, and entirely likely, around the time I was sent to prison.

Sarah and I were musing over the irony of time and the dates we hold in our hearts and why.

Let December be the month our child is born, and nothing more. No more dark marks, dark hearts.

Just joy.

So whilst my wife parties (sat down) at a gig watching one of her cool bands, with our cool Canadian friend, I'll be the 39 year old wife at home, who is folding baby clothes, fussing a geriatric cat, writing about life, love, loss and wonder simulaneously.

I was tagged in a photo of jam today, and it made me smile, because if a time of identity crisis of late, it reminded me of exactly who I am.

I'm the person who picks blackberries on my daily walk with Sarah, makes jam and sends it up and down the country to people I've met and forged fire with because I know it'll bring them as much joy to know I was thinking of them when I made it in my kitchen, with love and hope in my heart.

That is who I am. 

A jam making fucking wonder woman.

I want to tell my mum

 When one hits a life milestone, celebrates a birthday, a success, has a moment of sadness, grief - it's human, to pine, for your mother.

I don't pine particuarly, because that would denote I have a mother, I don't. I have two, on paper, in past lives, in photographs, through biology and through legal contact. Neither matter much anymore.

And yet, here I write on a Monday evening because there is a childish feeling I just can't shake these past few weeks; for good reason.

2026 did not begin in the way my New Years Resolutions had laid out, not cliche ideals of weight loss and gym bunny behaviour, hiking bigger hills and mountains than the year before, promising to be more dutiful in my ice bath and sauna self care routines - yes, but all quieted in the sad news just a week or two into January; a pregnancy loss. A Christmas miracle by and large, my greatest success, in this long drawn out fertility journey of highs and lows, and lets be honest, brutal woes more often than not. It was a promising start to a new year, that broke our hearts before we'd even drawn breath.

That was the first pang I felt "I want my mum,"

But I don't. Not mine. What good would that do 30 years down the line for an emotionally stunted woman who has the empathy and depth of a wet puddle on a rainy Manchester day and as cold a heart?

I want the fantasy I've held since I was a little girl, where you pick up the phone, still, in your 30's and you ask about her day, and she asks about yours, you share moments of joy, but when the chips are down, and you need a cry and to let it all out - its your mum that you call; and shes in the car on the M6, hurtling to your little terraced house to just sit, give you a hug, and tell you everything going to be ok.

I turned 39 two weeks ago and it occured to me, in my 39 years on earth, I have never; NEVER had a hug from my mother (and i'm being generous in the linguistic label for ease of reading along and understanding the narrative and positioning!)

So this childish fantasy I have held in my heart, comes from a place of unrequited love, Shakespearean in its existence and essence - a love never held, received, or felt.

The loss we felt at the beginning of the year, was brutal. But we moved on, as we do, in our resilience and power as a coupe of formidable solidarity and love. We grimaced, we smiled, we carried on and tried again. Sarah. Not me. I needed a recovery period to settle into the feeling.

And lo' Baby Barker-Mills is now in a safer 14 week utero and living, breathing and growing happily at pace within my beautiful wife's body as I write. A glorious joy. One I don't even have words for. Unexpected in our bliss, that after all this time, a baby, an actual baby, so wanted and yearned for, is now within our reach.

I want to tell my mum.

I don't.

I want to tell the fantasy mum, who will cry with joy at the news of a grandchild, of a child that will enter the world so loved, it will never know anything other than that. I will be that mother, that takes calls in their 30's and drives down the M6 (if I overcome my fear of lorries!) and hold them until the end of time if they ask me to.

But my heart is delicate, and pained.

My brother has a small child, they're grandparents of the year, doting and dallying around South Manchester, the fantasy is real, for him. Not me.

I remain the pariah. The outcast. And so, the news of a child of mine, of ours, would merely be met with horror, disdain, and an abject want to call social services and tell the world I'm an unfit daughter, ergo, unfit mother, person, etc. My mother has never been shy of words to describe me - street rat, sloven, slut, bitch, buy one get one free of the care system, the gutter rat, the apple that didn't fall far from the tree, the disappointment, but most of all - not hers.

