Introduction

we begin in the middle

The figure, seated in meditation, surrounded by the hum of AUM, rising from a lotus. Picture copied by hand from “Be Here Now” by Ram Dass.

Where does one begin to tell a story, where the beginning seems to have been erased? Two months of journals are gone — lost, taken, or simply never made it home. All that’s left is what survived. As the one year anniversary of my return home comes closer, the promise I made to tell this story has sat heavier upon my shoulders—yet I didn’t know how to face those missing pages and begin to reckon with this experience that exists beyond words.

I often wanted to stop writing. Some days, I still do. But this story isn’t mine alone and it’s impossible for me to forget that the women I was incarcerated with trusted me — with their stories, their heartbreak, their tragedies, and their hope.They chose my voice to carry what we lived through, to speak what so often goes unheard. They asked me to share our truth — not just mine — so the world would know what life behind bars really looks like.

It’s this promise that I remember on my darkest days—giving up isn’t an option when you’re holding more than your own story.

So here I find myself, telling a story that doesn’t begin at the beginning, but rather on a random day, months into my incarceration. In some regards that feels right in its own way. Incarceration doesn’t offer a clean entry or exit. It just drops you in— and it lives with you the rest of your days. Perhaps one day, I’ll return to my memories and find those stories that are carried in my body, but for now, I’ll simply begin with what I have and trust that it will be enough.

Meditations in Blue is a deeply human offering. These are the daily journals and art pieces I created while locked up. I’m not editing them. I’m not polishing the words or shaping the story to fit a clean arc. This is what survival looked like. Some entries are sharp. Some are soft. Some contradict each other. All of them are true.

We live in a world that silences the incarcerated, that flattens us into numbers and mugshots. But behind those walls are lives still unfolding — full of complexity, beauty, rage, tenderness, and transformation. This project is a record of survival, a reflection of spirit, and a refusal to let our stories be erased.

It is in its essence creation as a form of resistance.

It’s not always easy to read. It wasn’t easy to live. But I believe in the power of being witnessed. I believe in the alchemy that happens when truth is spoken out loud.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for listening.

Let this be a light in the dark. A record. A reckoning. A way through.

**Disclaimer**

While most of these stories are drawn from my own lived experience, some entries include the voices and experiences of the women I was incarcerated with. These stories are shared with their permission, and names have been changed to protect the privacy and safety of those involved.