Finding Freedom and Purpose: Deshaun Durham's Story

Stephanie Shepard • February 4, 2025

The holidays are a time for joy, family, and reflection. For DeShaun Durham, this past New Year’s Eve marked a profound moment of gratitude and rediscovery—the first time in three years he could celebrate surrounded by loved ones. His journey back to freedom is not just a personal triumph but a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the urgent need for reform in how we treat cannabis-related offenses.


DeShaun’s story begins in Manhattan, Kansas—the "Little Apple"—where he grew up. Like many teenagers, he struggled with depression and found solace in cannabis. By 21, however, his involvement with the plant led to a life-altering experience: a raid on his home that ended with 15 armed officers pointing guns at him. The crime? Possession of 2.4 pounds of cannabis in a state where it remains illegal. The punishment? An excessive sentence of 92 months in prison.


The disparity in how cannabis offenses are treated across the United States is glaring. In states like Colorado and California, cannabis is a thriving legal industry. Yet in Kansas, DeShaun’s life was derailed for possessing what many now buy legally. “The prosecutor told me at one of my preliminary hearings that I got caught with cannabis, so that meant I deserved to go to prison,” DeShaun recalls. He’d hoped for probation. Instead, he faced the loss of his twenties and a bleak future.


DeShaun’s initial months in prison were harrowing. Transferred to a Super Max facility, he endured inhumane conditions: unbearable heat, 10-by-10 cells, and a mere 15 minutes outside each day. He feared that this might be his reality for the next eight years. Yet, amid the despair, hope flickered.

The turning point came when Deshaun decided to apply for clemency. Despite the skepticism of fellow inmates who had seen countless applications ignored, DeShaun pressed on. His determination to reclaim his life was unwavering, even as he anxiously watched Kansas’ gubernatorial election, knowing that a change in leadership could seal his fate. When Governor Laura Kelly, a Democrat, was re-elected, DeShaun’s hope grew stronger.


A key figure in DeShaun’s journey was Donte West, a fellow advocate who understood the struggles of incarceration. Through connections and the support of an organization; Last Prisoner Project, DeShaun’s case gained traction. Donte’s commitment to helping others resonated deeply with DeShaun’s situation, and together, they navigated the labyrinth of legal appeals and advocacy.

The moment DeShaun learned his sentence had been commuted is one he will never forget. “It felt like my spirit had left my body,” he says, recalling the shock and disbelief. For the prison attorney who delivered the news, it was a rare and remarkable moment in his 30-year career. 

For DeShaun, it was the beginning of a second chance.


Now, as a free man, DeShaun reflects on the broken system that took years of his life. His story is a stark reminder of the urgent need to address cannabis-related incarceration, especially as societal attitudes toward the plant continue to shift. Deshaun’s resolve to use his experience to help others is inspiring. He’s determined to make his voice heard, to ensure that others don’t face the same fate he did.


DeShaun’s story is not just his own. It’s the story of countless others who remain behind bars for offenses tied to a plant that is increasingly embraced across the country. It’s a call to action for policymakers, advocates, and communities to push for reform. Most importantly, it’s a reminder that even in the darkest moments, hope and perseverance can light the way to freedom.


Last Prisoner Project: First question...how were your holidays?

 

Deshaun Durham: They were good. I'm glad I got to do something on New Year's Eve. Being around my family for the first time in 3 years was nice. It was a great feeling to be able to enjoy that again.


Last Prisoner Project: What did bringing in a New Year feel like? It's really New Year, new you from what you did last year to this past year. Since you've been out, you've even gone to a couple of Kansas City Chiefs games, how has that felt for you?

 

Deshaun Durham: It was a good feeling. I'm glad I could spend my new year trying to help others and make their voice heard. Holidays had been taken away for so long that they hit differently. It was hard to be locked up and not be around your family while being in a negative environment when the holidays are supposed to be a happy time.

 

Last Prisoner Project: What have your Christmases, Thanksgivings, and New Year's been like for the past 3 years?

