Coming Home or Going Home? Back behind the prison walls

It's very unusual for me to take a moment, pause and then sit down to write.

It's even more unusual for me to type, write, scribe, scrawl and then hit delete. My writing is always a literary purge of emotion and the unexplainable for my often broken processing machine of a brain, to lay it all out so that once I've written, I read back and somehow, what I feel, what I felt, make sense and it's all there in black and white.

If my emotionally unstable personality disorder has taught me anything; it's that I like a world of black and white, as grey area's are alien, often unstable and unknown to me. 

Many of you won't know this, when you read my work, but whatever words fall upon these pages, these screens, gleaned, are always scattered and thrown out in minutes, I sit, I write, and I don't stop for breath until the final drop of what I feel in that moment has ebbed like ink from a pen, in this now digital format.

It's only ever once I hit "publish" on this blog, that I go back and read what it is I churned, purged, and posted out, to you, dear readers.

After nearly a decade of Fran ramblings, here we are together on a cold December afternoon.

This is not just any cold December afternoon. It's the 10th of December.

I got off the reliably grotesque and dreary 192 bus, where the game of "what's that smell?" can lead you back into Manchester City centre and by the time you depart, and evacuate the double decker of doom, you're still none the wiser but glad of the wet windy whip around the face of Manchester's finest - the rain.

A rain that can wash away any emotion, happy or sad. Pensive or glad. And today it does. It washes over me like a tsunami of everything I've felt for the past 3 years, cascading like a never ending deluge of pain, emanating from every pore.

I step off the bus "next stop, Minshull Street," and my cold hand finds hers, just a little squeeze today, as we are both feeling the grief of a past life, and the ghost of Fran who once walked into that building, but did not walk out.

I have walked past this building a hundred times since I've been home, and it's always an act of defiance, or fuck you, with two fingers firmly up at the system that stole me, that failed me, as much as I failed it. Because for 3 years now, I've been battling with that brand, that notion of self, I'm the pariah of society, and for some bizarre reason, prisoners, ex prisoners and criminals like me are left with the dark mark, that we failed someone, somewhere, ourselves, our families, our victims and at no point do we reflect that back and scream at the grey skies of this city

YOU FAILED US TOO. 

This year I submitted a piece of work for my criminology degree - it was a summary piece, "what is crime" - I proposed that crime was a social construct and backed up this summising with a quote from HG Wells "Crime and bad lives are the measure of a state's failures and crime in the end is the crime of the community," - it just so happens, my eclectic mix of references for that piece of work was graded poorly and I was told it was a piece that was "overexercising my intellect," and I will admit, I was affronted and then considered perhaps my propositions and presentations had an air of arrogance to them in my selection of Aristotle, Marx, quotes from The Golden Bough were indeed perhaps a little "let me show you" and then I thought about why I was doing an undergraduate degree in Criminology at the age of 36, and it was because I wanted to use and consolidate all of my learned and lived experience and make use of it in some pragmatic way and pull together a life of education and chaos into something meaningful - let's be honest both you and I - I'm doing it because I need to understand still, that there's more to the choices I've made than just bad character, just qualities that have grown and developed in the wrong way and that I can hang my hat on something that shows me - you are more.

Practice what you preach.

Practice what you teach.

Take today for example. 3 years ago, I wore my finest polyester primark suit with some particularly shiny second hand brogues from Vinted and disappeared into the night, and as I walk through the city with early evening dark skies, I'm aware the Christmas lights I saw in 2020 on a December night, haven't changed much as I see them, walking the pavements outside Minshull Street Crown Court a free woman.

I type, on a rather osetentatious computer, something I dreamt of owning as my own but would only have delved into unhealthy purchasing habits to have called one "mine" once upon a time, and now, in 2023. It's mine, shiny and bright and the light upon which I share my thoughts with you, my university work, my VCSE work, my Coming Home project work. It's my little ray of hope in electronic form, that things do get better and that there is no greater sense of pride in reaching a goal, no matter how silly it may seem. That this computer is the vehicle that will power the changes I'm trying to make. In every area of my life.

She sits beside me, typing away with a frown upon her face, frustrated. The dissertation distinction eludes her within mere marks of effort, dedication, blood, sweat and tears. A dissertation that has been written under duress, stress, death and defiance. She's never had it easy and we're 13 years down the road. But here we sit, side by side, click clacking on our machines, typing to the next step, the next stage of our ambitions. And we do it together. Something that didn't always look like it could happen, as the distance, disintegration and desolate nature of prison took both our freedoms and lives and turned them upside down simultaneously.

Another gross mark upon the criminal justice system's long standing history of crime - the suffering of those we love most. The nay sayers will say, if you don't want to lose what you have, if you don't want to do the time, don't do the crime. It's always a novel notion to me "want" - I don't think I've met a single woman on my journey through the justice system where "want" to do crime has ever been a motivating factor.

It's not.

The "want" is always for other things, failings and vulnerabilities we feel we have, that we plug the gap, the gaping hole of what's missing. 

That's what I'm trying to unpick for myself and have been for many years and it's what makes me particularly "low risk" these days I suppose; my breaking of law, breaking of trust came in the fallout of 2016 and thereafter, so in 2023, I'm the furthest away from an act of crime I have ever been and that stands for something, for me. Desistance can be statistical, analytical, measurable, but for me, it's personal. It's my morality measurement, it's my accountability checker; that's not to say I've not been a liar and an arsehole in between, I can change my severity of impact, and I can change my motivating factors, I can address my behaviours, but as I said recently in a BBC and PRA piece, those qualities are within me and always be. The key to me being reformed, changed, is for me to measure and hold. No-one else, and with that, there is true freedom.

Freedom. Taken for granted by the many, treasured by the few. We are all prisoners to something, someone, somewhere, somehow. Never more true in today's society, global or not.

So why then, would someone who cherishes their freedom, take it back inside the prison gates? Go back to the place that it was taken and held for ransom until time ticked down and society "ok, you can have it back,"

- you can have it back BUT, we don't want you back. Remember that as a type and you read along with me.

But go back I did.

A strange thing. Email communications back and forth, with various HMP's across the UK. Cordial, jovial, polite "best wishes" firing into inboxes both mine and theirs.

No longer am I A3039EP, I am, by name, Francesca Barker-Mills, and addresses as such. The key burning anger I came home with on Friday night was this - if you can sit, chat and drink coffee with me as a fellow, an equal, a human - why couldn't we do that 2 years ago when we shared the same address, the same place, same space? Does equality only kick in when we say so?

