My mom and I during my first visit, 2016.
Today was the day. I was going to see my mom after nearly four years. I tried not to think about it, to wonder whether or not I would even recognize her because if I let my mind linger, I knew I might cancel the trip. I had grown comfortable not seeing my mom, finding solace in not having to deal with the emotional turmoil that permeated our relationship. But I knew if I ever wanted to have a relationship with her I would need to see her, talk to her, and forgive her.
Two hours and two coffees later, I found myself in front of an all women’s prison in rural Virginia where my mom had been for the past three years. I left everything except my driver’s license in the car, knowing I wouldn’t be able to bring it in, took a deep breath and went inside. It was dimly lit and depressing in the facility. I walked through the hallway, uncertain of where I was going, trying to get to the first of three steps visitors must go through to see their loved ones.
After handing over my driver’s license, receiving a piece of paper saying who I was visiting, having my hand stamped with a black light stamp, walking through a metal detector, spinning in front of another metal detector and being patted down in a separate room, I was ready to go in. The whole process took less than 45 minutes, though sometimes it can take upwards of two hours.
I wasn’t scared to be in a prison, and I certainly wasn’t afraid to be sitting in an open room with a handful of incarcerated women. These women were people, just like me, who were happily chatting with their relatives, friends, or significant others. They snacked on food from vending machines and went to take photos together at the station set up by the faculty -- a small moment of normalcy and a souvenir of their time together. I was simultaneously happy and sad for these women. Happy because they were able to see those they love, but sad because they’re trapped in a system that stifles their dreams, livelihood, and chances for success.
As I sat, watching those around me eat, gossip, and laugh, I noticed my mother from behind a large window. I recognized her. A wave of relief crashed over my body; maybe we weren’t as disconnected as I thought.
In the time since I had seen my mom, I had made new friends and lost old ones, experienced a deep loss that sometimes still reverberates around my chest, grown, lost, and then regained confidence in myself, and graduated from college. In those four years, I had learned and experienced more about myself than I could convey in an hour-long visit. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to convey all those things, to expose myself to a woman whom I so desperately wanted to know, yet still keep at a football field's length away.
This was a step. The first step of many slow, small, and hesitant steps. Steps that may turn to stumbles and falls, but steps nonetheless. A step that led to two more trips down to rural Virginia, to her release, to sending photos of our animals to each other, and to visiting her at her home. Developing a relationship with my mother, after her incarceration and addiction, won’t be easy -- it won’t be a pleasant walk, but it may be one that ends with a beautiful view. My mom and I won’t ever have your typical “mother-daughter” relationship, a relationship that so many aspire for. I don’t know if I will ever write her a heartfelt “Mother’s Day” post or confide in her when I am upset, but she’s here. She’s sober, and for right now, that’s all that counts. We are both taking it one day, and one step, at a time.