 

Deshaun Durham: I tried not to think about it, taking them as just another day. You don't want to think about moments like that when you're in prison because it makes the time harder.

 

Last Prisoner Project: Can you talk a bit about these past few years and how you found yourself away from your family, where you've been for the past 3 years, and how you got there?


Deshaun Durham: I was in a Hutchison Correctional Facility in Hutchison, Kansas. I had gotten caught with 2.4 pounds of cannabis in Manhattan, Kansas. My home was raided, my door was kicked down, and there were about 15 police officers, all with their guns pointed at me... just to find some cannabis. I found it excessive that I had guns pointed at me for a plant that's legal in so many states. I was on bond for 2 years while I worked a job and stayed out of trouble, but they still felt the need to sentence me to 92 months in prison. The prosecutor told me at one of my preliminary hearings that I got caught with cannabis, so that meant I deserved to go to prison. 


Last Prisoner Project: What's your background? Where did you grow up?

 

Deshaun Durham: I grew up in Manhattan, Kansas, my whole life. Some people call it the Little Apple. 


Last Prisoner Project: That's funny. When did you become involved with the plant? 


Deshaun Durham: At a very young age, I was probably in the 7th grade. I know I was a little young, but I was a kid that always got bullied. I struggled with a lot of depression, so I picked it up fairly early on in life, but it helped me through a lot of tough times, growing up. I'm just glad I was able to find a way to help me keep going in life. 


Last Prisoner Project: Is that why you decided to help bring that to others who may be struggling? 


Deshaun Durham: That was in 2018. I was going through another tough time because, having a lot of family issues, I had no money and nowhere to go. In my mind, I was thinking, "Oh, it's just weed, everyone loves weed. I'm not going to get in that much trouble for it. I'll probably get probation. I know it's illegal in my state, but I won't get in that much trouble." I'd never been in that kind of trouble before in my life. Reality hit me when they started tossing out the 92 to 144 months, and that's when I began to see I was mistaken about how harsh they would be towards me. 


Last Prisoner Project: Do you attribute that to being ignorant of the process or naive to the seriousness of where the system was with cannabis? 


Deshaun Durham: Both. I didn't know what could happen, and I didn't think cannabis was that serious. 


Last Prisoner Project: You were very young when this all happened. At what age did you get incarcerated? 


Deshaun Durham: I was 21. 


Last Prisoner Project: 21. So as a young man facing these 8, maybe more, years in prison that they were throwing out at you. How did you process the sentence you were given when you knew that that was your sentence? 


Deshaun Durham: Yeah, it was a lot of, you know, just like thinking that like, Oh, I lost my whole twenties, and you know I didn't know what prison was like, you know, I was kind of like, oh, I wonder what's gonna happen? I was just this young kid who's never been in trouble in his life. So you see, all the TV shows and everything like, Oh, people in prison, you know, they're going to do bad things, or this is going to happen, and that's going to happen, and was just ignorant to the situation. I thought prison was a bad place and nothing good would come out of it. I was thinking that my life was over essentially for almost 10 years. I thought I would get out of prison with nothing and be almost 30, and I wouldn't have any friends because they would have all moved on, forgetting about me. 


Last Prisoner Project: At what point while you were incarcerated did it set in for you when you were sitting there and you thought that this was your fate? Or maybe you didn't. Maybe you were always like, no, I'm going to get out of this. 


Deshaun Durham: Reality kicked in when I was being processed in Super Max, where I was for four months. It was a rough experience. It was during the summer, there was no A/C, and I was stuck in a 10 by 10 cell. I just remember it being so hot. I had no bed sheets or anything on my bed, and I was thinking, man, I hope this whole 8 years isn't like this! People would try to open the windows to get some relief from a breeze, but then the officers would come in with the maintenance people and cut all the knobs off the windows so people couldn't open the windows. We only got 15 min out every day, so I couldn't talk to my family during that time. I had hope that I could get out early because everyone, even the officers, when I told them how much time I got for what I did, would say, "Oh, you need to appeal. That doesn't even make any sense!" I kept hoping that if other people agreed that it wasn't fair, maybe people higher up would agree with it also. 