She was interviewed for a magazine in the late 2010's, she made reference to having two children - Francesca and James. She was interviewed in more recent years, she waxed lyrically about the joy of having a family - being a ground breaking woman in law, 50 years in the industry, a titan and a woman who had it all - the job, the marriage and the kids. Her true success? She shares - family life. Her pride as a grandmother and a mother to a glorious son and his beautiful wife. No more footnotes of Fran. I have quite literally been written out of history.

As has she.

When our child is born, there will be no stories of Fran's mothers of Christmas past, there will be no nostalgia or rose tinted glasses of a grandma and grandma that live in a 10 mile radius of where we are now. No Uncle. No cousin. 

There will be a void. The void I feel.

And whilst in prison, I wondered, would i feel any different if it were ever anything other than this? If the door was open, to go back? To rebuild?

No. Never.

For all the yearning. There has been more learning. The toxicity that grew within those walls, within my heart, body and mind, for two and half decades, the erasure of who I was, who I could be, morphed and moulded into a split personality dual life pantomime of perfection with chaos unfurling.

The gay. The dyke. The liar. The addict. The con. The bitch. The hooker. The street rat.

My mother has indeed given me the greatest gift - what not to do, what not to say, how not to behave, how not to yield and wield trauma, and words as weapons. She has taught me a greater lesson - that to be a mother, is to love, is to hope, is to shape, is to grow, and is to the safe space.

I was never safe. I lived in perpetual anxiety. I lived in fear. They'd abandon me. That I wasn't good enough, clever enough, thin enough, pretty enough, successful enough, fierce enough, popular enough, straight enough.

I wasn't. 

Still, it's Monday night, I'm burning with pride after another day in the life of Fran that continues to surpirse and soothe my imposter syndrome as the years of hard work build and unfold like a flower in bloom - the time is now, the life is good, the heart is strong, the hope is endless.

I didn't think I would like to see 39. It would have been overdose, suicide, or murder. It would.

I shouldn't have lived to see 39. I don't know how I have sometimes.

But that god I live and breathe and type, and my greatest weakness is the fragility of a childlike mind that still seeks love, approval and warmth from a woman who had no capacity for any of those things.

I seek it elsewhere, and joyously - I find it. In friendships, in love, in places so unexpected, that bit by bit, my heart heals and learns the beauty of found family and it's power.

It doesn't stop me wondering - "Did she see I won an award? I wonder if she feels pride in the dark of night?"

"Does she miss me and regret how it all came to pass?"

"Would she love a grandchild if not me?"

It's sad, and it's silly, and it's fleeting.

But I share it, in my naivety and idealism, that this too shall pass.

And I dare to dream, I'll be the kind of mummy, a child would be lucky to have.

The judge, the ex-con and the academics

I was at a facinating seminar today, for academic and work purposes. As many of you know, I walk the line between and paradigm of professional practice, lived experience and academic undertakings; and today was a fusion of all such aspects.

Looking at "Sentencing and the future of incarcertaion," through the lens and relevance of The Sentencing Act 2026 - and what a lens to view potential changes, upheaveal or indeed; intertia through.

The troubling times of the CJS and the prison system in this country are not new, much like many of our flailing public services, 11 years of Tory government, chronic underinvestment, or more directly, dis-investment, for services, systems and provisions, both custodial and community, combined with the ducking and diving of privatisation and shark like commodotisation of our justice system and indeed the people, perpetrators and victims in all their non-biary forms within it; have left it hobbling into 2026 and a Labour government full of promises / promise.... to bring about a new dawn. Corston calling anyone?

