I’m 20 years old. My name doesn’t really matter here, but what does matter is my uncle—Bulldog, we call him. He’s been in prison longer than I’ve been alive. That’s not just a fact—it’s a life sentence that’s stretched across my entire world.
I only really know him from stories. Stories told by family at gatherings that don’t happen often enough. Stories shared in quick phone calls that are always cut short. And the few hours we get during visits, squeezed between long, exhausting journeys and the crushing weight of prison walls.
This isn’t a family life. A family should be together. They should argue, laugh, share meals, and lean on each other when things get tough. But for me, those moments are rare and broken up by distance and locked doors.
I suffer from depression. It’s a battle I fight every day, mostly alone. There are days when the weight feels unbearable, when I crumble under the pressure of school, work, and just trying to figure out who I am without my uncle by my side.
When his voice comes through the phone—rough, tired, but steady—I can hear it. I can hear the pain beneath the words. I can tell he just wants to be here for me. To catch me when I fall. To help build me back up when life tears me down.
But he can’t.
Because of the rigged parole board, because of the system set up to keep him locked away, he isn’t here. I don’t have him to hold me when the nights get dark. I don’t have him to tell me it’s going to be okay. And that hurts him as much as it hurts me.
I think about all the things we’ve missed—the birthdays, the holidays, the simple moments like watching a football game together or just sitting quietly in the same room. It’s like there’s a hole in my life where he should be, and no matter how loud I try to fill it, it’s always there.
Sometimes, when the silence gets too loud, I wonder what life would have been like if he was here. If the parole board wasn’t just a rubber stamp designed to keep him away. If family actually meant more than a checkbox on some official’s list.
But I hold on to the hope that one day, things will change. That one day, I’ll get to call him my uncle—not just in stories, not just in fleeting visits, but in real life.
Until then, I carry both of us. His fight is my fight. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going.
The day of a visit is like walking into a different world. From the moment I wake up, my mind races—what will it be like this time? Will I see him smile, even just a little? Or will he look tired and worn down, like the weight of the years has been pressed into his face since the last visit?
Getting there isn’t easy. The prison is nearly 400 miles away, which means hours on a bus or train that’s always late or overcrowded. The money it costs is another mountain—bus fare, food, the small expenses that add up when you’re already stretched thin. But none of that stops me. I’d walk a thousand miles if I had to, just to spend a few hours with him.
When I arrive, there’s the security checks—lining up with dozens of other families, all with the same mix of hope and dread. Metal detectors, body searches, ID checks. You get stripped of everything but yourself, and even that feels like it’s not really yours anymore.
Then comes the waiting. The waiting to be called, the waiting to walk through those heavy doors. And finally, the moment you see him.
He’s sitting there, behind the glass or across the table depending on the prison rules, and for a second, it feels like time stops. The world shrinks to just the two of us. I see the lines on his face, the tired eyes, but also the strength that’s kept him going all these years.
We talk through the glass or across the table, and it’s hard not to feel the distance—not just physical but the space that all these years apart have created. He tries to keep his voice steady, but sometimes I hear the cracks—the pain he tries so hard to hide.
I tell him about school, my friends, my struggles with depression. He listens, really listens, like I’m the most important thing in the world to him. And for those few hours, it feels like we’re family again.
But when it’s time to leave, the goodbye hits hard. There’s no hug, no handshake—just a wave or a nod. The glass or table between us feels like a wall that’s too thick to break down.
I walk away, trying not to look back, but tears blur my vision anyway. The bus ride home feels longer every time. The silence louder.
And in the quiet after the visit, I think about the parole board again. How they sit behind their desks, deciding whether my uncle gets to come home or not. How they don’t see the person, only the file. How their “justice” means a family stays broken.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this—the visits, the waiting, the heartbreak. But for my uncle, for Bulldog, I’ll keep fighting. Because family means more than walls and distance. It means hope.
Sometimes I wonder what kind of life I’d have if my uncle wasn’t locked away all these years. If he was here to watch me grow up, to guide me when I stumbled, to just be there when I needed him most.
But I know that wishing won’t change the past. What I can do is carry his story with me. The story of a man who’s been fighting a battle far bigger than most people understand. The story of a family stretched thin but still holding on.
I’ve learned that pain shared is pain halved, and even though we’re apart, I feel his strength through the phone calls, the visits, the stories passed down.
I’m still young, and the road ahead feels long and uncertain. But I hold onto hope—the hope that one day, the system will change, that parole boards will see us for who we really are, and that families like mine won’t have to live in the shadow of locked doors.
Until then, I’ll keep fighting in my own way. For my uncle. For myself. For the family we deserve.
Because even behind walls and bars, love doesn’t disappear. It just waits—for the day it can be free again.
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