This week we’ve been sharing a handful of our daily mail rejections — the kind of maddening, head-scratching returns that land in our PO Box almost every single day.
Here’s one for the “You Can’t Make This Stuff Up” file.
This envelope, along with several others for the same institution, came back to us marked Return to Sender — Refused, Unable to Forward, with no explanation. These RTSs were self-addressed stamped envelopes provided by the prisoners to us at their own expense, complete with their full name, correct ID number (redacted here) and mailing address.
As is our standard practice before mailing anything to someone in prison, we checked the official agency locator, in this case Oklahoma DOC, and confirmed that the recipient was still in custody and had not been moved or released. The envelope contained no contraband — just a standard application with a short handwritten note from our volunteer Liz, and sent out with all the outgoing mail prepared during our annual volunteer weekend last month.
Here’s the kicker: after some digging, I discovered Oklahoma DOC has joined the parade of states that has switched to a digital mail system. Their web page about the change even claims people in custody know about the change.
Riiigggghhhhht. So why were SASEs with the old address allowed out through the mailroom? And how are folks supposed to update their outside contacts if their own envelopes with the wrong address are being returned without explanation?
These unexplained refusals waste time, waste resources, and cut off people inside from essential communication while making the outside world do detective work just to learn the real reason.
Sure. Tell us again that prisons support and encourage outside contact.
Before email and text messages, some of the most treasured connections came in the form of a simple piece of mail. For me, that meant letters and postcards from my grandparents as they traveled the country. From the road, my grandmother would write to us on the paper placemats you used to find in roadside diners. They were often printed with the restaurant name, the city, maybe a few fun facts about the area, or a puzzle to solve. She’d write her letter on the back, and drop them in the mail, sometimes tucking in a postcard from wherever they’d stopped.
Those letters and postcards from the road remain cherished reminders of their constant presence even when we lived in different states.
This picture is one of those reminders. It had to have been 1977, and my mom, my brother and I were living in Oklahoma, just outside of Tulsa. We’d had maybe a day or two’s notice that our grandparents would be stopping for a visit while on the road in their camper. Our neighbor and school friend Mike wandered over, and we lined up for a picture. It must have been a Sunday. We were dressed for church.
I cherished those letters and cards, and still have some of them. I can only imagine how much more these mementos are for people in prison, cut off from the world and hungry for any glimpse of life beyond those walls.
But in federal custody, and an increasing number of state institutions, people aren’t allowed to receive postcards. Some state facilities go the other way and allow only postcards. No letters on paper (or diner menus) at all. Only what can be crammed onto one side of a 4″ x 6″ card.
With stamps now 78¢, we save a little by using 61¢ postcards for short messages like adoption notices, congratulations, or quick answers. When they’re refused, it’s more than wasted postage. It’s extra labor to resend, delays in delivering news, and one less thread of connection.
Policies that prohibit postcards and other personal touches strip away the most human and tangible reminders that someone, somewhere, thought of you and took the time to send a piece of their life. For people inside, these simplest keepsakes that mean the world, may never make it into their hands. And that’s a loss worth talking about.
Prison is one of the last places where a handwritten letter still matters, but prison agencies have been putting that under threat for over a decade.
Starting August 1, 2025, Tennessee began rerouting all incoming personal mail through a third-party scanning service. Instead of receiving physical letters, incarcerated people now get digital scans or printed copies. Administrators say this policy aims to curtail contraband smuggling. But does it?
What this means for families:
Delays in mail delivery.
Lower quality or incomplete content as photos and kids’ artwork lose their meaning through photocopy.
Privacy risks — a private vendor now handles and stores intimate correspondence.
Disconnected emotions — no more touching the paper, feeling the weight of a handwritten note, or keeping a card as a lifeline.
Meanwhile, the evidence shows that mail scanning doesn’t stop contraband.
Once again, in the face of these ever-changing policies and increased restrictions, we’re updating our guides and helping families adapt. Every new restriction makes staying in touch harder, and hope feels more fragile. The sad and frustrating truth is, every new barrier to personal mail makes it harder to sustain relationships across prison walls. Those relationships are what keep hope alive for people in prison who are fortunate enough to have any outside contacts.
Have a story about returned mail? Please share in the comments (scroll alllll the way down below), or use this form and help us track this practice across U.S. prisons.