There's the first odd and unsettling but sweetly welcomed change of pace and change of station.

"Francesca, would you like a coffee? I'll have someone bring you one whilst you're waiting,"

The conversation continues, what kind of coffee would I like, it's brought to me, with thanks and cordial conversations.

I made the coffees in 2021. That coffee machine burnt the living shit out of my right hand as I naively dabbled with cappuccino vs latte milk frothing in a vague attempt at securing a level 2 in barista skills and supporting my friends who were falling apart under the faux Starbucks pressures of prison coffee shop rush hours. Officers with keys, jangling change and coins in their black polyester pockets. Change. It was a strange feeling in my hands back then. Having had my money taken from me upon entry to prison, the feeling and weight of pound coins in my palm was a familiar but alien sensation. The trust of the prisoner, taking the money from the officer, putting it into the till, handing the change and the coffee and going about routine prison process. 

The prison coffee shop shares the name of a friend of ours and when I was asked if I wanted to pop in and get some lunch, I smiled, remembering the familiarity of that name used to bring me joy and sadness entwined whilst I was serving my sentence there. I would still enjoy the process of ordering a coffee and drinking it with friends on cheap leather sofas pretending we were anywhere but here.

I talk of this with the people I'm meeting with.

The power of friendship behind bars. I glance out of the window and see the picnic table I spent hours, days, months sitting at with my little safety net of love and family in that place, and as the prison people talk, I'm swept away like some sort of time travel moment in vision - I see us, sitting together, laughing together, crying together, sneaking hugs of raw emotion and love when it's covid and we dash out of sight of the prison cameras so as not to get in trouble for human contact. When there's despair, distraught heartache, heartbreak, family ties, family dies, we hold each other in secret, and we hold each other still.

I would go to work, I would come "home" because home is what it was, and there they'd be, cackling like naughty hyenas, talking filth and fun, and silliness as only women can, stirring cups of coffee that I've never drunk since, and knowing my little pink shirt was due to appear, a little dinner, a picnic packed up of sandwiches or toast, with a hot drink to sit, together and spend time the only way we knew how to - together. That hasn't changed. For the most part.

From flashbacks of fun, family and heartache, I'm back in the coffee shop, talking shop. I feel my power returning, coarsing through my veins, I can hear my heartbreak, in a completely different way to how it used to feel in this place.

Fire, I know my eyes are flashing the brown ring of anger and passion as they tend to do, and often did in these hallways as my politics fought the system even then. Fran the equalities rep tackling hot topics like neurodiversity and equal education within these walls - I laugh, I read the prison report and saw they now have a neurodiversity specific person in place; so some good did filter through the barricade of prisoner vs prison system.

I say that, but it's no reflection on this place in its heart and soul. It was built differently, it merely suffers through the mass suffocation of policy, bureaucracy and politics of what prisons are and are "there to do" but as I saw when imprisoned and now here, free, it tries it's best. And that's all we can ask for when the chokeholds of media, propaganda, a tory government, a crackdown on crime and criminals runs riot through our society, morality and equality. 

I wouldn't be here if I thought there was no hope of real change here. I left scarred, marred and traumatised and this place has it's part in that, but for the most part, it gave me space and opportunity to begin healing from what came before, and what came before that.

The mental health support I got here, saved my life. A prison officer, saved my life. When a blade was plucked and letters were written and scattered without care across a room that might as well have been a prison cell like the one's I had begun my journey in; as much as prison broke me, parts of it saved me.

I glance around the estate, the Christmas decorations are out and being putting up - and this is where you see the true reflection of a prison and it's care or lack of.

These are not some shitty old, dusty, knackered, ill-thought, fuck that decorations. They've been cared for. They look good. They're in keeping with the place, the space, it's accessorising the pain of the season, I know that - a Christmas light can make you want to die. If I saw another fairy light through the prison van window 3 years ago to this day, I would have worked harder to find my end than giving up at the lack of decent noose locations.

Forgive me, it's stark and it's harsh but it was never going to be full of the joys of Christmas, because prison isn't, and coming home from prison takes time to recover.

We put our tree up this year, a gigantic, glorious, Spruce, fresh, green, abundant in smell and festive beauty. A pretty penny was spent, but we decorated on December 1st, as is our tradition. And with every bauble we hung, we felt the pain of what is was when we did this together in 2020 and I saw the beauty of our tree and our home for just 9 days of December and then it was no more; but my wife, lived with that Fran tree, and it was an offensive reminder of what was lost. The presents wrapped by me underneath, like I knew I might not come back, she let that tree stand in our home until it's beauty faded and it's needles fell and then in a moment of pain and hurt, she marched through the city to find a saw, and carved it like a lunatic consumed with the pain of a hundred Bronte novels, and piece by piece, it lay and died. Much like it felt we did, day by day. Faded beauty, ebbing and cut into pieces.

So we feel it, when the tree goes up. And up it goes. Because the Christmas I came home, was lost in another life, another wife, another Fran, and whatever went up in 2021, was like holding our breath to see if it would end the way 2020 did, hacked to pieces and left to die.

Pheonix like instead, we set it all on fire, and from the ashes something new grew, reformed, rehabilitation but changed. Marked and scarred, but healing together.

Like wounded animals. But equally as determined to grow.

She was terrified for me, for us, going back there.

She refused to come. 

Because whenever she's been there, it's not been me that she's found. It wasn't me that came home in the little red car, playing Taylor Swift, wearing the cardigan I love, eating little doughnut balls of my favourite Canadian kind, a Diet Coke in hand and my best friend riding shotgun. They had waited so long for me to come home, and I didn't.

I stayed.

So I went back, to collect the ghost of me and put it to bed, and whatever phantom existed within the prison faux Fran, died on Friday, and I buried her amongst the picnic benches, where the flowers grew. She's there now and she can stay there. Much like a grave, I can visit, I can mourn, but it's over now.

So from death to life ever after - that's why I went. To breathe life into that place. Because I feel alive, I feel on fire, with passion and purpose and hope.

It's 3 years to the day and if I can sit in a coffee shop, typing on my little laptop of joy, with my wife typing her postgraduate work next to me, with a happy, warm home with christmas tree extrodinare standing loud and proud, cook dinner and talk life, love and futures, fall asleep in her arms and know it's the safest place on earth, wake tomorrow to go to work, to do something I care about, that cares about me, mutual respect and interest, roll into Tuesday to rock up to lectures, listen, learn, write and rewrite the world around me. Then anything is possible.