Last Prisoner Project: You spoke about your family. Tell me about your family and how they were affected by your incarceration. 


Deshaun Durham: I live with my mom, my little brother, my sister, and my mom's husband right now. My dad lives in New Hampshire, and a lot of relatives from my dad's family live in Massachusetts. I have 3 sisters and a brother there. My sisters are twins, and one of them had a baby while I was locked up, so I'm an uncle now. I haven't even had the chance to meet my new niece yet. 


Last Prisoner Project: Being close to your Mom, in what ways did you see your incarceration affect her? 


Deshaun Durham: It definitely hurt her. She was really the only person I could talk to when I was having a bad day or when things weren't going right. She didn't want to hear me down and depressed every day. 


Last Prisoner Project: Did you ever feel the need to hide how down you really were, or did you portray to her that you were doing better than you were, for her benefit? 


Deshaun Durham: Sometimes. There were times when I didn't want to talk to anyone because I didn't want to burden them with my problems. I just wanted people to enjoy life out there and I was just going to accept the reality for what it was. 


Last Prisoner Project: You started to feel like there was help for you out there. How did you start your journey to reunite with your family and continue with your life? 


Deshaun Durham: Between the heat and the poor conditions, I knew I didn't want this to be my foreseeable future. I heard that I could turn in a clemency application. I knew so many people who turned in clemency applications but got nothing. They would say, "Oh, yeah, good luck with that, I've been waiting on my clemency for, like ten years and three governors", but I thought it was worth a try. I filed and also wrote a nice 4-page letter to the governor and told myself, "I turned it in, now I just have to wait." I knew that a Democratic Governor would probably be my best shot at any action. It was an election year for Kansas Governor. I stayed up all night looking through the window of my cell at the TV, watching the election, sweating, and hoping that Laura Kelly won because I knew if she didn't win, my chances might not be as good. Thankfully, she won. It was a relief. I've never been so in tune with an election like that until it directly affected me. 


Last Prisoner Project: Donte West, at what point did he enter your world? 


Deshaun Durham: I was in the same place where he served time. When I got sent to Hutchinson, I met another inmate, Antonio Wyatt, and I told him about my case. He told me that he had a similar case, and he said, "Well, I know these people that could help you. I was locked up with my Guy, Donte when I was in Lansing, and we made a pact that whoever got out first, we'll try to get the other out. I could give him your information and have him work on your case because I hate seeing you in the same situation as me, and you're a lot younger than me." If it wasn't for Antonio, I would have never found Last Prisoner Project or Donte, and it probably wouldn't have worked out the same way. 


Last Prisoner Project: Donte took a huge interest in your case. He's passionate about all that he does as an advocate, but I think something in you, he saw in himself, with your age and different things that you've gone through in the past, it seemed to resonate with him, and he took it to heart and pushed it to the point where you were up for clemency. When you learned about your clemency being granted and that you were going to be released, what was your first thought? 


Deshaun Durham: I remember the exact moment that I found out because it was a bad day. I was mad because I lost a card game. I hopped on the phone to call my mom, but she told me to call her back in 10 minutes, so I decided to check my messages on my tablet and I saw that I had a message from Mary Bailey, and it was in all caps, GOVERNOR KELLY COMMUTED YOUR SENTENCE! It felt like my spirit had left my body, and I was looking down at myself, I didn't think it was real. 


Last Prisoner Project: Being told that this nightmare is over must have made the day better. 


Deshaun Durham: I felt like I was dreaming. The attorney for the prison walked up to me with a letter in his hand and said, "I had to hand-deliver this letter to you, and this doesn't happen often. This is the first time I've seen this happen, and I've been at Hutchinson for 30 years!" He told me to make the best of my opportunity and don't get in trouble again. It was like everyone in the prison, you know, was happy for me because everyone was congratulating me, even the guards were congratulating me. I think it was the first person in Hutch who got that type of relief almost four and a half years early. 