Be that as it may, and punitivie policy, politics and presumption aside, today's seminar was a foray into what can be done, should be done, could be done, but came with the expected caveats of funding, consistency, persistence and people centred approaches - which were not all met with appreciation. A magistrate among us asked in a round about way, if the concept of investing in prisoners, indulging in arts and wellbeing, was a little contrived through the lens of harm and victim impact; asking the panel and indeed the room to consider, how the victims felt about flights of fancy in arts and creativity when these perpetrators of harm should be punished not pampered (I write collequially as always, but the gist is here) There was an air of punitive expectation, a hint of Daily Mail prisons are summer camps for predators, perverts and pretenders and should be a-kin to labour camps and arbitary cages of remorse and repenting. Of which they are. Anyone who has indeed been incarceated in recent years within the UK prison estate will know, the stories of Xbox laden cells, drugs parties and gang bangs with bent prison officers are often media derived delusions designed to inflame an already antaganoised Great British public, whilst we look for the scapegoat to our own miseries in life, be it immigrants in boats or prisoners walking among us, the reality is - we are all just human. And as one delightful man on the panel responded - the question is not necessarily about how the victims feel; its about how we feel, as a society who have failed perpetrators of crime systematically, in social care, education, health, healing and more. Here here to that.

A pragmatic response to a loaded question that could only have been posed by a member of the judiciary, that said, I'm a firm believe that all thoughts, feelings, view points in the CJS are valid and with merit, shared through our own morals, ethics and the work we do, our conscious, unconscious bias, and anything and everything in between, and I have no doubt, as the woman at the end of the gavel, she has seen and heard the worst of the worst in human nature and the hurt we can cause and impose upon one another. It is of course, her job, to protect the public, and by directive, the victims in her care, of whom she is to seek balance, recompense and fairness for. Still, it did not stop my preverbial feathers from being quite ruffled at the thinly veiled assertion that it's inappropriate to spend public money on prisoners who have caused harm. As this neglects the primary point - this failure to invest in people who have caused harm, who have been victims of harm, are all healed in the same way - person centered, intersectional, compassionate, human approaches that seek to rehabilitate, not redeem.

Prison is punishment enough. It really, really is.

Alas, the reason for my writing today, as I sit processing the information, statistics, legislation, thought and purpose of todays seminar and how it relates to my work, heart and more, is in something it shook loose. 

A memory.

We were presented with a beautiful montage and summary of a project called WE ROAR, arts and wellbeing for prisoners, to articulate their feelings, community and heart through art, poetry and more. Exactly the kind of work that opens hearts and minds inside the gates; and out.

And it made me think. Poetry, writing, was my solace, my repreive, my escape. Many of you have read, heard, seen the pieces I wrote whilst incarcerated and it made me think of the way we shape, make or break people with our words, and our pride.

When I won a poetry comeptition in prison, I was tannoyed across the prison estate and called to the education department. There was a gaggle of education practitioners, admin, etc, huddled around a computer in their office. A blonde, stark, arrogant woman, of whom I concequently after this interaction was not fond of, said 

"Where did you get this?" brandishing my hand written work.

"We've googled it line by line but can't find it, did you find it in a book?"

I didn't understand the question - the piece in question was my "All The Kings Horses, - Fuck the Patriarchy) and ode to Sarah Everrard; that gives you context and timeline of my incaceration and perhaps insight into which establishment shared these thoughts with me.

"I wrote it?"

"No,"

"Prisoners can't write like this,"

And there it was. Assumption, presumption and arrogance. From the lady in education.

Prisoners can't write like this.

Says who?

By what measure?

What standard?

The audacity. It was the first time I had felt anger, injustice that flamed inside me with the desire to respond "how fucking dare you?" but decided to swallow the fire for fear of concequences.

And instead repeat - "I wrote it,"

Those of you who know me, know my writing, my work. It's not hard to see that. My voice is fairly recognisiable whether in poetry, academic, or blog. It's very Fran-esque, it's the reason you keep reading this blog.

The same woman, could not fathom my future work.

Equalities rep for the women in the prison, I got to contribute to the prison newsletter, I wrote various articles on various topics - my favourite of which for Pride Month, was "LQBTQIA+ or something like that," and it began as all good Fran works do; referencing my mother-in-law; the essence of the piece was that, if my 70+ year old mother in law can get down with the kids and understand the use of language around equality and trans rights, non-binary and more, and try - not perfectly, to embrace a new world of visibility and equity, then anyone can, and that we are without excuse or cause to neglect our obligation to learn, listen, and understand one another a little better; that said, not always getting it right, but always being willing to try. It was a cathartic piece, of course, deeper meanging extending to my behaviour and growth as the same as the other women around me - that we can only try to do better, to be better, and not always get it right, and thats OK.