It's not my privilege that made this life. I did.

I burnt it to the ground a hundred times over and then I rebuilt it better than ever before, with the foundations everyone strives for - love, kindness, trust, hope, hard work, happiness.

I once said in a class back in 2020 before Covid took the world, before prison took me, to a room of students when teaching them about Maslow's hierarchy - that many say nobody reaches self actualisation and in 2020, I felt so close.

It's 2023, and I have lived more lives than most, and I've lived to a point where I could reach 40 and I've never felt that possible for reasons a-plenty.

Fucking Maslow, I eat that hierarchy for breakfast.

Coming Home is the overarching purpose of all that I do, because I want to help as many women who have lived as I have lived, felt as I have felt, hurt as I have hurt, recover and find themselves amongst the noise. It might be for the first time, it might be like meeting an old friend, but they're in there and they deserve to live a life of love, happiness and stability even if the worlds says no, and says you can't, you shouldn't, you couldn't, the suffering must endure - I'll stand in the way of that time and time again with a defiant fuck you to that.

Yes you can.

Forever over, you can. Fuck it up once, twice, thrice, or four. There is no such thing as a closed door.

Coming Home began with the notion of a project I coined "Snakes and Ladders," that was it's original iteration, initiation and that stands to be true - Snakes and Ladders, because that's the life we live and battle and triumph and trial and continue - zoom up that ladder, succeed, smash back down that snake and suffer a setback, a hurt, a hole. But you take it square by square, step by step, ladder, snake, ladder, snake, until you reach the end of the board.

I'm just trying to create something that makes that hop, skip and jump a little easier, so instead of seeing the snakes dead ahead and feeling like they're inevitable, showing you, they're not, take a different route, jump right over. Or face it down if you have to. With power, with support, with purpose. 

Coming Home will achieve what The Barker Baker never could, authentic, whole hearted, walk the walk, talk the talk and always, together.

No Fran is an island.

I googled her

Once a month, sometimes less, sometimes more. I google her.

Mostly to check she’s still alive and not had some glamours funeral I knew nothing about, as has happened with other family members that have been, gone and are dead and buried before I happen to stumble upon the fact.

She is. Alive.

Although that’s an interesting concept within my heart and mind, because to her, I’ve been dead a long time, and to me, she’s been equally as dormant in emotion and existence and yet, this morning. I had a little google, just to check.

 

Why today?

I sat an exam, I passed it, more than passed it, I smashed it and I had that ebb of joy and pride that seeps in on occasion. A quiet smile to myself that I’ve done good and whenever I feel that feeling, it comes hand in hand with the irrational but unstoppable thought “she’d be proud of me,”

Let’s face it, that’s never been the case, pride doesn’t feature in our relationship and it never has. I think being proud of me reached it’s peak when she vicariously celebrated my incarceration with others who have come to see me as nothing more than… this?

 

We occasionally bump into eachother in the city where I live, and it’s a perturbing frequency and always so poorly timed – leaving magistrates court with my own solicitor for example and neglecting to realise, that my mother, too leaves the magistrates like clockwork in her endeavours to tear people apart – matrimonial in her case; not criminal, in mine. How far the apple fell from the tree.

 

I think of the most recent interactions; she’s pissed, with posh friends in prada coats, mulberry handbags swinging, after one too many gin and tonics they dare to call a working lunch, that’s rolled into a working dinner and a drink too many. Staggering with less grace than a stag she’s shot on a Sunday morning; and into me, my wife, and my mother in law.

 

I can’t explain the hate radiating from her. It’s something only a few have seen up close. Sadly, my wife being one of them. But it explains a lot. When I cry and explain the pain of loss, of emptiness, of anger and all that comes with the separation, disintegration and decimation of my family ties; it’s Sarah who picks up the pieces but more often than not, can only listen, because she’s not lived it with me, or seen it first hand. And then she does. And her firery eyes blaze as she steps into protective mode.

The drunk mother, masquerading as more, with words of venom and looks of loathing, pokes and points the finger of judgement I’m so accustomed to, the jab and jibe no longer hurt, they’re expected.

Poke.

 

Words were had, mine were “how are you?” in a childish voice I’m sure. Hers were wicked and met with Sarah fronting up like she’s the one who’s been inside.

Needless to say, the two women who love me most, held a hand each and took me to the nearest bar for a stiff drink.

 

It’s like being haunted by a ghost, living your life in oblvious wonder and then the rattling of chains like Jacob fucking marley himself is about to grace you with his presence. That’s what grief of loss in this way feels like. Haunted.

 

I find myself wondering – was it real? 

Did I imagine it?

 

I’ve lived in the land of delusion more often than not over the past 36 years and as such, it takes therapy and fine tooth combing to evaluate the truth and the lies, the fantasy and the faux. 

 

When you’re a child of abandonment and abuse, you create your own little world, it’s safety, it’s sensible, it’s selfish and it’s all for you. When you’re a child of abandonment who’s adopted into something that’s purporting to be those things in real life, you leave yourself vulnerable.

My parents never understood what it was to have a child living in perpetual fear of abandonment, a child that would jump through any hoop, no matter how high, hit the bar set higher than most, because what would happen if you were found out? What would happen if you really just were, the street rat from London who got passed around the police force daddy and co like a party gift?

 

I did an interview recently, you will get hear it this weekend actually. Something I was unsure about, as I’ve been the person who puts themselves on the pedestal and in the limelight and 1) it was never for a good reason 2) it was indicative of all the motivations listed above and 3) when you do that, you put a target on your back if you’ve lived the way I have lived 

HOWEVER, it was the right space, the right place, the right people and I felt I needed to put my voice to the narrative that has been so grossly misrepresented otherwise in the public domain. I’m not sure if I did, the whole experience was more cathartic and therapeutic than it was directive and directed. Perhaps that’s honesty in that. Be that as it may, the radio piece begins in an interesting way “You’re a very smiley person Fran,”

And it’s something that we talk about at length – I am. And I go on to explain why. A smile is a mask for many of us. It’s also an invitation. Of kindness, of care, of empathy. At least I like to think so, hope so.

Mine means and has meant many things to many different people. My mother would say “I’ll wipe that smile off your face,” and my father would proceed to as she was rarely a smacker, a slapper, a chin grabber, a poker, but never a smacker. Small joys in that I think as I write this.

