Blossoming Beyond Boundaries: A Cannabis Felon’s Journey to a Brighter Future.

Stephanie Shepard • August 30, 2024

An interview with Last Prisoner Project’s (LPP) Director of Advocacy, Stephanie Shepard, and Amber Davidson of Cannifest. Cannifest will be taking place on September 7th-8th.


In today’s world, where the cannabis industry continues to evolve and challenge the long-time criminalization of cannabis, the stories of those who have had to navigate its harms offer a side that most don't get to see. As a cannabis felon myself, speaking with someone who knows what serving prison time for cannabis feels like, what type of impact it has, and how moving forward is possible; it always feels like a safe space. I was honored to delve into the remarkable journey of Amber Davidson, a former cannabis prisoner who is transforming adversity into acceptance and advocacy. Amber sheds light on the challenges of navigating the system, the impact of probation, and the driving force behind her determination to reclaim her spot in the industry that she helped create as a legacy grower. 



Stephanie: Amber, can you share a bit about your background and how you became involved in the cannabis industry?


Amber: I started smoking weed when I was 14. It was one of those moments where I wondered if I was doing something wrong, or if was I just trying it because it was not what my parents wanted me to do, but I realized that I was just trying to find my community. Being with people who also smoked weed felt like I had found them. I got jumped a few times when I was younger, so I had difficulty fitting in with people from middle school through high school, especially high school. When I changed schools, being the new kid was difficult. And I just started building community through cannabis. One of my boyfriends at the time was very involved in cannabis, and so for me, it was finding that.



Stephanie: How would you describe those people? What were the characteristics of the people that you found accepted you, and made you feel safe and comfortable in that circle?


Amber: 

We were the people who hung out under the bleachers. We were the ones that didn't fit in with the general groups of people. It was funny because this group was made up of people from different circles. Athletes, artists, and musicians were all brought together by cannabis but also felt like black sheep because of cannabis.

Stephanie:

So even back then, the stigma surrounding cannabis was very prevalent. Does it surprise you now to see the lengthy sentences that victimless cannabis prisoners are still serving all these years later?


Amber:

It's very disheartening to see people still getting in trouble and still serving these insane sentences, and others are afforded the luxury to make careers stemming from the plant. Even myself and others who've been negatively impacted by cannabis criminalization are now able to viably see this as a career opportunity, and it's just mind-blowing that the system holds different people to different standards.


Stephanie:

When you think of Michael Woods (serving life), Parker Coleman (serving 60 years), or Jason Brant Gregg (serving 15 years), do you feel a sense of guilt that you came from the legacy market like them but are now free to openly participate in the legal market?


Amber:

To be honest, it does make me feel guilty because it's difficult to process being on the outside while all of these people have been in for so long for the same plant.

Thinking of people who have committed much more heinous crimes, actual crimes, who get an equal or lesser sentence, it's a hard pill to swallow.


Stephanie:

You served 49 months of a 70-month federal sentence for cannabis. We served time at the same facility in Dublin, California. How did those 49 months impact you and your relationship with your friends and family?


Amber:

I have a very small family. Both my parents were adopted, so I didn't have a lot of the same familial support that a lot of other people had, then and now. My dad passed away when I was in my mid-twenties, and 6 months to the day after I was raided, my mom passed away. Trying to navigate all of it, essentially alone was fucking difficult. I had some step-family, but after my dad died I didn’t feel like a family anymore per se. It felt like “Okay, we'll be here to take your phone calls and send you letters”, but I didn't have a courtroom full of people there to support me.


Stephanie:

Having that support helps you get through the experience. Do you feel like you leaned more on friends, or did you just feel like “I'm in this alone?” 


Amber:

I leaned on friends a lot. I only had a couple who felt comfortable communicating with me during everything. I had one girlfriend, Beth, who offered me a job immediately when I got out, and she was a new friend. She was somebody that I had met when she was helping my ex-boyfriend get his accounting in order for his business before we got in trouble, and so I barely knew her. I may have known her for 7 or 8 months before we got in trouble, as strictly a business relationship.

