To the mothers navigating the justice system, whether behind prison walls or holding it down on the outside while someone you love is locked away, we see you.
This is a love letter for you.
You, who wake in places never meant for nurturing and still manage to mother. You, who hold the line while the ground shifts beneath you. You, who parent through phone calls, letters, BPAY receipts and tightly rationed visitation hours. You, who’ve become the centre of gravity for your children, your siblings’ kids, and your communities, all because someone else was pulled into the system, and you were left in the crossfire.
Still, somehow, you show up.
This letter won’t pretend to know all your stories. There are as many versions of this as there are mothers and those who mother. Some of you are raising children from prison, working to keep the bond strong despite a system that makes connection a bureaucratic maze. Some of you are on the outside, juggling work, court dates, parenting, appointments and grief, all while holding shame that was never yours to begin with. Some of you are both: once inside, now out, still pushing through the noise of a world that offers very few fresh starts.
And yet you continue.
In the way you speak life into your kids, even when you’re spent. In the way you write letters, send payments, fight for visitation or take two trains and a bus so that your child doesn’t have to face that visiting room alone.
This isn’t a tribute to struggle. You shouldn’t have to be resilient to be respected. You deserve ease, not exhaustion. You deserve systems that care, not ones that keep score. You deserve to mother freely, not under constant watch.
Our community at Yung Prodigy are young people impacted by parental incarceration. Every time we connect with them, your echoes fill the space. The quiet strength. The joy that bubbles up in stolen moments. The grief that sits just below the surface. The way you protect childhood while we are being forced to navigate an adult world with too many locked doors and not enough open arms.
We’ve seen you spin magic out of scarcity. We’ve seen care stretch further than most would think possible. We’ve heard how you rewrite the truth just gently enough so your kids can still dream. We’ve watched you love fiercely, even when the world around you forgot what love looks like.
Let’s be real, this isn’t about what you lack. It’s about the failing system that doesn’t see, hear or acknowledge this story. And, despite all that, you keep creating joy, structure and softness. Even when the odds are stacked. Even when you’re tired. Even when it feels like no one’s paying attention.
And no, love alone doesn’t fix it. The impacts of incarceration spill out into everything: housing, health, school, jobs and identity. We know some days, making it to the next one feels like the only win.
But your story matters. The stories of all the mothers who carry this weight, seen or not, matter deeply. The wisdom passed between you, the care folded into routines, the fight that keeps showing up long after the rest of the world goes quiet … It matters.
This Mother’s Day, while the world posts bouquets and brunches, we offer something else … Truth. Truth that you’re doing more than most could ever grasp. That your brilliance, your labour, your survival is worthy of honour, not just today but every single day.
This is for the mother who takes the kids to visit their dad every weekend. For the mother calling home from prison, asking about homework before she asks about herself. For the mother carrying guilt and grace in the same breath. For the one making it up as she goes. For the mother who left, came back, stayed, disappeared then re-emerged. For the mother who’s doing her best in a world that keeps moving the goalposts.
We see you. We honour you. And we’re building a world where you don’t have to carry it all alone.
In love, in fight and in kinship.
Maia Ihemeje is the founder ofYung Prodigy, a youth-led organisation focused on mobilising young people affected by parental and kinship incarceration, an invisible issue and policy gap in Australian service provision.
This article was originally published inAbout Time, a national newspaper for Australian prisons and detention facilities