She wasn’t innately cruel by violence, neither of them would say that, never admit to that. My father would say only I could drive him to such things and deny any existence of a raised hand. Whether it be a bare bottomed smack in a restaurant in Portugal or a split lip in Manchester renaissance hotel, the outcomes the same : who believes the girl who cried wolf anyway?

It was an interesting thing to speak so freely with the BBC; which wasn’t particularly BBC, it was Prison Radio, much more of my core values and the women involved were genuinely interested in my story, my life, my past, present and future, which is unlike any press or public showboating of past lives and past times. Which is perhaps why I did speak to freely; these were women who work in prisons with the biggest, baddest criminals, and whilst my convictions and criminality may feel small comparatively, it doesn’t feel small to me and it certainly doesn’t feel small to my victims.

Or my family.

 

The Barkers that is, not the Barker-Mills and Mills encompassed.

 

I am a product of lived experience, I preach that, I do. And its true.

I am everything from the moment of abandonment and abuse, child court case records of horror, ward of court titles, foster care, foster parents, the good, the bad and the ugly, the adoption, the fragmentation of what it was to be a child wanted but unloved, woe is me.

My parents will tell you, as my father did on my wedding day – I had everything I ever wanted. I did. But it’s not what I wanted. Everything I wanted was a mummy and a daddy and my brother to be my best friend forever, and for us to appreciate the whole, the broken bits, the trauma, and fix it. Fix me. I suppose this lead to deep rooted resentment and that much is true, I’ve hated them, never wanted to, it’s an unnatural emotion to have, direct and envelope the ones you want to hold closest, but it’s corrosive and inevitable when you find yourself more broken than you were upon arrival into a family unit.

It is a toxicity I’ve lived with all my life, why me, why won’t you see me, fix me, want me, love me. Childish in its origins and met with disdain across the board from my parents who are perplexed that monetary projections of love are not enough.

 

Recently I’ve begun full time study of an undergraduate degree in Criminology, because I have wanted to understand myself more, the women I was incarcerated with more, the who, why, what how and when to see how we can bring about real change to the justice system. To understand the functionality, fragility of the systems and society we live in.

It’s been a journey! And it’s only semester one, but sometimes I find myself listening to lectuerers talk of criminal behaviours, motivations, ideations, triggers, traumas and I think – was I ever going to turn out any different given the life I have lead? Of course, there were choices, better decisions to be had, made and changed, we all have “what ifs” but my what ifs are the difference between life and death, addiction and recovery, fraud and deception or failure, and it’s all wrapped up on the bow of “I don’t feel I had a choice,” which is quickly followed by – we all have choices. That’s why I went to prison. I broke the law. I made that choice.

 

So how do you tell a judge, it’s not fair, this is who I am.

Because even being who you are has been decided unfit for society, unsafe, unsanctioned and you’re best placed out of it. For the greater good. It’s a familiar feeling.

When you don’t fit, you’re cast out. 

Echoing my abandonment issues I know; but cast out, cut out from my family, left me feeling much the same : fuck you, fuck this. Set the world on fire, because it’s not fair. 

 

Let’s look at it in black and white.

Born by chance, mother wanted an abortion, violent father could have spelled the end of the pregnancy on loop.

Born into destitution and biological parents who chose addictions and solicitations, violence and abuse over love, safety, sanitation, food and innocence.

Often starved, stinking of piss, but cleaned off for a pass around the old men, otherwise alone, with my baby brother, also soaking in his own stench, unfed, unclean and unloved. 

So I scrounged and scavenged scraps and salvation for us both. And then, saved by the system. With a broken down door and police men who were there to save and not deprave me. Trust broken from day one.

First there was Aggie, the demon foster carer. Not much better than the desolate abandonment of a London pub.

Then there were angels. But it didn’t last.

Plucked from bliss and into middle class suburbia with barren Barbie and Ken.

Faux heaven, shining lights and flashy things. Dazzled by brilliance. And an uncanny similarity of looks and brains. She hates that. She always has.

“Gosh **********, doesn’t your daughter look like you,” – a roll of the eyes usually. But alas, we do. Blonde with blazing hazel eyes, green with brown rings, the three of us. Me, him and you.

 

It looked great, there’s no doubt about that.

Private school education, 5 holidays a year, an allowance that ka-chinged into the bank account every month like a paycheque, more designer gear than Selfridges, glamorous friends with high placed jobs and houses and villas and more.

And me?

Intelligent perhaps too much for you.

Arrogant, created by the things you taught me.

A liar, like for like.

A faker – “fake it till you make it,” you told me once before a big interview.

Disappointment, at the grades that weren’t 100, at the size that wasn’t 0, at the face that wasn’t painted, in the sexuality that wasn’t hetero, in the trauma that wasn’t hidden, the baggage that was heavy, the nightmares that were talked about, the questions you didn’t want asking, the rape that didn’t happen, the degree that wasn’t enough, the job that didn’t last, the daughter who became a whore, it’s all full circle.

And like you told me, I’m better in the gutter where you found me. 

 

So I googled her this morning.

She’s alive.

Happy.

A mother, a grandmother.

Still working full time, even thought she said she would retire after we’d been to uni.

Working at 72, that says a lot.

 

She’s still lifestyles of the rich and famous, literally. And waxes lyrical about her family values in press, public and work; and people who meet me now and I mention in passing often look confused, as they “didn’t know she had a daughter” and we have uncomfortable moments of silence.

 

I’m still here. Succeeding in my own way. And it’s less tangled in my pangs of a life that once was and instead wrapped up in my own sense of self worth, pride, purpose, happiness and core values. Something prison taught me ironically.

 

I’m hoping someone does tell me if she dies and I’m not sure if that really matters now, because nothing changes for either us when that happens, but I still want to know.

Animosity

Trapped

In a sea of misinformation

Degradation

Deformation

Seeking out what's true

And what's not

From my little island of isolation

In a nation

That judges

Smudges

The lines we're told not to cross

But we do

Again and again

Because we're lost.

Strung up on the cross

To bear the shame of society

To cleanse our souls 

Without dignity

Humanity

Based on our temporary insanity

Instability

Inability

To do more than survive

And get buried in lies

Of our making

Faking

Shaking

Whilst we're sinking

From drinking

From drugs

From pain

From trauma

Mourn her

The girl you used to be

The person you are now

Doesn't have capacity

To see

Beyond borders and time

Into a past life

Into the dark side

Because it's gone

In the blink of an eye

To some

To you it's a decade

It's more

It's immortal

It goes on and on

This retribution

This penance

This testing

To see if you come undone

It's exhausting

And you're tired

When does it stop?

