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The holidays have a way of exposing the cracks in our lives, magnifying the wounds we carry and the voids we try to ignore. For me, those cracks widened into chasms during the years I spent behind bars. The holidays were the loneliest time of the year, and the sense of abandonment hit harder than the cold metal bedframe I laid on every night.

There’s a unique ache that comes from watching time stand still inside those walls while knowing the world outside keeps spinning. The season of love and togetherness became a reminder of all that I had lost—or perhaps never had. My family wasn’t there. My child wasn’t there. I was left to face the haunting questions: Did they think of me? Had I let them down so much that they simply stopped?

Thanksgiving was especially brutal. While others celebrated gratitude and gathered around tables with loved ones, I felt the emptiness of the season more deeply than ever. The day passed like any other in prison, but inside, it hurt more. I thought of the warmth of a meal surrounded by laughter, the sound of people sharing stories, and the small, fleeting moments of connection that I had taken for granted. All of it felt like a distant dream, taunting me from a life I could no longer reach.

The walls of the prison seemed thicker in late November, the gates taller. The sound of my thoughts grew louder as I imagined my family carving a turkey without me, filling my empty seat with someone else or no one at all. And yet, it wasn’t just the absence of people—it was the absence of hope. I didn’t know how to ask for forgiveness, let alone receive it. Guilt was my shadow, and depression my closest companion.

I remember a Thanksgiving that was particularly raw. I had spent weeks trying to numb myself to the holiday season, pretending it didn’t exist. But that evening, I overheard another woman talking about her kids—how she hoped they would remember her, how much she missed being their mom. That moment shattered something in me. It was as if her words echoed everything I couldn’t admit out loud: I was angry, I was hurt, and most of all, I was scared. Scared that I was becoming someone my child wouldn’t recognize.

Depression inside prison is a different kind of beast. It’s not just sadness—it’s a weight that settles into your bones. The holidays amplify it because, while the world celebrates connection and belonging, you are suffocating under the weight of your mistakes. The guilt gnaws at you, and the whispers in your mind convince you that you’re undeserving of love, grace, or redemption.

I can’t count how many times I prayed for something—anything—to fill the emptiness. Some nights, I prayed for God to take away the pain. Other nights, I prayed for the strength to feel something again, even if it was just a flicker of hope. But hope felt like a distant memory, and grace seemed reserved for people who hadn’t failed so profoundly.

Even now, years later, the holidays bring back the memories. I still feel the echoes of that loneliness, though they don’t drown me anymore. It’s taken years of rebuilding relationships, apologizing, and forgiving myself—something I’m still learning how to do. The holidays are no longer about decorations or traditional celebrations for me. They’re about the people who stood by me when I couldn’t stand for myself. They’re about showing my daughter that I’m here, even if I wasn’t before.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no one deserves to feel abandoned, even if they’ve made mistakes. Especially during the holidays. If you’ve ever felt that way, whether inside a prison or in the prisons we create for ourselves, know this: You are not forgotten. The pain might not disappear overnight, but neither does love—it just waits patiently for us to find it again.

This year, as I sit at the table with my family, I’ll feel the grace I once thought I didn’t deserve. And I’ll be reminded that even in the darkest winters, the light has a way of breaking through.