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.