The eek, creak and shuffle towards central London is not unfamiliar, nor is how the sound of train wheels shifting to underground tracks. It's the signal, visually and audibly that the city approaches.
It is also for me the creep of fear, the hair on my arms stands tall, the pit in my stomach grows deeper, tighter and darker, in anxious nature and presentation.
And we're not even at Euston yet.
Once upon a time the Northern line that crept out of the city smoke, Northbound, to Brent Cross and beyond was a pipe dream. Would I ever ride the tube again? Would it be my method of escape? I sat in cold, dark and damp, on stained sheets, condoms scattering sideboard and floors, and satin that swept my naked thighs wondering - will I be free again? And when will I eat?
The world of sex work is much less glamorous than my trauma addled brain allowed me to see, it was a stark realisation alone in prison when the reality of the word, the experience and the inability to avoid or deny what happened to me in this city was anything other than that word - trafficked.
As a white middle class woman at the time, it felt silly association and a leap of context to realise my circumstances were anything other than another poor choice, and desperate decision on my part. Replying to an online add for free accommodation to answer call centre calls, in my 37 year old, no longer drug addled mind, is a clear "too good to be true," situation for a homeless 20 something. And yet, homeless 20 something Fran leapt at the opportunity, in an internet cafe in central London, it felt like the solution to sleeping rough and living on pity gifts of meal deals and more. So off I went, to meet my doom, gloom, and foray into prostitution. The first time I found myself behind bars, not through the legal system, but through a network of organised prostitution, run by a man who collected waif and strays like me, and pimped us out for upward of £10 a pop. On loop.
The rattle of the train is liberation and incarceration all the same to me.
In this city, where I was born, torn and tossed to the wolves. I come back.
With a smile on my face and hope in my heart because this is where change happens. This is the beating heart of all that I need to topple.
The system. The broken, broken system, it's here I can be part of the brickwork that brings about a better tomorrow. Where girls like me, don't become women like me, because women like me made them safer, braver, kinder, and healed.
These same streets, my mother walks them too. By blood and bi-polar. And intergenerational trauma and abuse, our commanlities are nothing more than matching pre-sentence reports. Where mother and daughter broke the same way, for the same reasons, bad men and bad parenting and brutal upbringings that lead to disenchantment, disengagement and bitter hearts that wreaked havoc on the world around us, in a rage that only a caged woman knows. A hate, that life is hard, and it's all your fault world, not mine. It's yours.
That part is only true, because I see my legacy and this road I've walked and I see the crossroads and pathways I could have taken, that could have shaken me out of my fate of drugs, homelessness, chaos and cruelty. Just a push from the right hand at the right time, could have knocked me into a different timeline and I see it now every day, in every way. Our crossroads. As women, broken women, society will tell you we always had choice, that we are masters of our own fate, but the more I learn, the more I work, the more I see - society, sets a lot of us up to fail. It did for the bloodline. It did for me and any hope for recovery and rehabilitation came through my exasperation and exhaustion at knowing, it's on me, or it's not. Because once you have the brand, the stamp, the conviction or ten, it's almost impossible to feel, to be, anything other than that.
Imagine then, putting myself into a lions den of sorts. Academics changing the world, using the voice of reason, screaming the logic, fact and hope into the void.
Where inspectors inspect, evaluate and discuss, live within their safe space of what can and can't be done because to dare to dream is a dream too far - but perhaps not too far now.
There is space, there is a place, where things can and will change, a ripple on a lake is happening right now in the justice system and the academics, the powers that be, the practitioners, the prisons, the probation service, even the police are all throwing in their stones, more stones, bigger splash, bigger ripple until it's a tidal wave.
Imposter syndrome plagues me more and more each day, as I get close to the realms of where I need to be - I NEED to be, because it can't just be theory, research, evaluation, it has to be real, it has to be the roar from the animals in the zoo, the lions in the cages. It has to be.
In unison. United.
Today, I sat down, had a coffee, and a lovely woman sat next to me, cordial introductions, we chatted, I asked her what she did - a career with the Police. Once locking women up, now unpicking the locks and the systems that bind, that blindly take women from police to prison with no room for why, how, who, what. I asked her if she enjoyed it, was it hard to pivot like that. She told me how much she loves her job and how important it is that she sits in rooms like this, to inspire, inform and drive change. And then she asked what I do.
Only I could sit with a woman from the Police. But only I could find the joy and serendipity in our meeting - two opposite ends of the story, trying to meet in the middle. Two bricks in the rebuild. Two stones in the lake for the ripple.
It was a day that sparked the academic desire in me, provoked and poked the political geek in me, set fire to my brain and sparked ambitions that went beyond what I'm doing day to day. I'm fire fighting. I'm on the end of the train track, watching every single one derail and looking for survivors. Because the women who come on my workshops; they're surviving. Not thriving. They are just above the water line, treading wondering if anyone is going to throw a lifeline. I do. I will. For as long as the change needs to come.
But I can do more, I can be that story, I can that woman, that one who lived it, saw it, survived it. The blades on my skin had to be something. I walked away from those cages for something. To tell the world - this isn't ok and it's not justice. The braying public demanding the demeaning, dehumanising of women who commit crime - enough. As a truly incredible woman said today and who I have fan girled from afar - Shona; people are just people, we're all human beings.
It's sounds so simple and I met it with a smirk, because to a room of women who have seen first hand the impact of incarceration - of course, we're people. To the public, the media, the MP's, the white middle class magistrates and prosecutors? We're scum. We're a scourge on society. We need locking up.
I feel like a wolf in sheep's clothing, absorbing, learning, taking it all in. I feel the us and them in my bones because prison taught me that, the press taught me that, but I know here, at least in here, that's not true.
I considered leaving before the end of the session because I felt the crushing weight of imposter syndrome draining my optimism and drive and drowning out my ability to advocate.
But I stayed. And I'm so glad I did.
A Clean Break play to end the day.
I ended my day crying behind one of their stage props with the actresses hugging me in unison. It broke my heart.
For all the advocacy, power, the knowledge and respect that lived experience must be visible, seen, felt, the impact, the hurt, the chaos. Must be seen. By the public and the powers that be.
I was transported back to prison with these three women. They raised their voices and it made me flinch, I dropped my papers, and felt the rows behind me see me move. It prickled me with fear and flashbacks. Tragic and desolate.
I saw their pain, their words, their loss. And I was there again, with every woman who had shared that pain, that loss, that hurt, that slow motion breaking down.
I wanted to say thank you to them and instead I burst into hysterical tears.
I can't console what I saw, fictional in its presentation, factual in its context, I can't console it. When I left prison I left with the fire to set it all alight, to make sure no woman would see what I saw, felt what I felt, the horror. I thought I had healed more than today showed me I hadn't.
I'm OK with that; therapy in a first class seat on a train back to Manchester to my wife will give me the reprieve and time to reflect I need.
I hope more people see that incredible piece of theatre - you must. If you wax lyrical about wanting to be the change you need to see it.
The screams of a mother's loss. Haunt me.
As we continue our fertility and family building journey, the screams of the women in prison will haunt me forever. They echo on my bad days, and I find mine makes them a chorus of sadness.
The human cost is too high.
It's too much.
The punitive, arbitrary approach to punishment, needs to stop.
Accountability and responsibility - I believe in.
Disproportionality and degradation? I won't allow it.
I will be the ripple, the wave.
Are you with me?