Last Prisoner Project: It should happen much more. That's why not only was your family rooting for you, but you saw other prisoners and even the officers wanting justice for you. Many people were out here so excited when the announcement was made about your release. When I got home, I felt anxious, how are you feeling? Do you think about how blessed you are by being home so soon? 


Deshaun Durham: I'm still taking it in and just trying to enjoy life. I'm working at a Chinese restaurant and trying to save as much money as I can. I'm still on parole, but when I get off parole, I think I'm going to move to Kansas City, Missouri, and turn this experience into something productive. I want to find my spot in the legal cannabis industry. I have been researching steps I could take to find what fits for me. I'm passionate about cannabis, and since I lost 3 years of my life in prison because of the criminalization of the plant, I think it's only right that something good comes of it. 


Last Prisoner Project: At any point through this process, was there a sense of guilt that you were getting out and leaving people behind? And is that why you're now so passionate about giving that hand back to people who are still incarcerated?


Deshaun Durham: I met a lot of good people there. One guy's been in prison for 11 years for like 90 pounds, and he still has two more years to go. I'm just tired of the injustice. It's ruining people's lives and taking them away from their families. I just want to help as many people as I can with the opportunities I've been given. 


Last Prisoner Project: We at LPP are grateful that you have been so generous with sharing your story. People must understand the impact of what being incarcerated for a cannabis-related offense is really like, and you're a perfect spokesperson for it. As we move forward, we are now advocating to a different administration. As we continue to fight, if you could snap your fingers, what would you like to see change with cannabis reform? 


Deshaun Durham: I think it should be legalized federally and regulated like alcohol and tobacco. Of course, anyone who's been in prison or is still in prison for cannabis should be free, and the barriers of entry to the legalized industry should be lifted for anyone who's ever been to prison for cannabis. I look forward to getting to the point where no one has to worry about getting a harsh punishment for a plant anymore.


Last Prisoner Project: I certainly hope that we get to hear your voice this year for 4/20 Day of Unity. Last year for 4/20, it was amazing to get so many organizations together that all have similar goals toward cannabis reform and and hear the voices of people like Donte West and Kyle Page. 


Deshaun Durham: I'll be there. 


Last Prisoner Project: When you were incarcerated, the industry was already up and flourishing so knew what the legal industry looked like right? 


Deshaun Durham: Yes. The hardest days were on 4/20 when I'd watch the news, they'd have a Stoner Movie Marathon, or they'd show all the 4/20 parades. I was serving 8 years for something that everyone was enjoying on that very day. 


Last Prisoner Project: You have 24-36 months of parole. Are you feeling any pressure from that? Are you nervous about completing the parole, or is it already set in your head that you are going do this with no problem because you know the alternative, the other side of things? 


Deshaun Durham: I'm not worried. I haven't smoked for so long that I can wait to smoke for two more years. I'm not going to have any problems because I mostly just work, go home and do my research. I know that I can be more of a help to you guys when I'm off parole, and I can travel and do other things. There is a little bit of anxiety because there's so much that I want to accomplish. I got out, and I want to help other people in my situation. I'm ready to start this first full year out in a positive way and see what it brings. Hopefully, there will be some doors opened for me to some good opportunities where I can better myself and my future. 


Last Prisoner Project: I know that there are a lot of people in your corner. Many LPP partners believe in second-chance hiring and will surely welcome you into the legal space when you're ready. I think it's very cool that Donte is giving that hand, and he gave that hand to Kyle Kyle Page, and Kyle Page is giving that hand to other people. And now you are an extension of that. 

Last Prisoner Project: So, you know, let's knock on wood and hope that the current administration releases some people. What would you say to them? 


Deshaun Durham: Yes, most definitely. I would just like to say it's a very senseless and barbaric war, and the people deserve to be free. For something that has zero confirmed overdoses, and has very little, if any, negative effects on society. I just feel like everyone deserves to be free.


Last Prisoner Project: Thank you so much for sharing some of your journey with us and speaking out for those who can't speak for themselves.

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 .

