This story isn’t just mine anymore..

When I started this blog, I honestly didn’t know if anyone would read it — or worse, if they would judge it. Writing about my father’s wrongful conviction meant stepping into a space that society is deeply uncomfortable with. Prison is a word people flinch at. Wrongful conviction is something many don’t want to believe exists. And being the daughter of someone who’s been incarcerated for decades? That label carries a weight most people never see.

For most of my life, I carried this quietly.

There’s a strange kind of shame that attaches itself to families like mine — even when you know the truth. Even when you know your loved one is innocent. You learn early how to edit your story, how to answer questions vaguely, how to protect yourself from the looks and assumptions. You learn when to stay silent because explaining feels heavier than the misunderstanding.

So starting this blog felt like tearing down a wall I had spent years carefully building.

I expected discomfort. I expected people to scroll past. I expected to feel exposed and alone.

What I didn’t expect was to feel held.

The support that has poured in since I started sharing this story has been nothing short of overwhelming — in the best way. Messages from people who have lived this life quietly, just like I did. From daughters and sons who have grown up visiting prisons, learning how to love someone through glass or across a table in a room that never really lets you forget where you are. From people who had no personal connection to incarceration at all, but who took the time to listen, to learn, and to sit with the discomfort instead of turning away.

Some people shared their own stories. Some simply said, “I see you.” Some admitted they never understood what wrongful conviction really meant until now.

And every single one of those moments mattered.

Taking something so negatively viewed — something that has brought so much pain, anger, grief, and unanswered questions — and turning it into something that sparks empathy has been deeply emotional. This story will never be easy. There are days it still knocks the wind out of me. Days where I wonder if reopening these wounds is worth it.

But then I remember why I started.

I started because silence protects the system, not the people harmed by it. I started because families like ours deserve to be seen. I started because truth doesn’t need to be neat or comfortable to matter. And I started because if my voice could make even one person feel less alone, then this was worth the risk.

The support I’ve received has reminded me that this story is bigger than me. Bigger than my family. It’s about resilience. It’s about love that survives decades of injustice. It’s about what happens when we stop hiding the hard parts and allow them to breathe.

So if you’re here reading this, I hope you’ll stay for a while. I hope you’ll read the stories, sit with the uncomfortable parts, and allow yourself to feel whatever comes up. If something resonates with you — say so. If you have a story of your own, share it. If you’ve never thought about wrongful conviction or the families left behind, ask the questions you’ve always been afraid to ask.

This blog isn’t meant to be perfect or polished. It’s meant to be real. It’s a space for truth, for conversation, and for connection — especially around the stories that are so often ignored or misunderstood. Every comment, message, and shared experience reminds me why speaking up matters.

So keep coming back. Keep engaging. Keep listening. And if this story has taught me anything, it’s that when we stop looking away and start talking — real change becomes possible.