When is it enough?

You've paid in blood, in tears, in time

You've paid in past, present and future

For your crime

And it's still not yours to dictate

How ironic

Not being able to control your own fate

You change

You grow

You work

You show

Progress

Slow, slow

Consistent

Persistent 

Dedication

Diligent

Pure

But your dragged back into the dirt

Like the filth you were before

Under the foot of the moral

With the upstanding sense of self

Self defence 

Dignity

Decency

All you could never be

Shadow Fran

Shadow can

Throw your light and life into the dark

Pull that rug

Pull your fibres apart

Strike at the heart

To show the world

LOOK see here

The liar

The town crier

Will rid the world of dirt and crime

Dirt and grime

Wash the past clean

Show the people what needs to be seen

The boy who cried wolf

With the black sheep bleating

Defeating the enemy

Hey now, mrs morality

Let me share some wisdom from my criminality

We don't all have an ivory tower to cast judgement from high on above

We don't all have safety nets, and families filled with love,

We don't all have morals as black and white as you,

Because sometimes, some of us have to choose

It's me or it's you

It's life or it's death

Its now or it's not.

The shitty option

The one we know is wrong

But the one that keeps alive

Just a little longer.

Don't preach to things you don't understand

And bury your equals in the sand

Like some dirty secret

Because it offends your delicate heart

Because we're kinder and truer

Than you would dare to be

And in the growth

In the change

There's an honesty

You couldn't understand

As you grand stand.

With press, with papers, with malice, with hate

I'd rather be me than you

Because I know who I am 

I've reconciled my demons 

And stay true to that

Who are you to judge me?

So many years after the fact?

People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

I guess we will leave it at that.

An open reply to the Daily Mail

 

To Mark Branagan of the Daily Fail,

 

I’m furious, more than that, I’m tired.

Tired of your publications constant and relentless perpetuation of what you believe the criminal justice system is, what purpose it serves and imposing, supposing, your own vigilante mob mentality by way of manipulation of the public perception and creating an air of fear, disdain, resentment and hostility towards the prison population and I’m here to tell you – it has to stop.

 

In a world of free press, social media and human rights – let me tell why I’m angry.

How dare you film a woman without her consent like some sort of animal in a zoo for your grotesque grandstanding of morality.

How dare you stalk a woman down a country road and having walked that road myself every single day for months, in the pouring rain and the blazing sun, donning my hi visibility bib to ensure I am seen, I am criminal, I am a rogue amongst the masses, let me draw your attention to a few things.

 

-          The bibs are for our safety; they are not to forwarn the innocent and unsuspecting public that the criminals are out on tour and roaming the streets like the hoodlams you say we are. The bibs are for the prison officers to take note of the fact we are coming and going, day in, day out, much like they do, through the gates, twice a day.

-          The bibs are to ensure that whilst walking the two miles each way to the main road, we are safe from oncoming traffic and predatory reporters like you, hiding in bushes, taking unsolicited photos and invading our privacy, on the assumption that removal of liberty, means removal of our rights – you may want to brush up on the law, heaven forbid you yourself step outside of it and land at one of the UK’s cushiest prisons!

 

The photo you have taken on the lady returning to Askham is particularly interesting, as you’ve failed to note the most important part of that process – she has pressed the gate buzzer, much like I did and said, much like I did

“Barker-Mills, returning from work,” – the gate opens and you return to the prison reception, to deposit your already searched on the way out and re-searched on the way in belongings, which are kept in lock boxes and do not enter the prison estate, you then too are searched and you return through the reception door back into the prison estate, bib and all.

Return.

Askham Grange is not the UK’s cushiest prison, but it may well be the UK’s most successful one if we measure rehabilitation, engagement and absconding rates of Category D prisons.

The gate you have photographed and made reference to, OPENS, at will, from the inside. Not to terrify the gently folk and delicate disposition of Daily Mail readers who fear the unknown and prefer to live in ignorance and propaganda lead hand holding opinion formation BUT, the women of Askham grange leave the prison on one premise – they have earned the right, they have earned the trust, they have worked hard to show reliability, decency and as such, having gone through risk assessments, ROTL boards, meetings with governors and offender managers, prospective employers, then and only then, may we leave. And leave we do.

Like workers bees’. Just like you.

The gate opens to let us out and we, the criminals must buzz and ask permissions to be let back in, and we do.

 

When I landed in Askham Grange, I started my prison job immediately, as all prisoners are put to work in the estate to ensure it’s maintenance, functionality and to embed that sense of routine and a days work – appropriate, proportionate and much of what you readership tend to overlook.

We don’t sit around in our cells playing playstation, smoking, taking drugs, committing acts of violence – and let it be said, I refer to Category D and my experience.

We are up at 6:30, we attend role checks several times a day in and around our work schedules, or education attendance.

Having worked hard in the prison bakery, (I know, the irony) – I was offered the opportunity to attend an interview for Max Spielman.

I wore the suit I wore to my sentencing hearing, I polished my leather brogues and I rocked up to the education suite, just as I would in my real life.

I had the same anxiety, the same hesitations, amplified by the fact, I knew, I was a prisoner.

I got the job.

My first time outside of the jail, despite having only been incarcerated a short time, I couldn’t breathe for the fear of it. The road from Askham Village felt never ending and daunting – even more so I imagine now the ladies of Askham know the vultures lurk in the bushes. You should be ashamed.

(And here I give credit to the prison establishment, my offender manager saw and felt my anxiety and to ensure I was supported effectively and my triggers were reduced, she arranged for a prison officer to take me to the max Spielmann store ahead of my first day. I sat in the back of a regular car, with a plain clothes prison officer who proceeded to explain the route, where to go, where was the best place to get a sandwich at lunch - reiterating the rules and agreements as he should. We drove to Leeds and back, ate a sandwich and I returned to the prison feeling more ready for my first day at work. The prison did that. They saw my feeling, my behaviour and they supported it, mitigated it, and empowered me to take that first step)

 

Prison is punishment. That is it’s purpose. There is no escaping it. We can mask it in recovery and rehabilitation but we send women to prison to teach them the consequences of actions and the breaking of law – the women who find themselves in Askham Grange have earned the right to do so. Prisons are built on a system of good behaviour and engagement.