75 Years for Cannabis: The Story of Julian Andrade

By Mary Bailey • May 4, 2026
75 Years for Cannabis: The Story of Julian Andrade Julian Andrade is 22 years old. He was born and raised in Fort Worth, Texas, and he has now spent three of those years inside a prison cell, serving a 75-year sentence for a nonviolent cannabis charge. He also received concurrent terms of 50 and 10 years. No one was hurt. No violence was involved. Just a young man from Fort Worth, still maturing, whose life was upended by a system that chose punishment over proportion. Julian is a father. His son was born while he was incarcerated, a milestone he could not share, a childhood he cannot witness in person. His aunt stands firmly by his side, advocating for him and helping make sure his story gets told. Together, they are determined that what happened to Julian will not stay silent. This is his story, in his own words. A Fast Life and Bigger Dreams Before his arrest, Julian was someone who poured his time into the people he loved. "Before incarceration, I would spend any and all time that I could with my family and loved ones," he says. Underneath that, he carried real ambition. His goals were not small. He wanted to open businesses and bring others along with him, to create something and share it. "The path I thought I was on at 19 was a fast life that I did not know how to get out of." It's a sentence worth sitting with. A teenager who wanted to build something, who wanted to lift people up, caught in circumstances he didn't yet have the tools to escape. That kind of nuance rarely makes it into a courtroom. Shock, Confusion, and a Quiet Resolve When the verdict came down, Julian didn't rage. He went quiet. "I was in shock, loss of words, hurt, but mainly confused. I didn't hurt anyone. It was only cannabis." The confusion is understandable. Cannabis is now legal or decriminalized in the majority of U.S. states. The substance at the center of Julian's case is sold openly in dispensaries across the country. And yet, in Texas, a 19-year-old received a sentence longer than most people's entire lives. Julian has refused to let that sentence hollow him out. Since coming to prison, he says he has grown closer to God and encourages others to do the same. He uses the time to mature and to become a better man, not just for the people waiting for him on the outside, but for himself. "Since receiving my time, my perspective has changed completely. I now use this time to mature, grow, and become a better man for my family, friends, and my release, but most importantly myself." A Father Behind Bars Julian's son came into the world while Julian was incarcerated. There was no hospital room, no first cry he could hear, no hand to hold. There is only the wondering. "I miss my son daily. It hurts me knowing I can't help or even watch him grow up. I'm always wondering what he is doing, what kind of kid he is, and what he likes. Hoping one day I can do the same things with him that my grandpa did with me." That last line carries everything. A grandfather's love, passed down through memory, now at risk of being cut off by a sentence for a plant. Julian's son is growing up without his father. Julian is getting older without being able to watch his child grow. "My child means the world to me." The Daily Weight Ask Julian what his hardest challenges are, and his answers are not about prison conditions or legal policy in the abstract. They are deeply personal. "The biggest challenge I face daily is missing home. Hoping I'm free before my grandpa or mom passes. Being able to still be in my child's younger years. And enjoying life in the free world while I'm still young." He is racing against time on every front, against grief, against his son's fleeting childhood, against his own youth passing inside a cell. And yet something keeps him going. "The world is changing. But mainly dreaming about the things I will do and the life I want to live upon my release." He means it literally, too. Julian says he looks forward to pumping gas, walking through a grocery store, and one day helping others who find themselves in situations like his. The smallest freedoms, the ones most people never think about, are the ones he dreams about most. What Julian Wants You to Know If Julian could speak to lawmakers, advocates, and everyday people, he would not ask for sympathy. He would ask for honesty. "I know what I did. I broke the law. But I don't think people like myself or others should be serving long sentences, especially for something nonviolent or accepted in more than half of America and other parts of the world. I was still a kid when I came to prison. I was still growing up and maturing, and still am today. I didn't hurt anyone, never did, and never will. I don't deserve all this time. I understand I and others have broken the law, but we should not be doing more than 5 years for a plant." His aunt echoes that call. She has stood by Julian since the beginning, advocating loudly and consistently, refusing to let the system's silence become the final word on her nephew's life. Her support is a reminder that behind every incarcerated person is a family fighting to bring them home. Julian hopes that one day he will be able to share his testimony from the outside, to stand in front of others who are struggling and tell them there is a way through. That vision is part of what keeps him moving forward. The Door to Clemency Is Almost Sealed Shut Julian would like to pursue a sentence commutation, but Texas makes that road extraordinarily difficult. And even the path to clemency is nearly out of reach. Texas requires a written recommendation from a majority of the current trial officials, the present prosecuting attorney, the judge, and the sheriff or chief of police of the arresting agency from the county and court of offense, conviction, and release, along with full compliance with the board rules governing commutation of sentence, just to be eligible to apply. The very system that locked Julian up is the same one he'd need permission from to get out. His aunt has stood by him every step of the way, fighting to make sure his story is heard. Now we're helping make sure it is. A System Out of Step Julian's case is a stark illustration of how dramatically cannabis sentencing diverges across state lines. In one state, a person can legally purchase the same substance that earned Julian 75 years in Texas. That disparity is not justice. It is geography. Julian did not commit a violent crime. He was a teenager from Fort Worth who made choices in a life he didn't yet know how to navigate. He is now 22, a man and a father, spending what should be some of the freest years of his life behind bars. The question is not whether Julian broke a law. The question is whether this punishment fits any honest definition of justice. We believe it does not. "I hope what happened to me and others like me stops happening." So do we, Julian. Julian Andrade is a constituent represented by the Last Prisoner Project. If his story moved you, please take action. Contact your representatives, support cannabis sentencing reform, and consider donating to Last Prisoner Project so that we can continue to fight for the freedom of cannabis prisoners like Julian.

