The Lasting Impact of Being an Incarcerated Parent on Children and Families

MarQui Clardy reflects on what it means to be an incarcerated parent and how incarceration quietly reshapes children’s lives, family bonds, and long-term outcomes in ways that extend far beyond prison walls.

According to a report by the Annie E. Casey Foundation, more than 5.1 million U.S. parents currently spend time in jails and prisons before their children reach adulthood. A parent being incarcerated for a prolonged period damages their relationship with their children in ways that are obvious. But what about the less apparent impacts this dynamic has on our children’s development and in their relationships with others? Children with parents behind bars often suffer emotional, behavioral, academic, and/or psychological issues. They’re also six to seven times more likely to be convicted of crimes and incarcerated when they reach adulthood.

Unseen Consequences for the Incarcerated Parent

I’d be willing to bet that most incarcerated parents, particularly those of us who are first-time offenders, were unaware of many of the collateral consequences our imprisonment would have on our children when we made the decision to break the law. By the time we learn about their increased likelihood of developing antisocial behaviors—and even worse, when we actually see how they’re being affected by our imprisonment—it’s too late. Many of us come to feel degrees of guilt, shame, incompetence, and parental failure that non-incarcerated parents will never understand.

Numbing Guilt and Grief Behind Prison Walls

A large part of prison life is learning to numb ourselves to such feelings in order to deal with the more immediate adversities of this environment. It’s a constant effort, because every time we call home and hear our kids’ voices, or look at images of them in our tablets or taped to the walls of our cells, or even when we turn on the television and see mothers and fathers with their children playing, educating, disciplining, loving, and living happy lives, those feelings rear their ugly heads to remind us that we’re not there. These demons will continue to haunt us long after we’ve won the war for our freedom.

Growing Older Without Your Incarcerated Parent

At the time of my arrest, my children were three, four, five, and six years old. They’re now 21, 22, 23, and 24. What do you call a parent who’s not there for their kids’ first day of school; who doesn’t show up to any of their sporting events or PTA meetings; who’s never available to help them with their homework; who doesn’t provide any financial support; and who’s not in the audience at any of their graduations? Most people would rightfully label such a parent a deadbeat. Having been in prison for the majority of my kids’ childhood years, and the entirety of their grade school years, I’m aware that I’m a prototypical deadbeat dad who has failed my children. The more I mature, the more apparent this fact becomes. In this regard, I’m being scorned by my own maturation.

How Incarceration Shapes Children’s Outcomes

One of my children developed serious anger issues in middle school and dropped out of high school. One developed issues with their self-image and ended up in an abusive relationship. Two began smoking marijuana in their early adolescence. One became a teenage parent. My fingerprints are all over those outcomes—outcomes that were set in motion when my children were young, innocent, and utterly defenseless against my role in altering their lives with my reckless decisions.

Successes That Still Carry Regret

Despite my incarceration, three of my children finished high school, and one went to college. All four have jobs. None have a criminal record. None of my sons are in the streets, and my daughter didn’t grow up “fast.” Regardless, my conscience won’t allow me to feel that sense of pride most parents feel, knowing their kids turned out okay. How could I? Instead, I feel obligated to shoulder the blame for all their shortcomings. How could I not?

Barriers to Parenting From Prison

There’ve been so many times over the years when I’ve doubted whether I have a right to “parent” my children at all, particularly in those times when their mother wanted me to discipline my sons for acting out. Given my physical absence, I felt it wasn’t my place to reprimand them. Whenever I tried, my words would come out strained and lacking conviction. I wasn’t sure they’d listen to me anyway, so often I didn’t even bother. It’s as if the concrete walls and barbed wire fences that are physical barriers between my children and me have become barriers between our ability to communicate as well.

Living as an Incarcerated Parent With Regret and Fear

For me, being an incarcerated parent means struggling to reconcile the memories of my children as the jovial toddlers who followed me around, idolized me, and wanted nothing more than my attention—with the reality that those toddlers are now adults who’ve grown up without me. It’s the inability to forgive myself for being absent when they needed me most. It’s the burden of knowing I’m responsible for mistakes and poor choices they inevitably made due to my lack of guidance. It’s the constant fear that their increased risk of being incarcerated will come to fruition, and that one day one of them will be in here with me. It’s living with never-ending regrets and sorrows, always wondering how they would’ve turned out had I not gotten arrested.

Breaking the Silence Around Incarcerated Parents

This is a taboo topic in prison. To let down one’s guard and express such emotions is considered weak, although this is an anguishing existence to which 5.1 million other incarcerated parents can relate. But maybe there’s someone out there who needs to read this. Maybe me being open about my feelings of failure as an incarcerated parent will inspire others to express their feelings instead of continuing to suppress them for the sake of maintaining the “tough guy” facade that prison demands. Maybe our collective voice needs to be heard to raise awareness of this issue and bring about change so that this experience isn’t as damaging to the parents and children involved. We’re not weak, my friends. We’re human.

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