Privileges are what keeps everything in check – you work hard, you attend your therapy sessions, you take your medication, you put the work in. You go to education, you take your exams, you engage. You show willing, you show change, you show potential and that is met with equality, opportunity and it’s placed entirely in your remit.

If you can take a job, in the community, move from A to B on a daily basis – and yes, even eat and ice cream on a hot day like the rest of the world, perform a long days work, return “home” and repeat that routine, you are to all intents and purposes, ready to return to mainstream society – as an equal. Not as a pariah.

 

You, with your grotesque and poorly written piece of fear mongering and hate fuelling drivel, are creating a harsher world for us to come home to.

Where people see monsters, where there are just people. Where many fear the unknown but choose not to learn.

Where it’s not walk a mile in my shoes, it’s you don’t even deserve the s*** on my shoe.

 

When did we become so cruel?

 

As human beings, complex in our individuality, we all deserve equal opportunity, to learn, to grow, to change and to evolve. That is all the women of Askham are doing, just as I do now.

I suppose that fills you with fear and dread, a criminal, wandering the streets unknown to you, working and earning, and living, and it’s true, I even enjoy an ice cream on a hot day on my way home from work.

 

These women work harder than anyone I know, because what you’ve failed to notice is, despite their incarceration which is traumatic and isolating, and debilitating, despite the overcoming demons, and dread and trauma and addiction and all of the things that lead us to live behind bars, we, with all of that, the weight of the world on our shoulders, and yours, get up, and go to work. Just like you.

So tell me, where is the shame in that?

 

No shame, just pride, absolute pride. Well done that woman. Well done that prison. Well done that employer.

More opportunity. More equality and less of your “journalism,”

 

Starvation Mode

 

I don't have a great relationship with my body; or body image I suppose is more accurate.

The above photos are from the week I returned home from prison and I look at them with 2023 eyes and the fat girl inside me can't help but think "wow, look how thin I was,"

But; it's a mirage.

This slim jim effect, was the most unhealthy I have ever been - thin, yes, but there's a reason for that.

10 months in prison 

Just 10 months.

When I was sent to jail, I weighed a whopping and somewhat grotesque 19 stone; and I can wax lyrical about PCOS impeding my weight loss efforts and my mental health and historic eating disorder interfering in a binge, purge, diet, consume cycle or chaos, and even; even; throw in the furlough fatty attitude of sitting indoors for 6 months and living on deliveroo and zero gym attendance.

I, like the rest of the UK, bought the gym equipment in the first week of lockdown thinking "oh no, the gyms are closed," - darlings, if the gym was open morning, noon and night, of which is in Manchester city centre - it is, it wasn't covid keeping me from it. It was me.

I digress.

September 2021 Fran is 15 stone, a size 14, and slim. The smallest I've been in years and wearing a GPS ankle tag two sizes smaller than would be required now upon the cankles of 2023.

Alas, that dream aesthic is hiding many things.

1) my hair was falling out and I was balding in patches 

2) I was severely anaemic and required injections at the doctors to keep me standing upright at the best of times

3) I was thin for 3 reasons; zero nutrition and insufficient calorie intake through "3" prison meals a day, I was walking 5 miles a day to get to work (the wonderful perk of open prison) and when I wasn't walking or working, I was in the gym.

I had become the cliche, the fat girl who goes to jail and then gets hench - not quite, but there was little else to occupy one's mind behind bars during the pandemic; so when the gym reopened, it was a godsend.

The irony; I'll go and work out in the prison gym that costs me nothing, but for the ample membership fee of Bannatynes in the city; you have to drag me there.

An average days feed for me in prison was 

Breakfast; 30g portion of faux weetabix and UHT milk, sparingly as it was a limited commodity at the best of times in the daily allowance of teeny tiny blue and white cartons per prisoner.

Lunch; in closed prison - beige slop. Chips, potatoes of every shape and size, meat that I saw the invoicing costs of when working as the admin assistant in the kitchens and decided from that moment on to eat only vegetarian or vegan; and anything fried, battered, fresh from the freezer. Fresh fruit or vegetables did not exist in HMP Styal. If there were opportunities for greenery, they were usually mouldy by the time they hit your little brown bag of foodie delights.

Lunch in open; better; menu choice - choice; that summarises the difference in estate; but of the choices; was a salad - and it was good. It was green. 

Lunch out working in the real world, hiding behind a Max Spielman counter or eating in the store room like a naughty mouse; because Timpsons pride themselves on hiring offenders and exoffenders, but they expect us to take pride in their "working lunch policy" just as much, which means - you don't take lunch, you eat on the fly in between printing photos and making cushions with photos of peoples dogs on them.

My first foray into the wild, I rang my wife, my first real life lunch outside of the prison gates? A punnet of strawberries. I ate them in under 5 minutes and regretted the purge and indulgence of demolishing the red fruit wonders so quickly but what a joy, to eat something so fresh.

Dinner; dinner in closed was a strange affair. Covid or not; it was a cold meal. Hot beige lunch but dinner was always so malformed, malnourished, plastic bread sandwich with ominous meat or processed cheese, a bag of seabrooks crisps - I'm sorry seabrooks, for every bougie bar I see you on sale in now, I'll never in my life purchase a bag again; and of course, a past it's best before date, Soreen maltloaf.

Maltloaf for some, well, for most, is a nostalgic nod to one's childhood, with grandparents and parents slapping on an inch of butter and pretending it was a healthy option.

For me, maltloaf will be two things - my childhood; Fran you're too fat for a chocolate bar at lunch, eat this cardboard raison sponge; and Fran, you're in jail, eat this old cardboard raison sponge.

The thing about prison is, you exist for the routine. So when the brown bag drops with your evening meal, you devour it in all it's monsterous form because 1) its something to do to pass the time 2) you are hungry like you've never been before in your life and 3) you're so hungry, you have a tendency to eat your dinner AND your breakfast in one sitting leaving you stuck for the next day.

Dinner at Askham, still, a cold dinner and sandwich based; BUT, with a fresh piece of fruit thrown into the mix - banana day was infamous for being a good day. I loved banana day! Much more than apples and oranges.

Like little caged animals at the zoo, we clapped and yapped at feeding time for our treats and when our keepers wanted us to behave, we did, because feeding time, no matter how pathetic the offering, was the highlight of the day.

