Today marks 20 days until I self-surrender to federal prison for a 60-day sentence. Just two days ago, I was released from inpatient mental health care — and honestly, it feels like everything around me is crumbling faster than I can hold it together.
The reality of what’s ahead is suffocating. I’m trying to wrap my mind around signing over temporary guardianship for my daughter — my little girl who has already lost so much. I’m scrambling to find foster homes for my dogs, my family when everything else fell apart. And now, I’m being slowly weaned off the vital mental health medications that help me survive, because they’re not allowed inside prison walls.
I feel like I’m hanging on by a single, frayed thread. And I keep asking myself: What is the point of all this? Did I do the right thing by standing up to the federal government, by refusing to stay quiet? Was I brave — or was I just naive? Was it loyalty that brought me here — or was it my own downfall?
Right now, this is my truth: I am exhausted, terrified, and unsure of what comes next. But I’m still here. I’m writing this because maybe, just maybe, there is still something worth fighting for on the other side.