She ended up being one of the only people who would regularly visit and write to me all the time. She took my call every time I called her and always made sure to email me and send me letters, cards, or pictures. We call each other sisters. There's a reason why we came into each other's lives at the time that we did. I know why she came into my life because I needed her. It's been such a powerful friendship because of that. She just saw that I needed a friend and very rarely do people show up that way. One thing I will say about cannabis, in general, is that I’ve found a lot of people in the industry who just want to be good, want to be friends, and be a good friend to people.


Stephanie:

You made it through that chapter, you got out, but you did a little bit of probation time. How long were you on probation? Can you tell me a little bit about what it was like to navigate life while you were on probation?

 

Amber:

I was on probation for about about 2 years. I treated probation like I was on home confinement, but a much more free home confinement. I couldn't leave certain areas. I couldn't go to Sacramento, Tahoe, or L.A. I got in trouble once for something that I shouldn't have been doing, I fucked up and failed a drug test. I remember profusely apologizing and crying my eyes out. I was terrified and decided at that moment that nothing was worth that feeling.


Stephanie:

What was your biggest fear? Were you afraid of the interruption it was going to cause in your life after all the time you had put into your reentry?


Amber:

I was afraid that I was gonna lose all of my good time, be violated, and go back! I had to drive to see my probation officer after I knew I had failed the drug test, knowing that's why I was going there, and in fear as I was walking into her office in the Federal Courthouse buildings. There were agents of all types, including U.S Marshals, that I knew were going to be waiting for me when I walked in the door. While I was sitting there with her, I just kept thinking they were going to come in the door and arrest me. Thankfully, that never happened. But, oh, my God! Was I terrified? Scared straight for sure. There are some things that I took away from prison that weren't entirely bad. 


Stephanie:

What lessons did you learn what lessons did you learn from your overall experiences that personally and professionally stick with you today?


Amber Davidson: One of the biggest lessons I learned is nobody's going to come save you. You have to figure it out for yourself and be okay with whatever decision it is that you make. For that to happen to me, there was a period where my ex-boyfriend was firing attorneys left and right, hiring new ones, and he did the same to my attorneys or convinced me to do the same to my attorneys. There were a lot of things that I should have done differently, but I know that the decisions that I made were based on the information that I had at the time, so I'm okay with those decisions now. For me, being okay with myself and the decisions that I made. Even in this situation, I just had to ask myself “What will I do moving forward? And how do I make the best out of it?”


Stephanie:

You are now a leader in the legal cannabis space, what advice do you have for others who may have faced similar challenges and are looking to move forward as you have?


Amber Davidson: 

The most frequent question that I was getting asked as I was deciding to get into the legal cannabis industry was, “What do you want to do?” It took me a while to figure out what it was that I wanted to do. The one thing that I did know was that I deserved a space here. I'm supposed to be here. It took me honing in on what it is that I wanted to do to be able to say, ”This is how I'm going to move forward.” When I began defining what that looked like, more opportunities started coming to me, even from the same people who were already asking me “What do you want to do?”


Stephanie:

That makes all the sense in the world. And that is a great first question to ask yourself. When we get out and see what the market looks like for some, we want to dive head-first into it without having the tools to make it happen and that can be incredibly frustrating.


Amber Davidson: 

Specifically for somebody who is in the same position that we’re in as a felon. I just recently got my dream job working with Cannifest, a 2-day music and cannabis festival in Humboldt County, but it took me having to interview with several places, like the local casino, where I got a big, fat “Unless you can get your felony expunged, absolutely not!” It was very disheartening. I don't know if it's because as soon as you Google my name, my case comes up, but once I found what it is that I wanted to do, I started even getting real interviews with people who were ready to go to the next step, but then having to have that conversation with people that are not in the cannabis industry, and saying “...so I do have a felony.” I had to practice having that conversation. Figuring out how I was going to portray what happened to me, and what were the events of my story that I'm willing to share with people. Coming to terms with how it may be received. Figuring that out is probably one of the best pieces of advice I can give.


Stephanie:

With all that you have experienced, how have those experiences motivated you to be an advocate for reform?