At Adopt an Inmate, the mail isn’t just part of our work — it is our work. Prison is one of the last places where letter-writing is still a lifeline. For the people we serve, a letter can be the highlight of the week, a link to the outside world, and sometimes the only reminder that they are not forgotten. That’s why every new mail restriction isn’t just a policy change — it’s another wall between people and those who love them.
That’s why we spend so much time tracking prison mail rules, helping families navigate them, and scrambling to keep up when those rules change. As someone who has seen frequent mail policy changes over the last ten. years, I can confidently say that the changes are never for the better. Over the decade we’ve been doing this work, we’ve seen bans on:
Colored envelopes
Blank stationery of any kind
Address labels
Calendars
Stickers (this includes postage stamps)
Post cards
Letters written in any language other than English or Spanish
Greeting cards — first musical or multi-layered cards (like pop-ups), then cards in colored envelopes, then any cards, period
Photos
Long gone are the days when loved ones could send a colored drawing from a child or a scented letter. Many states have banned greeting cards or pictures unless they are mailed directly from an approved vendor — which means no handwritten notes on cards or on the backs of pictures. Every way someone in prison could receive something their loved one touched… banned. Returned to sender, and often at the expense of the prisoner, who never got to see or touch it.
The worst ban is on any physical mail at all. More and more states are moving to digital mail services, where mail is scanned and a picture of the letter is forwarded to the intended recipient’s tablet. Isn’t that warm and fuzzy?
Our latest round of Return to Sender mail comes from Oregon prisons. The reason? A new Oregon policy banning envelopes with “security features.” These are the envelopes with blue or gray printed patterns on the inside — the same kind you’ll find in most offices and homes.
For us, this is a problem. We buy boxes of 500 self-sealing envelopes at a time to keep things moving smoothly. Have you ever tried to find self-sealing envelopes without that inside print? Nearly impossible. And to make matters worse, the ban applies even to envelopes purchased by prisoners themselves — including self-addressed stamped envelopes (SASEs) that they send to us so we can reply.
Self-addressed stamped envelopes (also known as SASEs) are gold to us. Postage is one of our biggest expenses, so when someone inside sends a prepaid envelope, it goes to the top of our reply pile so we can respond quickly. Now, under this policy, those envelopes — bought with their own limited funds through commissary — are being returned.
The result? More delays. More wasted postage. More roadblocks between people inside and the outside support they desperately need.
This is just one more example of how mail restrictions chip away at human connection in prison. The people who pay the price aren’t the ones who wrote the rules — they’re the families, friends, and advocates trying to keep relationships alive across walls and razor wire.
This is the stack of returned letters we’ve received under this new policy in the first two days of this week. Each envelope is a story interrupted, a conversation cut short. And for what?
Because if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s this: prison mail policies rarely make prisons safer, but they always make people lonelier.
Stay tuned this week for more stories about prison mail policies — and the truth about their effect on contraband.
Have a story about returned mail? Please share in the comments (scroll alllll the way down below), or use this form and help us track this practice across U.S. prisons.
The summer days are long, the mornings warm, and cold brew is on the breakfast menu these days. ☀️ So pour yourself a cup (or grab a glass of something iced), find a shady spot, and settle in.
Here’s what we shared this week on the blog (links near the bottom):
Art From Prison: Meet Victor the Convict, a sharp and endearing comic that says a lot with a few words and some fine pencil artwork.
Good, Bad, Change: Two responses from inside: Troy, sharing his observations from a Texas prison, and Reynold, from a super-max prison in Pennsylvania.
Last week I asked what you would do if you spotted a spider in an audience member’s hair during a live symphony performance. Leah and I hadn’t talked since that night until today, but she says she saw the spider too and noticed someone in front of her who started to tell her (twice!) but never did. No one commented, but I’m still wondering what you would have done, and it’s not too late to chime in. Read the post here and weigh in.
Meanwhile, in my own home, we’re living a little closer to cell reality than we expected.
Some of you may recall the mitigation work from our water leaks wrapped up a couple of weeks ago (picture several surprise waterfalls inside the wall), but we’re still waiting on our insurance to decide if the loss is covered. If! Sigh.
That means six weeks (so far) without a kitchen. No stove. No counters. All the lower cabinets and the island? Removed and trashed. The microwave and fridge are holding the fort, but it’s been a long run of reheated meals and takeout tabs.
So, in a moment of weakness (or brilliance), I bought a countertop egg cooker.
I’m normally anti-single-use appliances, but this one is tiny, only needs water, and can steam other things (in small amounts) like single-serving frittatas, dumplings, and veggies.