The Story of Cannabis Prisoner, Yasquasia Delcarmen

By Mary Bailey • May 4, 2026
Yasquasia Delcarmen is 29 years old. She is a mother, a musician, and an aspiring screenwriter. She was building a life — pursuing a creative career, studying communications and journalism, and raising her infant son — when a federal sentence of 8 years, followed by 3 years of probation, brought everything to a halt. She has now served 16 months. No one was hurt. No violence was involved. Her charges were for cannabis — a plant medicine that brings quality of life to millions of people — now legal or decriminalized across most of the country, yet still capable of costing a young woman nearly a decade of her life and separating a mother from her child. Yasquasia is telling her story because she hopes it will make a difference. She hopes it will matter soon. This is her story, in her own words. A Creative Life, Cut Short Before her arrest, Yasquasia was in motion. She had been pursuing a career as a music artist for years — real opportunities, real momentum — and studying communications and journalism because writing had always been a passion. She describes herself as someone who had talent and possibility right in front of her, but who hadn't yet slowed down enough to fully embrace it. "I had a lot of opportunities to really make something of that. I feel like I just didn't slow down long enough to embrace the talents I had in front of me." She has not let go of those dreams. From inside, she has decided to pick up her writing again and pursue screenwriting. The artist is still very much alive. She is just working under very different circumstances. A Crashing Wave When the sentence came down, Yasquasia nearly collapsed. "Receiving a 96-month sentence hit me like a crashing wave. It was a lot. It devastated my family. A moment I'll never forget. I almost passed out, to be honest." She was remanded into custody the same day. No goodbye on her own terms. No transition. Just a courtroom and then a cell, and a son who was 11 months old waiting on the other side of a door she could no longer open. Sixteen months in, the weight of that sentence hasn't disappeared. But Yasquasia has found a way to carry it. She has realized how important it is to stay uplifted and productive, and she takes it one day at a time. Her perspective has shifted — not because the sentence feels any more just, but because she has chosen, deliberately, not to be hollowed out by it. A Mother Behind Bars If there is one thread that runs through everything Yasquasia shares, it is her son. He was 11 months old when she was taken into custody. He is now two. In the months between, she has missed his first steps, his first Christmas, and his first birthday. "It's tough. But it's important to stay uplifted — so I focus on the positives. He is well taken care of. I have an amazing support system. He's happy, healthy, and safe, and knowing that puts my heart at so much ease." She is clear about accountability. She does not excuse the choices that led her here. She has had to forgive herself — genuinely forgive herself — and make the daily decision to get up and become the best version of herself she can be, so that when she comes home, she can give her son everything he needs and more. "My son definitely means the world to me. I messed up putting myself in this situation to be away from him, but I've had to forgive myself and get up every day to work on being the best version of myself I can be so I can come home to him." Her son is growing up without her there. She is getting older without being able to watch him grow. That is the sentence within the sentence. Just Being Here When asked about her greatest daily challenges, Yasquasia's answer is simple and total: just being here. Being away from home, away from comfort, away from family, away from her own life. What keeps her going is faith and purpose. She describes keeping close to God and locking in on things that contribute to her growth as the fuel that keeps her hopeful. In a