This article too was brandished, she couldn't comprehend, that someone like me, could write like that, and reach people the way I do.

This woman was in charge of functional skills..... she had made a judgement that I was a prison cliche and therefore inept, lacking in grace, creativity and skill to be able to write.

If that's how she responded to me, a well educated white privildge woman in prison, how did she respond to my peers who had lower educational outputs or engagements? But who had equal measure of heart, creativity and desire to express themselves in art, poetry, writing, cooking? More.

And it led me to my next memory (all whilst sat in a lecture hall in Manchester today)

"You need to manage your expectations,"

This was the response to a woman in employment who asked me what my salary expectations were based on the kind of jobs I wanted to apply for upon release.

I said what I wanted, she told me to manage my expectations.

"Why? That's what I was on before I came to prison?"

And she laughed.

In retrospect, she wasn't wrong. Just a little cynical and a touch cruel.

It wasn't a reframing of reality, it was a crush.

If she had met my hopeful expectation with "that may be a little harder given your recent custodial sentence, perhaps consider x, y, z," or "have you considered how you might approach disclosure if these are the kind of jobs your considering?"

No. Just a laugh, a smirk, and a comment that lives on 5 years later.

However, those assumptions about me, my future, my past, my ability, fuel this progress.

I spent my life pretending and hoping to be more than I was, to earn love, kindness, friendship, family. It was fragile and it was fake. 

What a liberating experience to have time in prison to reflect, respect and honour the skills, qualities and purpose I do have, within me, on paper - fine, but who I am, what I want, what I can, have and will achieve.

I'm still quite childish in my personality disordered existence - if you tell me I can't, I will. If you tell me I'll fail, I'll work harder to succeed. I have my mothers voice burning in my brain, the prison officer, the education lady, and of course - lets not forget the judge "you are a most dishonest woman,"

I suppose that's why the magistrate lady's words bothered me so; it was a prick to my conscience, my past, my hurt, it felt personal - like all of those who have caused harm should live in our shame forever, and be shackled by it, shirking the good and the care of others, the investment and encouragement. 

I think, committing a crime, committing 10, 11, 12, is a burden you carry to your grave, it's like being Jacob Marley, when you want to be Ebonezer Scrooge.

The hope in days like today, is that, even without 3 ghosts, we can live shackle free happy lives, with grace and kindness. For ourselves, and for others. That's healing. And that's worth investing in.

The white privildge disguise

 I never know if my white priviledge aesthetic is a secret weapon or a barrier; because it jars with the reality  of who I really am - the opposite.

Because at face value, the person who wears the high end black brogues, and the nice casual suit, with the Apple Watch, and the lovely diamond engagement ring slid nicely next to a beautiful wedding ring sends the message - I'm one of you. In places like the Houses of Parliament, where I was today, (again!), I blend, in ways possibly some of my other lived experienced peers don't.

It's the elocution lessons I had to take when I was adopted, that have served me well. It's the etiquette of being a white middle class girl, raised by social climbing adoptive parents, well groomed, privately educated, univeresity graduated, says the right things in the right ways.

But let's face it; I'm Eliza Doolittle and I always have been, and my life is Pygmallion on loop.

I may well have been raised by posho's but I'm now a working class grafter, juggling freelance work, academic undertakings, renting a private house from a private landlady who owns more property than I can ever dream of getting a foot on the ladder, and making it pay cheque to pay cheque with a little leftover to give safety, sanity and space to not trigger my offending behaviours of financial instability panic. Some days it feels like I'm on top of the world and performing my A game, bringing home the future we have been working towards, for people like me, for wives like mine, for lives like ours. And other days, I feel like I'm treading water, weighed down by 3 decades of trauma, chaos and calamity that won't release me from it's chokehold.

