Jeremy Grove Shares His Reentry Journey After Serving Over 4 years for a Nonviolent Cannabis Offense

Mikelina Belaineh • June 14, 2023

Jeremy Grove was released from prison in January of 2023 after serving 4 years for a nonviolent cannabis offense. Before his sentence, Jeremy spent 3 years pre-trial waiting for his case to be resolved. For this interview, Jeremy joined LPP Director of Impact, Mikelina Belaineh, via Zoom from his home in South Carolina, where he is working to rebuild his life and reconnect with his loved ones. Parts of this interview have been edited for length and clarity, and have been reviewed and approved by Jeremy.

 


MB: Tell me your story of cannabis criminalization, how did you get to be here with me today doing this interview?

 

JG: In 2013, I was living in South Carolina working as a bartender, and I was planning to move to Los Angeles to get into the cannabis industry with a friend of mine. The week I was supposed to move, I ended up meeting my daughter’s mother. Long story short, I decided to stay in South Carolina so we could try to make it work. My friend went ahead with the move and got into the California industry. Once he was out there, he hit me up and asked if I’d be interested in selling some of his product in South Carolina. It was simple, he would send me a pound of product, I would get rid of it, and then send him the money back. That was it. I sold weed because I really love it and I wanted to get involved in the legal industry. I was 19 in college when I first smoked weed. I was a baseball player and had never done drugs, didn’t drink alcohol. One day I had an anxiety attack on the field one day, in tears, full panic, in a complete mental breakdown. After that, I couldn't even throw the ball back to the pitcher, I was emotionally messed up. That summer, I smoked weed for the first time. It changed everything for me, I was able to relax and calm my emotions. Because of my case, I haven’t been able to smoke, but I’m able to take the mindset cannabis gave me access to and use it to self-regulate and keep calm.

 

JG: In the summer of 2016, I was pulled over by State police. They found .1g of cannabis and arrested me for simple possession. But it was never about simple possession. A detective showed up and told me that earlier that day, the police had pulled over a woman who was leaving my house and found drugs on her. The drugs they found had nothing to do with me though, they were drugs that had been prescribed to her but were not in the original bottle. However, because two cars leaving my residence were found with drugs, the detective said they had probable cause to search my home. I was booked into the jail and bail was set at $15,000. I was able to bail out and get a lawyer. My lawyer told me that even though my case was with the State, the Feds had taken an interest in it and wanted to talk to me. I didn’t want to talk to them though. After my first arrest, the Feds started sending target letters to my daughter’s Mom and other folks in my personal life. Target letters are letters from the Feds that say, “Hey if you don’t talk to us, we’ll arrest you too.” It’s pure intimidation. So, my daughter’s mother and I talked about it. One of us needed to be there for our daughter, we couldn’t risk both of us getting arrested. So, she went in and told the Feds everything she knew.

 

JG: In March of 2017 (a year after my simple possession arrest) the Feds came to arrest me for the same case. They put on a whole show, even though they knew I wasn’t selling weed anymore. They knew I had my State case pending. When the Feds arrested me, they busted through my door early in the morning with multiple officers, guns up. I remember flashlights coming through my window, and loud pounding on my door. My daughter was about 18 months at the time and was sleeping next to me in bed. They put me in handcuffs in the kitchen as she watched in tears. They called my sister to come and pick her up.

 

JG: I couldn’t understand why they busted in the way that they did. The state had put my case on the back burner because they knew the Feds were going to get involved. My lawyer had talked to the prosecutors, and we had come to an agreement that the Feds would let me know when I was indicted, and then I would self-surrender (turn myself in). Instead, they treated me like a dangerous criminal and subjected me and my daughter to unnecessary trauma. I know a lot of people on the outside think drug dealing means you’re dealing with guns. But honestly, the only time I ever encountered a gun is when “the good guys” had a gun to my face. I think they were punishing me because I refused to talk and cooperate with them. They put me through that embarrassment in the hopes that I’d get scared and start working with them. They made sure to book me into jail on a Friday, which meant I had to spend the weekend locked up. I bailed out the following Tuesday and had spent 2 years pre-trial waiting for my case to reach disposition.

 

JG: I knew I was going to go to prison. As soon as the Feds are involved, there’s no getting out of their sights. If they want you, they got you. I was living like a normal person, working two jobs, paying bills, and paying rent. I obviously couldn’t sell weed because of my case, so I was doing whatever else I had to do to get by. I did this for 3 years, knowing that I had a prison sentence hanging over my head. People think that those of us who sell cannabis have never had other jobs. I’ve worked multiple jobs my whole life, selling cannabis is just something I did to help support my livelihood. For the 3-years pre-trial, I couldn’t make any plans for my future. I couldn’t accept any kind of advancement opportunities, I couldn’t really date, because I knew I was going to prison for a significant amount of time. So, the 4-year prison sentence I served has been more like 7 years of punishment. Once I was incarcerated, despite the circumstances, I felt like I could finally start moving on with my life.

 


MB: Can you tell me about your incarceration experience?

