In this episode I learn what “crazy” really means in prison. You’re not crazy if you’re playing with your shit, painting with it, acting out with it, using it to get attention or get moved. That’s coping. But if you’re eating it? That’s a different story altogether. Check the crazy box. As I’m trying to understand the mental health landscape inside a women’s prison, I start to see that Bedford isn’t the end of anything — it’s the beginning of the real work and the real sentence. I’m writing through synchronicities, shouting matches with God, the collapse of my marriage, the tiny law library victories, the fear I’ve carried since childhood, and the slow, steady shift from despair to purpose. I’m learning the difference between self‑effort and self‑punishment, between fear and faith, between surviving and actually fighting for my life. This isn’t a conclusion. It’s the moment I finally understand I’m just getting started. And then — poof — I’m gone.

Early August doesn’t hit me with outside blows — it turns inward. Melancholy settles in like fog, and self‑punishment becomes a daily ritual I perform without hesitation. I move through these days dissecting every thought, every failure, every imagined future, turning them into weapons and using them on myself with precision. Hope flickers, smothered by exhaustion, loneliness, and the suicidal thoughts that circle the edges of my mind. Bedford finally feels like prison — the place and the people. The walls close in, the unit grows hostile, and the waiting becomes another form of punishment. I am unraveling, haunted by phantasms of my own making. I torment myself mercilessly, inflicting a level of cruelty the system could never match. Survival becomes less about hope and more about endurance — holding on through the long, hot, airless hours until something, anything, shifts.

Late July hits me like a series of blows in a mismatched prize fight — me on the ropes, bruised, bleeding, and getting clobbered. The shock denial, the fear of being moved to another prison far away, the anniversary of my mother’s death, the collapse of my marriage, and the sudden and casual cruelty coming through the phone all land before I can brace. The synchronicities that once steadied me still flicker at the edges, but they’re drowned out by fear, grief, and the sense that staying in the current has capsized my boat and I’m sinking fast. Bedford shifts from retreat to crucible; the unit feels hostile, the waiting unbearable, the negativity suffocating. I move through the days in a haze of prayer, anger, exhaustion, and a despair so heavy it feels physical, fighting to keep any hold on myself while my mind keeps slipping toward the edge. Conversations with the few people who love me offer brief flashes of relief, but the days are thick with sorrow, confusion, and the feeling of being abandoned by almost everyone I counted on. This is the stretch where I am losing my grip, where faith flickers, where the hits come too fast to absorb, and where holding on becomes its own act of survival.

The days take on a strange clarity here, as if everything is arriving in a deliberate sequence—books that echo one another, letters that land at the exact moment I need them, conversations that fold into a larger pattern I can finally feel forming. Bedford begins to feel less like a prison and more like a spiritual retreat, a place where my cube becomes a kind of penitent’s cell and where routine turns into revelation. Workouts, small conflicts, small comforts, and the steady rhythm of the unit all move through me with a growing sense of alignment, as if I’m being guided step by step toward something taking shape inside me. A birthday visit with Grace becomes a moment of pure grace in every sense, anchoring me in love and purpose, while old shame and old fears begin to lose their authority. Even the hardest parts of my past start to make sense as necessary steps toward this awakening, and the synchronicities that keep appearing teach me to trust the current fully. This is the stretch of time where I begin to understand, with a certainty I didn’t have before, that what is needed is on its way and exactly on schedule.

In this episode, I leave RCOD for the back buildings, and the world shifts in ways only someone who has lived confinement can understand. These entries capture the shock of small objects and even smaller freedoms — a pen, ice cubes, coffee, soap, and finally having real implements for grooming after months of making do with a plastic spork. The smallest items suddenly carry the weight of dignity, grounding, and hope. I’m learning how to hold boundaries, how to navigate small conflicts without losing myself, and how to stay centered in a place that constantly tugs at my attention and energy. Scripture, synchronicity, and the first stirrings of purpose weave through the ordinary rhythms of Bedford: humor, kindness, irritation, routine, and the rituals that make a life feel human again. This is where I begin to understand how the smallest things can anchor a day, a spirit, and myself.

These entries capture the moment when the core — the truest part of me — rose back to the surface, and the current — the force of surrender — began to guide me instead of fear. In The Core and the Current, I start to see the self I had buried under years of effort, noise, and pride, and I begin to understand how far I had drifted from God and from myself. The Rule of Prayer was already written by this point; what I was learning here was how to live it — how to apply it to daily life, how to listen, how to wait, and how to let discernment replace panic. I write about hunger, humility, vocation, pride, the book idea that wouldn’t let go, and the interior discipline Bedford demanded. This is where I stopped gripping the wheel of my life and let the current pull me back to the core I had forgotten.

In this episode, I return to July 4th weekend in 2014 — the first time I saw Grace after more than nine months apart. The anticipation, the quiet morning, the scripting of what to tell her, the tension with Bill, and the overwhelming relief of holding my daughter again all collide in these pages. I talk about the visit itself, the emotional recalibration that followed, the struggle to stay in the current, the questions about family and future, and the deeper awakening of my core — the part of me I had buried long before prison. This is the day that reminded me who I am, who Grace is to me, and why faith and ballast matter more than ever.

Season Two begins with my first days at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility — a place that felt nothing like Rikers. The bus ride was hot, the intake was exhausting, but the moment I arrived, something in me lifted. Bedford was quiet, green, and strangely calming — a silence so deep it was almost loud, the kind of quiet that presses against you and makes you hear yourself again. In this episode, I read from my first entries: the shock of silence, the return of humor, the groundhog omen, the struggle to pray through exhaustion, the first stirrings of equilibrium, and the realization that faith — not survival — would carry me through this next chapter of my life on the inside.

For this Felonist Friday, I’m opening the archive. At the end of the Rikers Diaries — and throughout the Bedford Diaries — I kept talking about my Rule of Prayer, and this week I finally found the original documents: the handwritten version I wrote at Rikers and the typed version I created at Bedford. These pages were my ballast, my grounding, my way of staying "In Spirit" when everything around me was chaos. In this bonus episode, I read both versions aloud and share the two prayers that carried me through some of the darkest days of my life: The Bedford Prayer and The Psalm Prayer. If you want to follow along, you can download the handwritten and typed PDFs here:

⁠https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1Ed5shTAaPQ_ZE3m8nGYaPf8ZMw9QnA78?usp=sharing

In Up and Out: On My Way to Bedford Women’s Correctional Facility, the Felonist steps into the final, disorienting hours of her Rikers chapter—packing up her belongings, organizing her prayers and “guidelines,” and preparing for the transfer that marks both an ending and a rebirth. This episode captures the profound spiritual clarity that emerges as she meditates, reflects, and realizes that obedience is less a rule than a current: sometimes a lazy river, sometimes rapids, always carrying her toward the life she is meant to build. As she revisits the books that shaped her (The Fountainhead, Narnia), confronts the fractures in her relationships, chooses who she will walk with after release, and declares that she is no longer afraid, she understands that the draft to Bedford is not a descent but the next stage of her transformation. On the Draft to Bedford is a powerful close to the Rikers arc: a moment of spiritual grounding, emotional honesty, and the fierce, quiet resilience required to leave one world behind and enter the next with intention.