Amber Davidson: 

It's really hard to see people sitting in a place that I once was and didn't have the support that exists today. It's really important to amplify everyone else's mission like LPP or other organizations that are trying to do good by trying to be that bridge and include as many people within the cannabis industry as possible. It's unfathomable to me how LPP can support so many people when we look at how many people are still incarcerated. In all of the different ways, you know whether it be helping them find attorneys, helping them get back on their feet when they get out, helping their families while they're in, making sure that people are getting letters and being remembered and talked about. It's really important to me to also amplify that message for everybody because bridging the gap between people who are in the industry today that even acknowledge that this is a reality, which a lot of people don't even want to acknowledge. That's my main advocacy goal.


Stephanie:

How do you think that your background and your experiences help influence the public perception of cannabis, and what a cannabis “criminal” looks like?


Amber Davidson: 

I've been hopeful and getting more comfortable being the face of the idea that I could be your sister, daughter, or wife. Sometimes it's a little bit disheartening because some people don't see it as that. They're just like “Okay, cool. You got in trouble. That's not gonna happen to me.” A lot of people don't think of it as being a real reality because of the way that the laws are in each State. It's easy to live in your bubble and forget that our experience is still a very real possibility for anyone.


Stephanie:

That's one of the challenges I feel like I encounter a lot, people feeling like it's so safe and forgetting that it's federally illegal. The normalization of cannabis is great, but I fear it will become so normalized that people forget about the tens of thousands incarcerated.


Amber Davidson: 

My goal is not to scare people but to remind them that the plant is still under siege by many people. Many people have put themselves out there in social media land, trying to amplify their voice or their brand, and in turn, ended up getting caught in the crosshairs over a variety of things, but unless we keep talking about it, how will others ever learn?

Stephanie:

I couldn't imagine if all of the advocates just stopped talking about it. If there was no LPP, no Free My Weedman. I know what not being fought for feels like and I can't imagine not being the voice that I didn't have serving my 10-year sentence. If you had one message for outgoing President Biden, the incoming new administration, or state governors, what would that message be? How can they right the wrongs of cannabis criminalization?


Amber Davidson: 

I think there needs to be a better understanding of the disparities in the types of crimes and the types of sentences that are being given right now, the punishments do not fit the “crimes” 99% of the time. I don't know if there's a way to right this wrong. If they decide to deschedule things or reschedule things, what we did is no longer considered a crime. There is no making things right for us, but they can start with the release of currently incarcerated cannabis prisoners, that is a given, then really taking a look at moving forward and not treating cultivators and distributors like we had bad intentions with what we were doing.


Stephanie:

Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me, Amber. I don't think people hear enough from the women who have had these experiences. Your voice is incredibly valuable. Thank you for your advocacy, your work in the space, and for bringing Cannifest to Humboldt!

