There’s a daily rhythm in incarceration that becomes second nature—whether you accept it or not. Four times a day—6:30 AM, 12:30 PM, 4:00 PM, and 9:00 PM—you’re locked in and counted. Before each count, a loud bell blares through the block, followed by the familiar command from the officers: “Lights on, feet on the floor, standing count!”
For many, this becomes part of the fabric of daily life. But for me, it’s something I’ve never been able to adjust to. Maybe it’s because, in my mind, I still resist it. I struggle with the rigidity of it all—this daily interruption that cuts into my moments of peace and focus. More often than not, the bell jolts me out of deep concentration during salah (prayer), while reading or studying Islam, working on legal documents, or diving into books to further my education.
As an author, these disruptions are especially difficult. When I’m in a creative flow, writing from a place of clarity and calm, the sudden blare of that bell followed by the call for count shatters everything. It’s a jarring experience—one that shakes your mind out of peace and into stress.
But there’s another routine that gives you something to look forward to: yard time. Whether it’s morning, afternoon, or night yard—or even time in the dayroom, this is often the only outlet for relief. It’s when many of us make our phone calls, connect with loved ones, or simply breathe in fresh air and decompress.
Yet, even this lifeline isn’t guaranteed. At any moment, for any reason—or sometimes for no clear reason at all—yard can be canceled. The jail locks down, and the routine is broken.
And that break? It hits hard.
When you’re expecting yard and it doesn’t happen, it triggers something deep. Your whole sense of time, balance, and mental stability feels thrown off. You begin to question everything, what’s going on, why it’s happening, and how long it’ll last. Patience wears thin. Confusion and frustration creep in. You find yourself irritable, even with the smallest things or people you normally get along with. The mind starts spiraling, and for many, that leads to a state of helplessness. For some, it’s a quiet descent into temporary depression. For others, it ignites anger and aggression, which can be dangerously misdirected.
What most people don’t realize is that these routines, both the strict enforcement and the sudden disruptions, aren’t just physical. They take a deep psychological toll. Behind bars, where mental outlets are already limited, these patterns create a silent war inside the mind.
Some of us fight daily to protect our peace. We struggle to maintain faith, purpose, and discipline despite the chaos around us. We write, we pray, we study, and we reflect—because it’s the only way to hold onto ourselves in a place designed to break us.
To those on the outside, routines might seem like structure and order. But inside, they’re a delicate thread. And when that thread is pulled too hard—or snapped completely—it affects everything.
Mental health in incarceration isn’t just about extreme cases. It’s about these everyday moments of disruption. It’s about quiet struggles and small victories. It’s about trying to stay human in an environment that constantly tests your ability to do so.
Recent studies reveal a disturbing reality within our correctional system: an estimated 45% of individuals in federal prisons, 56% in state prisons, and a staggering 64% of those in local jails show signs of serious mental illness. These numbers shine a harsh light on a system where mental health care often falls shorter behind the standards and resources available in the outside community. It’s a crisis hiding in plain sight, one that underscores the urgent need for reform and better support for those suffering behind bars.