So, from 19 stone, to 15 stone in 10 months. 4 stone in 10 months is drastic by any means bar a gastric band and a tiktok sensation; but there I was, slim jim and free.

What did I do when I got home?

I ate.

Like the hungry catepillar on crack, I ate my way through a year, now approaching two. Like a petulant child. Because I can. Because I want. Because it's there.

I said to my wife last week

Prison routine.... it's not such a bad thing in the real world.

My prison routine? Bed at 10pm, TV humming in the background, Timpson freebie staff alarm clock stuck to my wall set for 5:30am; no snooze capability.

Up at 5:30am, make my bed, tidy my little space, shower, hairwash, makeup, iron garish pink shirt, eat faux weetabix, head to prison reception, check out my items, walk miles to the bus, head into Leeds city centre, work 8 hour shift, bus back to miles long walk, back into the prison, pick up plastic sandwich and joyful banana, eat said sandwich with my friends, chat, laugh, drink coffee at strange hours.

Sit on my bed, cross legged, read a book, write pages and pages of "the book" "the one day story", wash face, clean teeth, watch Ghost Whisperer, sleep. Repeat. 

Sounds ideal? Sounds like someone who's got their shit together? It's a distraction. It's keeping a mind and body so busy you numb the pain of separation and isolation and the neglect you are dealing with every day. You're abused by a system so you care for yourself in the only rudimentary ways you know how.

Now?

Up at 6:45, jaded because I've not slept well, my head is distracted with life, bills, babies, belly, tv, social media, me.

Breakfast, rarely, I'm out the door and powered by Starbucks.

Work - love. Purpose, yes. Enthused? Absolutely.

I'll go a day without realising I've not eaten and then eat something inappropriate to compensate the hunger.

Home, tired, lazy, no cooking, or some cooking, cleaning out of necessity but still tired. Time with Sarah, joyful. The beauty of my life. Our life.

Gym? No.

Moderation? No.

There's a lot to be said for routine, but where prison takes away life, including the stress of life in it's own way, it replaces it with monotony and creates machines. Compliant. Predictable. Muted. Malnourished.

Whilst real life sounds like a sloths complaint; at least it's choice and occasionally wilful ignorance and 21st century living. Imperfect but freedom.

Prison, restricts your liberty, your identity and it does this through a variety of mediums, chief of which is - food.

A hoard of hungry women are easier to control.

A hoard of hungry women spend more money on canteen sheets.

The prices keep rising and we keep spending.

The lure, the promise of that Monday plastic wrapped wonder. Another mechanism of control. 

Be good or you'll go on basic, if you're on basic - no canteen for you.

Work hard and the prisoners penny pot will be paid into; work your full time job of 40 hours in the kitchens for £6 per week.

£6 per week will buy you much need nourishment OR a phone call or two home.

It's all about cost. It's all about control.

When I came home from prison, I read what the press wrote about it, and being the Barker child that I am; I laser focused on the horrific narratives of course I did, but the worst parts?

How many people in the comments on the articles commented on my weight

"Did she eat all the pies?" "Looks like she ate all the profits!" and on and on.

So I was obsessed when I came home with the 15 stone body. I thought I look shit hot.

My body was fading. 

I was the reflection of all that prison was - wasted away.

The kind of calorie deficit that must have been taking place in my body for it to drop 4 stone in 10 months is hard to comprehend.

When I look at my body shape, size, health now. Healthier by far - my hair has grown, it doesn't fall out, my anaemia is under control, my skin glows and is no longer sallow and grey, my nails grow and don't break.

I pang with frustration at my unhealthy attitude to weight loss and body image; I find myself thinking prison Fran was in much better shape than this chubby endeavour of late; it's a lie, it's a weird ripple of prison PTSD that I have to see myself through a happier lense because if I face the reality of what prison Fran was and what she looked like, what she did, how she felt, I'd break.

All of those visuals, behaviours, choices - they weren't made by me. They were made by the bars that held me.

As a fat girl at heart, I wonder if I opted for prison rituals more I would get a better handle on my eating habits; have treats once a week like it's canteen day. Have 3 biscuits and not a packet.

I find myself eating Jaffa cakes on occasion and thinking, "why can't you just have 2?" "you had 2 in jail, you had better self control in jail," and then I remember - I only ate 2 jaffa cakes in one sitting in jail because I was rationing my pleasures to ensure I had something to eat, something to treasure, enjoy and absorb in private, as a reward, as something that was mine.

One might suggest, we / I should adopt this philosophy in life. That just because I can access as many jaffa cakes as I want now, doesn't mean I should.

It's part of the process - knowing that, easing back into that, and remembering if nots all or nothing. 

I wonder as I write, how many fellow prisoners, especially those with eating disorders in a past life struggled with the restrictive food rations and the dehumanising value they created?

In a prison system that exists for profiterring, you can't help but feel that lack of respect, care and duty to those incarcerated. Knowing that the bottom line means your rights, your value, your health, your education, your wellbeing, all comes at the bare minimum to ensure maximum profit for prisons and not for prisoners.

Whether to control in physical woe and depleted energy or whether to erode the hope and healing, you've got the give it to them; feeding the pigs at the trough gives the people what they want.

A zoo.

Where the animals live.

What a difference a year makes!

I sit, in a coffee shop, near to my city centre apartment, typing upon my laptop looking out on a rather rainy Manchester day.

I come here fairly frequently, so much so, the barista knows my order and has brought me the darkest of americano's - no milk. Cue polite chit chat as to what I have on the books today and what sort of bits and bobs I have to tackle in my little jaunt out of the house to maintain a healthier remote working lifestyle than that I had adopted last year.

2022 was tumultuous, like a boat thrashing and splashing upon a turbulent ocean, it was all I could do to come up for air this time last year.

If by chance you are a first time reader of my work, a synopsis of recent relevance and circumstance. Grave mistakes and outrageous behaviours, misguided intentions culminating in a variety of fraudulent misdeeds circa 2015, mental breakdown and drastic interventions all round in 2016, not many of you will know this, but at the end of 2016, I took a job in care, working as a mental health support worker - why? Because in the burning of TheBarkerBaker, I wanted to know I could, that I was capable of putting other peoples needs before my own, I wanted to do a job with authenticity, based on hard work and tenacity, integrity and grit. I wanted to give back some of what I took in decency.