Sixteen Years and Counting: The Story of Parker Coleman

By Stephanie Shepard • October 26, 2026
Parker Coleman should be thinking about what comes next. He should have been thinking about how he would celebrate his recent 41st birthday, spending time with his family, building a career, falling in love, making plans, and living the life that so many of us take for granted. Instead, Parker is still in prison. He has spent nearly his entire adult life behind bars, serving a 60-year federal sentence for a nonviolent cannabis conspiracy. He was in his early twenties when his life changed forever. Today, the plant at the center of his case is legal or decriminalized in much of the country, and a multibillion-dollar cannabis industry has grown around it. But Parker is still serving 60 years. And perhaps the hardest part is that every one of his codefendants has gone home. His codefendant, Corvain Cooper, received a pardon from President Trump in January 2021 after serving a life sentence. Another codefendant, Clyde "Monroe" Wilburn, spent 14 years as a fugitive before turning himself in. Within days, prosecutors moved to dismiss his indictment, and the same judge who sentenced Parker released Wilburn. Parker remains in prison. Still waiting. The Day Everything Changed Parker remembers the day his life changed with extraordinary clarity. He was at a car dealership picking up his car after repairs when federal agents came after him. "They jumped on the hood of my vehicle with guns," Parker recalled. "My mouth was busted from slamming against the steering wheel. I thought it was a robbery at first." When he tried to run, an ICE agent who had arrested him two weeks earlier on the same charges tripped him. The agent told him that if he made a phone call and cooperated, he would not have to go to prison. Parker refused. That decision, made in the back of a car behind a cafeteria off Independence Boulevard, would shape the next sixteen years of his life. A Family That Never Stopped Standing With Him For Parker, incarceration has never been something that affected only him. As his case moved forward, his codefendants began cooperating with prosecutors, including making statements about his younger sister and wearing a wire on his mother. At one point, Parker was faced with the possibility that his own mother could be indicted as prosecutors tried to pressure him into cooperating. He remembers telling her the news while he was being held at the Mecklenburg County Jail in Charlotte, North Carolina. Her response is something Parker has carried with him ever since. "Son, you know I love you to death," she told him. "Fight for your life. We're here with you. But what we will not support is you telling on others to get out of prison on account of my name. You choose to live a certain way. So you take what comes with that." It was one of the hardest conversations of his life. And it says a lot about the family Parker comes from. "I couldn't imagine the woman who birthed me sending me letters from prison to prison over ghost weed," he said. "That's just unfathomable." Sixteen Years of Moments He Can't Get Back The true cost of Parker's sentence is not measured in years alone. It is measured in birthdays. In family dinners missed. In relationships that never had the chance to grow. In watching the people you love get older through letters, phone calls, and photographs instead of being there beside them. Parker hasn't seen his parents in more than a decade because of their health issues. The last time he saw his niece, she was three years old. She turns thirteen next month. He has watched from behind prison walls as his parents moved through their forties and into their sixties. His grandmother, who he says wants nothing more than to see him have a child of his own, will turn 81 this year. And then there are the people he will never get back. Parker lost his Nana, an uncle, and an aunt while incarcerated. They were people who helped raise him while his father served overseas in the Marines. Those are the losses that don't show up on a sentencing document. When Parker was asked what prison has taken from him, his answer was simple: "Time and opportunity to be successful." He talked about the relationships he never had the chance to build: romantic relationships, business relationships, friendships. A life interrupted before it had a chance to fully begin. He Doesn't Call It Hope When asked how he has held onto hope after sixteen years in prison, Parker offered an answer that sounds surprising at first. "I hate hope," he said. "I don't hope for anything." For Parker, hope can feel like waiting for someone else to decide when your life gets to begin again. "Hope is cruel, basically pacifying an issue you know is not going to be okay," he explained. "In my reality, I know I'll be out soon. So I move with conviction toward that goal." That conviction has carried him through a level 7 maximum-security prison without allowing incarceration to