It made me think of cooking in a prison cell, where a hot pot is your entire kitchen. The constraints are real, and so is the creativity that comes out of them.
We do have an electric kettle, a microwave, and a fridge. The challenge is cleanup: no sink, no disposal, and a strong desire to avoid balancing a greasy pan over the bathroom basin. Because ew.
So here’s your new challenge: What can I make with an egg cooker that isn’t just eggs? Bonus points if it requires minimal prep and is easy to clean up.
Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.
— Theodore Roosevelt
Thanks for reading, sharing, and supporting. Now do tell me your genius ideas for what else we can make in a tiny egg cooker… I’m ready to push it to its limits. (To leave a comment, scroll… keep scrolling… yep, past the “You May Also Like” section… farther… there you go! The comment box is hiding way down at the bottom.)
This series shares reflections directly from people impacted by the criminal legal system – what gives them hope, what causes harm, and what they believe needs to change. Each voice is unique, but together they reveal the urgent need for a more just and humane approach.
ADD YOUR TWO CENTS – scroll to bottom of post for instructions
In our Good, Bad, Change series, people inside share their perspectives on life behind the walls—what’s going well, what’s not, and what changes they hope to see.
The Good
Access to educational and vocational programming. Every state prison in Pennsylvania has different opportunities and there are a lot of positive things here where I am. I received my OSHA and Flagger’s Certificates, and am currently working on receiving my GED. I’m also on the waiting list for “Thinking for a Change.”
The Bad
We have here what is called “Violence Reduction Strategy.” Meaning if a fight breaks out and you are just standing there and don’t have anything to do with it, Security will send you to the hole for investigation based on you standing there. Another harmful problem is that the UA tests have false positives. The brand of the test is “Redwood Technology Inc.”
The Change
One thing I would change about the system is to make it equal and fair, so that everyone would come together and be united, and stand up for one another together. Men and women are supposed to fight their cases, not each other!
Share Your Good / Bad / Change
What stood out to you in Troy’s reflections? What gives you hope, what causes harm, and what would you change? We welcome thoughts from both inside and out. (Scroll down to the comment section.)
Snail mail:
Adopt an Inmate Good Bad Change PO Box 1543 Veneta, OR 97487
🗣️ Share Your Story – How has incarceration affected you or someone you love? ✍️ Take the Quiz – How much do you know about U.S. prisons? 💌 Donate Samps– Stamp Out Silence! ❤️ Give – Support dignity, connection, and second chances.
This series shares reflections directly from people impacted by the criminal legal system – what gives them hope, what causes harm, and what they believe needs to change. Each voice is unique, but together they reveal the urgent need for a more just and humane approach.
ADD YOUR TWO CENTS – scroll to bottom of post for instructions
Today’s submission comes from Troy, who has spent over thirteen years in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. As a life coach and peer educator, Troy works every day to help others grow, even while wrestling with his own pain. In his own words, here’s what’s good, what’s bad, and what he believes must change.
I’ve been incarcerated in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice for nearly thirteen and a half years of a 25-year sentence. I’ve been at the Ferguson Unit trusty camp for only a few months, but I’ve been in and out of prison since 1985. It’s painful to admit — sometimes I feel like “damaged goods,” like an unwanted package in the returns box.
It’s only by God’s grace and mercy, and the personal relationship I have with Him, that I am in my right mind today.
The Good
I don’t think there’s really anything good about being in prison — but I have learned some things that can be beneficial. There are self-rehabilitative programs, self-help classes, and a variety of educational opportunities: GED, academic courses, vocational and college trades, correspondence Bible studies, life coach training, and more.
Most programs have requirements to enroll, but there’s something for almost everyone. I am presently a life coach, and I’ve held other assignments like Support Service Inmate, law library clerk, general library clerk, and peer educator.
It takes a lot to weather the storm of incarceration and stay focused on your goals, especially when you’re surrounded by negativity and people who don’t support rehabilitation or sobriety.
The Bad
There’s good and bad in every person, but prison can be a dangerous place depending on the unit, the people, and your perspective.
Some officers are just as negative-minded as some inmates, and one bad interaction can escalate into something worse. Drugs and alcohol are rampant; K2 is destroying minds and lives. The violence can be constant — some days feel like living inside a TV drama where anything can happen without warning.
I’ve seen small conflicts that could be solved with a conversation turn into violent incidents. I’ve seen parole denied again and again for reasons tied only to someone’s past, with no regard for their present progress.