Today in Parliament, I was met with the usual emotional conflict - be in the room where the real change happens, fly the flag for the lived experience women, tell the story, share the power, the pain, the purpose, hammer home the reality and the vitality of what it means to include the voices of a failed system - justice, care, education, social. Failed systems.

We are the walking wounded. And we walk into rooms like that all the same and bare our hearts and souls, for the greater good. That the picking of the scab of self sacrifice and retraumatisation is for a reason, it's not thankless, it's not thoughtless, it's not wasted, it's seen, it's heard and without us, the echo chambers persist.

So I shared, that I myself recognise I'm a cliche, that my white priviledge masks my true form - a ward of court, a care system child, a victim of CSE, rampant and organised abuse and exploitation at the hands of man who was himself a serving police officer - my father. Adopted into middle class surbubia as an accessory for ignorant ill-equipped rich people who wanted children and commandered two from the system, an act of charity that proved to cost them dearly.

It cost me more.

Emotional abuse, cold hearted cruelty, an abject disdain for all that I was, had been and became. The street rat my adoptive mother coined me. The slut. The sloven. The mothers daughter (biological), the proverbial apple that did not fall far from the tree.

I endured decades of ridicule at my size, my appearance, my trauma, my baggage, my sexuality and what evolved? My criminality.

Removed and voided from the family tree, and frozen into siberia, alone. The white middle class girl, who was raised to see value in money and not in people, now let loose on a world with no inbuilt guidance system. No morals. No ethics. No direction. No sense of self. An angry broken child, now havoc wreaking 20 something.

Where the allowance in the bank account disappeared overnight, the mobile phone was cut off, the credit cards no more. And this child of fragility and madness, was now an adult with no concept of the cost of anything. No financial. Not people. And so it was no wonder I became the selfish creature who defrauded people without real consideration of the harm - in my childs mind, it was always; self preservation.

Today, there was a barrister who had done alot of work around sexual exploitation and trafficking and how it served in mitigating criminal behaviour - note the word, mitigating, not justifying.

And all I could think was... I told the probation officer who did my pre-sentence report about my experiences in London, I told them of my sex work, of my trauma, of my tale of woe, raped at 19, pregnant as a concequece, distored and disintegrating as time went by.

Mitigation was not taken on by my judge. Not one iota. If anything, she seemed genuinely irritated anything that had come to pass in my life up to the point of commiting crime was not reason enough to explain my actions - I agree, in my madenned haze in 2016, I too could not justify my actions, let alone reason them but whilst in prison, and the years that have followed; I understand, I am a product of all that came before.

It was only during my prison sentence that I was truly seen for being a victim of anything; in the first instance, yes - trafficking

I am your text book female offender. If there was a checklist for knowing who would end up in prison and who would not, I tick all of the boxes. My biological family is rife with criminals, both my mother and my father - he's a bad bad man and pervert and she's an enabler who went on to commit murder. I was not made of good stock. More than that, I am the child of two devious but two broken people, who too, will have missed their stop in getting off the road to ruin. My mother is the product of her childhood as much as I am. Generational trauma, familial incarceation, child in care, abuse, trauma, drugs, prostitution, homelessness, mental health disorders. I am a cliche.

So when I articluated that today, it was with the private school tone of a posh northerner, and as I spoke, I heard how jarring it was, to look and hear me, and hear my words. 

But hear them they did.

And I suppose that is the point of this rapid thought dump on the train home from London - perhaps, my white privilege is a secret weapon, because paired with my true form, it opens doors, ears, hearts and minds, in ways perhaps some may find harder.

I'm aware of that.

I'm also aware that I zoom home to Manchester, to my wife, my life, our little terraced house and ridiculous 14 year old cat, continuing on the fertility treadmill, working our socks off in jobs that are mentally exhausting, surviving, occasionally thriving, but always proud of who we are and how we got here.

I wouldn't trade this version of me, this true Fran, and this life we build, for all the bloody allowances and pretensious nonsense I was raised with. Not one bit.