define who he is. He has watched people around him lose themselves to the trauma of prison. "A lot of people, under my circumstances, have given up," he said. "They might be physically here, but they're gone mentally," Parker says he has fought to remain himself. "My mental strength hasn't allowed me to succumb to the trauma we see on an everyday basis. My morals and principles are still the same as before incarceration." A World That Changed Without Him Perhaps one of the most painful parts of Parker's story is the world he has watched change from inside his cell. The same cannabis plant that became the foundation of his sentence has become a legitimate business, a source of jobs, investment, and wealth. Companies built around cannabis are publicly traded. Entrepreneurs are building careers and businesses around an industry that did not exist in its current form when Parker was sentenced. He knows that world could have been his, too. "I probably would've been a part of one of those billion-dollar companies if I were free," Parker said. "I was doing my research thoroughly on government taxes and the parameters of the legal weed business before incarceration." Instead, he is still serving a 60-year sentence. And to people who legally purchase cannabis today, Parker has a message: "They could've been me at any given time, depending on their location in the United States." That is the part of Parker's story that is easy to miss when we talk about cannabis legalization only in terms of laws, markets, and tax revenue. There are people whose lives were permanently changed by the same prohibition that the country is now moving away from. Parker is one of them. What Parker Wants Us to Remember Parker has thought about what he would say to the judge who sentenced him. His words are not complicated. "All of us make mistakes. I haven't made 60 years' worth of mistakes." Then he asks a question that has stayed with him for years: "I could've been your son or grandson, and the chances you give your family, the amount of time you gave me, are a little close to none. So what did I do for you to throw away my life when violent offenders come in and out of prison every day, even for rape and senseless killings? What justifies my sentence?" It is a question about proportionality. But it is also a question about whether a person should be defined forever by the worst thing they have been convicted of. Parker does not believe his life should end where his sentence began. Parker Still Believes His Story Is Not Over After sixteen years, Parker could understandably believe that his story has already been written. He doesn't. He looks at what happened to his codefendants and sees evidence that change is possible. "I have full faith my story is by far not over," he said. When Parker comes home, his dreams are not extravagant. He wants to see his family. He wants the opportunity to build a life. He wants to be "the voice for people who can't speak for themselves." And he wants to take the support he has received from people who never stopped believing in him and pay it forward. "Freedom will mean everything to me," Parker said. "My whole existence is based on freedom, not a cage. I can't accomplish any of my dreams in a small bathroom known as a cell." After sixteen years, Parker is still waiting to find out what the rest of his life can look like. Parker's Story Is Not Over Parker's case is a reminder that the end of cannabis prohibition does not automatically mean freedom for the people who were imprisoned under it. His codefendants have been released or had their sentences changed. Parker remains behind bars, serving a 60-year sentence for a nonviolent cannabis offense. The world around him has changed dramatically. He has not. He is still a son. Still a grandson. Still an uncle. Still the person his family has loved all these years. Still someone with dreams for what his life could become. And still someone waiting for the opportunity to come home. Why This Work Matters Parker's story is why Last Prisoner Project exists. Our work is about people, not statistics. It is about knowing the names behind these sentences and refusing to let them disappear simply because the laws around cannabis have changed. It means working case by case to pursue clemency, commutations, compassionate release, and other pathways to freedom. It means supporting people and their families while they are incarcerated and helping people rebuild their lives when they come home. And it means continuing to tell these stories, not because Parker is a statistic, but because he is a person whose life is still unfolding. Every letter written, every petition filed, every law passed, every record cleared, and every person who stands with this work can move someone closer to freedom. Parker has spent sixteen years waiting. His story is far from over.  Help Last Prisoner Project free every last cannabis prisoner. Learn more and support the work at Last Prisoner Project .