Inconsistency is another problem. One officer will enforce a rule, another will ignore it. Some treat certain groups of people differently because of race or custody level. These small things create unnecessary tension that can turn ugly fast.
The Change
There should be common ground in how officers interact with incarcerated people — not an “us versus them” mentality. Rules and expectations should be consistent, communication clear, and the focus should be on safety and well-being for everyone.
The parole system should consider the progress a person has made, not just their past. Anyone who has served a substantial portion of their sentence, maintained good conduct, and participated in rehabilitation should at least be considered for release or placed in a reentry program.
Rehabilitation should be available to everyone, regardless of custody level. The people who act out the most are often the ones hurting the most — masking pain with anger because it’s the only way they know to survive.
As a life coach, I’ve been teaching for over two years. Some days, I’m nursing my own pain while trying to help others. I put my feelings aside and focus on the issue at hand, and it gives me a sense of worth.
I cry within my spirit every night because I feel so broken sometimes. But at the end of the day, I’m thankful to be alive and in my right mind.
“I have been praying for someone to reach out to us… and show us that we do matter, that we do exist, and that there are people who actually care. There’s a lot of pain and hurt within this prison system, and it’s not the kind you can physically see or touch — it’s buried deep within a person’s soul.” – Troy
Share Your Good / Bad / Change
What stood out to you in Troy’s reflections? What gives you hope, what causes harm, and what would you change? We welcome thoughts from both inside and out. (Scroll down to the comment section.)
Snail mail:
Adopt an Inmate Good Bad Change PO Box 1543 Veneta, OR 97487
🗣️ Share Your Story – How has incarceration affected you or someone you love? ✍️ Take the Quiz – How much do you know about U.S. prisons? 💌 Donate Samps– Stamp Out Silence! ❤️ Give – Support dignity, connection, and second chances.
In this witty prison comic, artist R. Ortiz captures the wishful thinking behind every letter sent from inside. While in real life, mail from prison can take days, or even weeks, to arrive, Victor imagines simply hopping into an envelope and landing in the hands of a loved one. A playful reminder of the power of connection and the hurdles people in prison face just to send a hello.
Welcome to Bee Sides short reflections on justice, hope, and the human spirit
This series is a corner of our blog where I gather books, stories, and unexpected moments that linger long after the first glance.
Most will tie back to incarceration, justice, and the quiet fight for dignity. But sometimes? It’ll simply be whatever refuses to let go. The echoes that stay with me. Because that’s what Bee Sides are for.
Let me know what you’re reading, watching, or wondering about. Maybe it’ll make the next issue.
This one’s about conductors, volunteers, and that spider in her hair.
This week, Leah and I did something rare and wonderful – that wasn’t about Adopt an Inmate (gasp!).
We went to the Eugene Symphony’s annual Symphony in the Park at the Cuthbert Amphitheater.
We brought our camp chairs, snacks, and bug spray … Just kidding. The outdoor venue does have lawn seating, but we’re old and wise enough to opt for the real seats. The lawn was buzzing with young folks and kids dancing under the trees, while the regular seats were filled with people closer to our age bracket (and beyond).
The opener was a marimba band called Jenaguru, and they were phenomenal.
After they finished, stagehands shuffled instruments and stands into place. The symphony musicians wandered onstage in T-shirts. This was less black-tie and more backyard block party. Casually magical.
After Leah and I looked over the program, we tried to spy the newly appointed music director, pictured in the program.
Enter: Alex Prior, selected after a months-long, worldwide search. And wow… I get it. He had barely reached the podium before we were hooked.
Charming. Young. Warm. Enthusiastic. Joyful. Slightly goofy in the best way. He cracked dad jokes (before they played the theme from E.T., he said something about Spielberg and John Williams playing golf: “One shoots, the other scores”), he introduced each piece with such reverence, telling us to listen for the moon reflecting on the stream, and birds fluttering across the sky … and I heard them, just like he said.
At one point, he asked to see all the kids in the audience. Tiny hands rose up like spring blossoms. We could feel how delighted he was.
Because of his enthusiasm and palpable love for the music, I paid attention to everything. I’d been to the symphony before, but I never left so full of questions.
I watched him, part spellcaster, part shepherd, and started wondering about what a conductor actually does. (What happens if they stop conducting mid-piece? Do the strings just wander off?) I noticed the seating arrangement, and the maestro’s greeting of the first chair violinist when he first walked on stage – it seemed purposeful, what was that about? I noticed the interplay between sections, and thought about the metaphor of an orchestra.
