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Mostly, though, I miss my family. They’d be surprised to know that.

My family would be surprised to know how much I miss them. Every day, I think of them, talk about them—but sadly, hardly ever to them. It’s already hard enough being away from them, and hearing their tears  in their voices through the receiver makes it even tougher. 

I miss being able to jump in my truck and drive over to see them whenever I want, especially when they need me. I miss my truck, and just driving whenever I felt like it.

I miss watching the sunset; the window here is too small to see much, and there’s always too much light around the perimeter to see the sky. I miss lying on the grass at night, watching the stars twinkle, with my cows stirring softly in the background.

I miss the quiet, the darkness, the sunsets, my truck, my family, and my cattle. Mostly, though, I miss my family. They’d be surprised to know that.

📬

These stories arrive by mail.

Every month, a physical envelope arrives at your door, postmarked from San Quentin Village, California. Inside, you will find original artwork, writing, and recipes from real contributors, along with a personal letter from me, Diane Kahn, founder of Humans of San Quentin, about the people who made them. You read it. You keep it.

Every piece comes from someone serving a sentence. Every piece reminds you they are so much more than that.

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