So I wiled away working in care, bringing in a menial minimum wage, but it was honest, and it paid the bills, of which there were mountains. Chasms of chaos and debt, and letters that looked like Father Christmas' grotto in the North Pole, only a less positive diatribe, wish lists aplenty from a creditor too many.

Somehow, I scraped my way through the banality of it for a year or so and with therapy, support from friends and family, I pulled myself together, post-apocalypse and evaluated what I wanted and needed my future to be.

Education. All that was good, all that was pure of TheBarkerBaker ideation, was the teaching, was the sharing, was the educating and empowering. It brought me joy to facilitate, engage and inspire, with the rudimentary philosophy of what it was to make a loaf of bread - taking nothing and turning it into something. I was adopting that philosophy whole heartedly within my own regeneration and rehabilitation.

Cue re-education and upskilling, a deep dive into professional development and learning, and lo', with the support of my new found employer, I began my transformation from bread maker and law breaker, into educator, authentic, passionate and grateful that my hard work was beginning to pay off.

A few years into my new role, with the qualifications to justify and quantify what I already knew - I was; am, a damn good teacher, with statistics of successful outcomes for learners to boot - an email.

GMP. Detective from GMP. This wasn't small potatoes PC calling. This was the big dick and he was coming for me.

"An informal chat," how many of us entangled in the justice system have fallen into that trap? Knowing full well the extent of our misguided misdeeds and mistakes, all too often, walking into a good cop, bad cop and falling foul at the first hurdle of any hopeful defence.

It's 2019, I've been married just 4 months. I've been in my job a couple of years. I've got stability that I have never ever known. Critics of mine, victims of mine, will say it's undeserved, that it's at their cost.

Walk in my shoes as I have tried to walk in yours, perhaps then the criticism may be welcome, but as has been the case for the past 7, nearly 8 years now after the fact, I tire of the daily diatribe and character assassination and attempts to destabilise. I did then, in 2020 and even more so now, as I sit, in 2023.

It's 2020, Covid-19 has stolen the year from us all, and I am sentenced to 27 months custodial sentence.

Off I go to HMP in peak pandemic, to wile away my time behind bars in a system that has ground to a halt, no education, no visits, no meaningful activity and conditions that have since been found and documented to have met the threshold for Mandela's definition of "torture," 

And so from closed, then open, then tag, then home.

Home, end of 2021, on tag until the end of January 2022.

Hence, here I write.

Less than a year since having my GPS tag removed from my ankle.

In full time employment. Sustained for 6 months. 

Having launched my pilot project with incredible women behind me, supporting, driving and guiding it's trajectory with me - if I'm honest, to ensure it's integrity and longevity, for fear of how TheBarkerBaker having another crack at social change may come across.

Always aware, always suffocating under the imposter syndrome, the proven so "ideas bigger than her bank account,"

Terrified that the project, whilst so desperately needed and so perfectly suited and guided by me, having lived and breathed the systemic failures of the prison system, would suffer under it's founders name.

But tenacious and gregarious as ever, to the distaste of some, but beautiful reception of others - Coming Home was born.

But why?

This time last year, I was at a crossroads like no other. None more tantamount of the direction my life could go.

Based and bound by ptsd, trauma bonded relationships, unhealthy in their origin and dependence and yet curated and maintained like some sort of addiction and necessity of familiarity and comfort. Misguided.

I was willing to throw it all to the wind and hide in my prison persona, for fear of trying to be the old me, the new me, what did that even mean?

Fran who tries, who thrives, survives, smiles - that Fran had been hired and fired 3 times in the space of 3 months post release; all, despite disclosing my criminal convictions and having those conversations, victim to the press and run of google that had branded my fraudulent acts through a less than truthful or accurate lense; a sensationalised fall from grace story, the hookwinder, fraudster, monster of many who had defrauded friend foe family, whoever the press could shake a stick at.

So January 2022, in my blur of "who am I? What next? Why bother?" - a little self wallowing lets be honest and still in some post prison haze.

I broke.

Staring at oncoming traffic over the princess parkway, wondering if it was kinder to jump with no traffic so as to avoid other victims I might create.

Despite having been a ghost. An arse. A shadow of my former self. My friends rallied, as they do, to support, save and protect me. From myself.

Babysitting, watching, holding, and piecing me back together. No questions asked. No apologies needed. Just love.

And so I'm here, today in 2023. Despite my close brush with the end.

Today, a piece I wrote about sex trafficking was published in the phenomenal Inside Time, my third piece non the less. Wonderfully received and accepted, all with my hope and vision to drive forward change and visibility surrounding the issues women in prison face.

Today, I was shortlisted and broadcast across social media as a nominee for "Mentor of The Year," award.

2022 saw the launch of Coming Home. Successfully attended by what is now 15 participants in it's pilot phase.

The first cohort of women all of whom have achieved incredible things following successful mentor pairing, work experience opportunities, job interview line ups, further education offers. More than that, with the support of incredible people behind the scenes, I managed to create a safe space for women like me - who need and want to comfort of other people who have been to prison, but not the sometimes tainted and toxic relationships that can come from those environments.

A place without judgement but always with accountability.

My wonderful wife, who I have found my way back to with passion, dedication and shared hope, optimism and love, continues to drive forward, making miraculous impact in her work at The Christie. 

We embark upon our fertility journey with tenacity and hope. Again!

We build upon the ashes of what was, to regenerate and flourish like a phoenix from fire.

Is it easy?

Never. Every day is hard. For any woman coming out from the shadows of prison, it's about rebuilding your identity, authenticity, purpose.

For most women, it's a struggle to get out from under the past, the guilt, the press, google, the ripple effect; or in my case, the incessant, persistent, constant surveillance and my victims determination to take aim at my life, my employment, my wife, my financial stability, my identity. 

Imagine, to have achieved the things I have in a year and be terrified to share them for fear of them being torn down, belittled, undermined, eroded, compared to the Fran of past lives, and measured against my mistakes, forever.

Well, it's 2023. And I am SO proud of who I am, how far I've come, the work that I do, the life that I live, the friends that I have, the family I have built, the women I know.

I am proud.

I work like I have something to prove, I do, to myself. That I am more than my mistakes and that I can learn from them and use them as positives to shape a stronger, safer, kinder future.

Have you heard it all before? I suppose thats the problem.

I'm taking each day as it comes and starting and finishing it as I mean to go on.

In anyone's recovery, in anyone's journey, that's the fairest outcome

More than that, it's what everyone deserves.

It's not about second, third, fourth chances.

It's about faith.