"Nobody Should Be Locked Up for a Plant": Kelly Barbieri's Story of Loss, Resilience, and Reform

By Mary Bailey • August 20, 2026
For Kelly Barbieri, incarceration for a cannabis offense in Georgia cost her far more than her freedom. It cost her time she can never get back with her family, time she needed most when tragedy struck at home. Her story is one of grief, community, and an unshakable belief that no one should ever go through what she and her family endured. A Family Rooted in Tradition Kelly and her husband, Dan, have been married for more than 30 years and have raised two sons together, the younger of whom is autistic. Kelly describes their household as very traditional: the couple made sure a parent was always home, even when that meant working separate shifts and sacrificing time together. Kelly eventually left her teaching job to homeschool her younger son. Family life centered on simple pleasures: cooking, watching old movies, spending time outdoors, caring for their dogs, cats, and chickens, and tending a garden of food, flowers, and medicinal plants. Everyone in the family is a devoted Grateful Dead fan, a shared love of music that has long been part of their household. How It Began In March 2018, the family's Georgia home was raided after Kelly provided cannabis to a friend whose mother had cancer. Unbeknownst to Kelly, that friend had become a confidential informant to help resolve his own drug charges; he later died of a fentanyl overdose. The case didn't go to trial until late August 2023, more than five years later. Kelly and Dan were convicted of manufacturing and distributing marijuana and sentenced to 10 years, with three to serve. The judge issued a modification order recommending early parole so the couple could return home to care for their special-needs son, but the parole board set Kelly's tentative parole date for October 2026, just two months before her maximum release date. A Hard Beginning Kelly's incarceration started with Diagnostics, an intake process she describes as the hardest part of her time inside. "We ate cold food out of Styrofoam trays, were often in lockdown, and it was just a gross place," she recalls. It was the only period, she says, when she felt genuinely unsafe. But even that hardship paled in comparison to what came next. An Unimaginable Loss While incarcerated, Kelly learned that her eldest son was sick. His health declined rapidly, and he died a week later. She was powerless to help. "If I had been home, I could have made him go to the doctor or hospital," she says. "That feeling of helplessness and being powerless was horrible." The loss shook her faith. "I think what helped me get through it the most was the other women in there with me who had been through similar experiences and supported me," Kelly says. "I don't know that it was any kind of faith that helped. If anything, I lost some faith in a higher power during that time." What carried her forward was her remaining son, and her determination to stay strong for him. Kelly recently attended her son's memorial, an experience she calls healing. "Seeing how many people loved him and came to honor him warmed my heart," she says. She still grieves every day, but has found grounding in nature, family, and keeping her son's memory alive. "I know the only way to get through this is to feel it, and remember that grief is the price we pay for love," she reflects. "I believe he would want me to live, and not just exist and survive." The Power of Community Even from behind bars, Kelly felt the support of people she'd never met. Letters from strangers reminded her she wasn't alone. "It's so nice to hear your name called at mail call, and then just hearing the validation from others that what I was going through was so ridiculous," she says. She saved every letter. "It still makes me feel good to know that there is a large community of people out there who want to help those in a similar situation to ours, and it definitely gives me hope." Last Prisoner Project's Role Kelly remembers the exact day she learned Last Prisoner Project would sponsor her case, a day that had started with the loss of her beloved dog. "I was so depressed, but then my son told me that y'all had accepted us to sponsor, and it really brightened my day," she says. The financial support meant she no longer had to rely on her sons to put money on her books, and a grant to her son eased the family's financial strain. "LPP was truly a blessing," she says. "It's easy to feel lost and alone while incarcerated, and knowing y'all were there helped so much." Reflecting on LPP's broader work, Kelly is direct: "Some organizations just pay a lot of lip service to cannabis policy change, while LPP is actually doing something to help, and that is huge." Looking Ahead Now home and back at work, Kelly is rebuilding the life she and Dan always envisioned, one centered on family, gardening, cooking, and caring for their special-needs son, while carrying the memory of the son they lost every day. But she's also clear-eyed about the work still ahead. "My husband and I should have never been sentenced like we were in the first place, and then for the parole board to keep us in there for so long, even months after our son died, was just unnecessary," she says. "Nobody should be locked up for a plant, period. No victim, no crime." Her call to action is simple: full decriminalization of cannabis at the national level, so state reform can follow. "Nobody stopped using cannabis because we were locked up," she says. "So the whole incarceration thing is pointless."  Kelly Barbieri is a Last Prisoner Project constituent. Her story is shared with her permission as part of LPP's ongoing work to end the incarceration of individuals for cannabis-related offenses and support their successful reentry.