This what it looks like when people work in concert.
Fortunately for me, my friend Sarah (yes, that Sarah), an experienced musician and lover of all things art, would be able to answer my questions. So I called her.
She explained the seating arrangement, and about Prior’s greeting of the first chair violinist, also known as the concertmaster, and that if the conductor got distracted or vanished, all the musicians would look to him or her (her, in this case) for direction.
“We’d have to listen very closely to each other. Anticipate each other’s breaths and exhale together. It requires democracy. You have to listen back, quote each other, and be in conversation”
Much like Wynton Marsalis’ idea of jazz as democratic discourse.
That’s how volunteers work. How families survive grief. How you hold space for someone in prison. You breathe together. And you play together.
Some of us are brass. Some of us are bassoons. A few of us are definitely cymbal crash energy. And it works.
🎻 Oh, and about that spider.
I had noticed a lovely older couple sitting a few rows in front of us. He had his arm around her and gave her a gentle squeeze now and then. She had this beautiful silver hair, styled just so.
Halfway through The Moldau, something caught my eye. Her hair was … moving. It was a spider.
He was thriving. Traipsing. Scaling. Rappelling. I watched in horror-delight as this little dude was rehearsing Spider-Man: The Musical, swinging from strand to strand like a Cirque du Soleil acrobat.
I was *frozen. Do I say something? The audience was rapt, listening for all the things. What if I scared her and she shrieked? What if she was the type to absolutely lose it over a spider? I said nothing. Eventually, he descended to her shoulder… and then (I hope?) to the chair and grass beyond.
I went to Sarah about the musical questions, but for this, I turn to you:
🕷️ What would you have done?
If you were the person sitting behind her, do you try to help? Or keep the peace? And if you were the one with a spider crawling around in your hair… Would you want someone to tell you?
Let us know. Seriously. This is your audience participation moment.
🗣️ I’ll be watching the comment section (scroll allll the way down below this post).
I was frozen in more ways than one.
Want to Go Down a Few Rabbit Holes?
I’m not handing you every link. Some of these rabbit holes you’ll have to dig for yourself. Consider it part of the symphony: listen closely, follow the notes, and see where they takes you.
🎥 Watch:
Maestro (2023) – about Leonard Bernstein
The Glenn Gould performance with Bernstein – the one where the conductor disavowed the soloist’s tempo… and still led the show
Bernstein conducting from the piano – yes, that’s a thing
🎻 Listen:
The Moldau by Bedřich Smetana – the piece with the glinting moonlight
Victor Wooten – legendary bassist, whose camp teaches music through the lens of nature and community
Wynton Marsalis on jazz as democracy – beautiful NPR segments on listening, quoting, and improvising in dialogue
We’re told immigration enforcement is about following the law.
But if you’re using tax records to track people down, then it was never about them not paying taxes.
If you’re arresting people at their jobs, then it was never about them not working.
If you’re detaining them at court dates, green card check-ins, or asylum interviews, then it was never about them “doing it the right way.”
If you’re rounding up men, women and children who haven’t committed any crimes, then it was never about violent offenders.
If you’re denying due process, then it was never about the Constitution.
If agents are given quotas, and rewarded per arrest or deportation, then it was never about justice.
If some are only in the job long enough to get student loan forgiveness, then it was never about dedication to the rule of law.
And if all of this is happening in the name of a man convicted of 34 felonies, then let’s stop pretending this was ever about law and order.
ICE isn’t targeting people who “broke the rules.” They’re targeting people who followed them. People who showed up, paid taxes, did things by the book.
If the system punishes people for complying, then compliance was never the goal.
Reminder:
Undocumented immigrants do pay taxes – over $23 billion a year.
ICE agents are reportedly quitting in droves, citing burnout and moral injury.
Some are paid per arrest, working under quotas set by the Trump administration.
In many cases, the agents are not federal law enforcement, but county correctional officers deputized to carry out raids in exchange for debt forgiveness or other incentives.
💌 Share this post with someone who says “they should’ve done it legally”
✍️Take the Quiz– How much do you really know about our justice system?
🐝Support our work – Help us fight misinformation and uplift truth
This picture is one of those reminders. It had to have been 1977, and my mom, my brother and I were living in Oklahoma, just outside of Tulsa. We’d had maybe a day or two’s notice that our grandparents would be stopping for a visit while on the road in their camper. Our neighbor and school friend Mike wandered over, and we lined up for a picture. It must have been a Sunday. We were dressed for church.