system designed to strip agency, she is carving out space for growth every single day. What Yasquasia Wants You to Know If Yasquasia could speak directly to lawmakers, judges, prosecutors, and advocates, she would not ask for pity. She would ask them to think harder about what punishment is actually supposed to accomplish. "It didn't take giving me 96 months for me to understand where I went wrong. Sitting here for years for my first legal mistake is not beneficial to me or my child." She takes full accountability. But she challenges the assumption that years of incarceration are necessary — or effective — to change someone's behavior. What people in the system sometimes need most, she says, is something that is in short supply: empathy. She also speaks to the mechanics of the federal system itself — the way cooperation with prosecutors can dramatically reduce a sentence, while refusing to cooperate means the full weight of the law comes down regardless of the underlying conduct. She finds that dynamic troubling and hard to reconcile with any straightforward idea of justice. "If my crime is bad and you want to punish me for it — unless I give you what you want — is it really that bad? A lot of stuff just doesn't make sense." And then there is the disparity she lives alongside every day: marijuana charges, in a federal facility, serving as much time or more than people convicted of trafficking cocaine or methamphetamine — and when she does get out, three more years of probation will follow. Cannabis is now legal or decriminalized in the majority of U.S. states. The substance at the center of Yasquasia's case is sold openly in dispensaries across the country. And yet, in the federal system, she is doing eight years for it, with years of supervised release still ahead. "I can only hope and pray that things change — and soon." A System Out of Step Yasquasia's case reflects a broader reality: federal cannabis sentencing has not kept pace with the dramatic shift in how this country views and treats marijuana. In one state, a person can walk into a store and legally purchase the same substance that cost Yasquasia eight years of her life and her son's earliest years without his mother. That is not justice. It is geography. Yasquasia did not commit a violent crime. She was a young mother and creative woman who made a mistake in circumstances she was still navigating. She is now 16 months into an 8-year sentence, with 3 years of probation to follow, watching her son grow up through a distance no family should have to endure. The question is not whether Yasquasia broke a law. The question is whether this punishment fits any honest definition of justice. We believe it does not. "I hope what I'm going through, and what others like me are going through, stops happening." Last Prisoner Project is working to match Yasquasia with a pro bono attorney to file her clemency petition. She is also enrolled in our letter-writing program — because no one fighting this hard should feel forgotten. Call To Action Please consider sending Yasquasia a letter of solidarity and to remind her she hasn’t been forgotten. You can write to her directly or send your letter through the Last Prisoner Project website, and we will print and mail it on your behalf. Write to her directly: Yasquasia Delcarmen # 09823-511 FPC Alderson GLEN RAY RD. BOX A ALDERSON, WV 24910 Or send a letter through our website : https://www.lastprisonerproject.org/letter-writing Let her know she has not been forgotten. Yasquasia's story is one of thousands. The Last Prisoner Project's pro bono attorney matching, clemency advocacy, and letter writing programs exist because of donors like you. These programs are the difference between someone like Yasquasia having a fighting chance at freedom — and being left behind. If her story moved you, please consider making a donation to Last Prisoner Project today at lastprisonerproject.org/individuals. Your support keeps these programs alive and ensures that no cannabis prisoner has to fight alone.