 

JG: I feel lucky that I got to spend most of my sentence at a camp, which is a minimum-security facility. Depending on what level of facility you’re at makes a big difference in what kind of experience you have. I did have to spend 14 months in the SHU (“Special Housing Units” though, which is its own hell. The SHU is the Fed's version of solitary confinement. You do have a cellmate… but it was like living in a bathroom with another person for 14 months. When I got sent to the SHU, Covid hit right after, so we were stuck in there. It was terrible, but I still think it was better than being in the medium and high-security penitentiaries. We were stuck in the SHU for all of Covid lockdown. We had no sense of what was going on in the outside world. Some days we weren’t sure if staff were even going to come to work, or whether anyone would be there to run the facility. I relied on my sister who would print news articles and send them to me in the mail. She was a godsend; she wrote me every single day. The relationship that we developed through writing kept me sane. The prison wouldn’t let us have access to newspapers or magazines or anything to help us keep up with the outside world.

 

JG: I was lucky that on my very first day in prison, I met a guy, his name was G. Meeting him changed my life for the better. He explained to me that you can view prison as negative, take it as punishment, and hate it every single day. Or I could use it to spend 4 years trying to better myself for when I get out. So, most of the time I was there, I viewed my experience as an opportunity to work on myself. It made my experience better and gave me an attitude I didn't have for those 3 years leading up to prison. I started writing, wrote my first novel while incarcerated, and now have a blog with a lot of readers. My book is titled Legalized and is a fiction novel exploring the lives of characters living in a world where drugs have been legalized. I am grateful for my editor who supported me while I was incarcerated and encouraged me to write no matter what circumstances I was dealing with. I would send her my writings and then she would transcribe them to be organized for the blog and book.


MB: How has it been navigating Re-entry and life after incarceration?

 

JG: I am very lucky to have a community that supports me. My mom had bought me a car before I got out to help me with transportation, and I got a job working as the operations manager for my friend's moving company, so I haven’t had to go and apply for jobs and deal with rejection because of a felony record. My daughter's mom was also a huge support. She kept me and my daughter in contact while I was incarcerated, answered the phone every day so I could talk to her for 15 min. She even let me use her address to get released to Charleston so that I could be close to my daughter when I got out. Last Prisoner Project gave me a re-entry grant which helped get me on my feet. I don’t know how I would have been able to get housing without that. I was lucky enough to meet someone who had a room they were willing to rent to me, which isn’t easy as a felon. Because I had the grant money I could zelle her right away and had a place to live right after being released. Also, I want to share that I was inspired by the Last Prisoner Projects writing program. Random strangers all over the country were sending me letters. Like, guys in prison do not get mail like I got mail. Every time I would get a letter from someone saying, “Hey, I've read your story and we support you. We believe in cannabis that way. You know we're fighting for you”—it meant a lot. It’s hard in there. Freedom Grow is another cannabis advocacy organization that has been a huge support to me throughout my journey.

 

JG: My biggest struggle since getting out is just people can’t see past my felony record. People google my name, and then automatically want nothing to do with me. They don’t care what my story is and aren’t willing to see me for who I am. They just see me as the felon I am on paper. Google makes life really difficult. People think I’m a “money launderer” because of my cannabis charge and how it is portrayed when they look me up. What they don’t understand is there's no way to sell weed without technically laundering money. Because you can't claim what you're buying, because it’s illegal at the federal level. I can’t put money in a bank account to pay for the weed that the guy had sent me.  The Feds attach money laundering to drug charges, especially in weak cases, so that if weed becomes legal, they can keep you incarcerated on the money laundering charge. They do that with guns too, they love to attach a gun enhancement. People don't realize that they don't even have to find a gun. They can say somebody saw you with a gun and they’ll add the 2-point enhancement to your sentence. When I explain how the Feds work to people, they just don't believe me. They can charge you for drugs they never found and will “project” the amount you had based on your bank records. That's what people in the Feds like to call “ghost dope”.

 

JG: My daughter has friends whose parents don’t want me around their kids, which impacts my ability to spend time with her. I worry about how she may come to perceive me because of the adults. It’s also made dating and social life difficult. Dealing with the stigma is frustrating. I’m in South Carolina, so everybody here who smokes is doing it illegally, but they see me as a bad person because of my felony.  People say, “It’s different because I just smoke.” I’m like, but who sells it to you like? They’ll say, “Just my friend.” I am that friend. They don’t see how it’s politically relevant to their lives. People need to understand how the people who are providing you weed are risking their lives for you every single day. We’re front-line workers.

 

JG: In this country, we talk so much about like hate and animosity, but I've never sat in a room and smoked a blunt with a bunch of people, and everyone's not getting along. I think that's one of the reasons the government doesn't want people to have free access to it. It brings people together and it creates a bond that they don't want people to have. They want us to stay fighting so they can keep power. That's somewhat of a realization I've had. They have statistics saying an overwhelming majority of U.S. adults think cannabis should be legalized right? (88%, see data.) What else do an overwhelming majority of Americans agree on? I can't think of anything, certainly not a presidential candidate. But, despite this rare area of public consensus, Cannabis is something our government is still not sure about. They’re like “We need a little more data before we figure it out, before we can decide.” This isn’t about a bunch of potheads wanting to smoke to get high, that’s just the story and stigma that’s been created. 


MB: How are you healing from your experience of cannabis criminalization?

 

JG: In stressful situations, I can always just think, “Well, at least I’m free” you know? It helps make everything else feel like not as big of a deal as it may be for other people. It's become my way of dealing with adversity.

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.