A Mother Still Behind Bars for Cannabis: The Story of Brandy Fisher

By Mary Bailey • May 18, 2026
A Mother Still Behind Bars for Cannabis: The Story of Brandy Fisher While legalization spreads across America, women like Brandy Fisher remain forgotten inside federal prison — serving out decade-long sentences for marijuana as the world outside changes without them. How It Began Brandy Fisher never imagined she would spend a decade in federal prison. Charged with distribution of 1,000 kilograms of marijuana, she became a target when family members and close friends she trusted were already working as federal informants — six of them. When agents approached her first and asked if she wanted to talk, she asked for a lawyer. That decision, the right one under any standard, did not protect her from what came next. “The 6 informants who were close family and whom I thought were best friends had turned federal agents,” Brandy recalls. She took a plea deal — ten years under Rule 11(c)(1)(C), a binding agreement that locks the sentence in place regardless of changes in law. And the law has changed dramatically. “Sitting back and watching the world change daily is amazing — how now the world can see that marijuana can be used to cure people of sicknesses.” — Brandy Fisher As state after state has legalized or decriminalized cannabis, and as federal reform conversations have grown louder, Brandy remains locked in. Her binding plea means no retroactive relief applies to her. She watches from inside, and she waits. While Brandy serves her sentence, her family carries the weight too. Her father has received a family support grant from the Last Prisoner Project to help offset the costs of caring for Brandy’s six-year-old son. And when Brandy is eventually released, she will be eligible for a Last Prisoner Project reentry grant — funding designed to help cannabis prisoners like her rebuild their lives from the ground up. Life at FCI Waseca Brandy first survived FCI Dublin — the California federal prison that became the subject of a federal investigation into widespread staff sexual abuse. She was transferred to FCI Waseca in Minnesota, which she describes as one of the worst women’s federal prisons in the country. The conditions she describes are a portrait of institutional neglect. The commissary is shut down for weeks at a time. The kitchen served her food with a live beetle on the tray — she no longer eats there. Women are denied body oils because, as Brandy recounts, the staff claim it draws unwanted attention from male officers. A captain reportedly declared that commissary soda was being removed because women there were overweight. Cleaning supplies — bleach, Ajax — are withheld, yet women are asked to clean bathrooms that handle used sanitary products, sometimes without gloves. An outbreak of H. pylori, a bacterial infection that can lead to stomach cancer if untreated, has affected a significant portion of the population. “They are trying to keep it on the low,” Brandy says. “We are run around by majority men officers — there are unpleasant comments made about women and their sexual body parts, comments about the way our clothes fit.” — Brandy Fisher The harassment, she says, is daily and institutional. The message from staff is clear: the needs and dignity of the women housed there are not a priority. Safety, Mental Health, and a Six-Year-Old Boy Brandy shares her room with three individuals convicted of serious child sex offenses carrying sentences of 25 or more years, as well as others convicted of drug offenses and one convicted of murder. The federal system houses people across these vastly different profiles together, and any refusal to comply with the arrangement risks placement in the Special Housing Unit — solitary confinement. For Brandy, the psychological weight is not abstract. She has a six-year-old son on the outside, being raised by his 80-year-old great-grandfather. Every night, she falls asleep thinking about child predators — the ones inside, and the ones who may be near her child. Mental health support at Waseca is, by her account, almost nonexistent. There is one mental health staff member. “I will not call her a doctor,” Brandy says, “because when she talks to you, she is angry herself and she doesn’t give good advice.” When Brandy first arrived at FCI Dublin, she was immediately stripped of all mental health medications she had been taking for four years. No taper. No transition. No plan. What Clemency Would Mean Brandy is currently pursuing clemency with legal support from the Last Prisoner Project. For her, release is not the end of the story — it is the beginning of one she has been carefully building in her mind, and on the page, for six years. She wants to return to real estate: flipping and staging homes, putting them back on the market. She is also planning a nonprofit bookstore dedicated to donating reading materials to federal prisons nationwide. Over the past year alone, she has read more than 200 books. It has changed her. “Reading gives me hope, and it makes my time fly by. I want to help feed the minds of others with learning materials, love stories, action-packed books — and let’s not forget the hood books that keep us all on edge.” — Brandy Fisher She points out that in six years, not a single author of the many book series her family has ordered for her has ever donated books to FCI Waseca or FCI Dublin. She intends to be the person who changes that. Brandy Fisher is not asking for pity. She is asking to be seen — and asking those with the power to grant clemency to consider what second chances are for, and who deserves them. Write to Brandy — Let Her Know She Hasn’t Been Forgotten One of the hardest parts of incarceration is feeling invisible. A letter from a stranger can be a lifeline. If Brandy’s story has moved you, take five minutes to write to her directly. Tell her you read her story. Tell her she matters. Tell her people on the outside are fighting for her. Brandy Fisher 47495-509 FCI Waseca P.O. Box 1731 Waseca, MN 56093 You also have the option to write your letter to Brandy on the Last Prisoner Project website, and we will print and mail it for you: https://www.lastprisonerproject.org/letter-writing Support the Last Prisoner Project Brandy’s family support grant, her legal advocacy, and her reentry grant when she is released — all of it is made possible by donors like you. Last Prisoner Project works every day to free cannabis prisoners, support their families while they are inside, and help them rebuild when they come home. To keep doing this work, we need your support. Donate here .