An ‘As Told To’ story from LaKeesha Richardson.

On my 50th birthday, my husband told me, “Let’s take a drive. Do you want to go south or north?” I chose south, towards the Central California Women’s Facility (CCWF). It was night time, and when we got there, he said, “This is the start of your 50s.” That statement hit me hard. In that moment, I realized how important it was for me to begin the work I had been considering for a while.

By then, my husband, Bonaru, and I had already been discussing founding a nonprofit that would support incarcerated women.

I wasn’t unfamiliar with the prison system. My husband had been incarcerated. Growing up, one of my best friend’s sisters was incarcerated as well. I was familiar with the harsh realities that came along with incarceration. One thing that always stayed with me was the differences in conditions and support for incarcerated men and women.

The men’s waiting rooms are packed, full of visitors. A woman’s visiting room is never packed, even at CCWF, the largest women’s prison in the world.

And that wasn’t the only difference I noticed. There weren’t as many programs for women. Their voices weren’t heard as often. It kind of touched home for me, knowing that could be me, my sister, my aunt, my grandma, my friends.

Not too long after my birthday, I was invited by Jesse Vasquez, a friend of my husband and executive director of Pollen Initiative, to come in and help with the opening of the CCWF media center.

When it was time for the ribbon cutting ceremony, everyone started heading inside the building. A few of the incarcerated women waved me in, but I stepped back and said, “No, this isn’t about me. You go first. This is for you.” I remember physically gesturing with my hands, guiding them forward and insisting they step ahead of me.

Later, when we were all leaving the prison, I noticed a young woman off in the distance. I couldn’t tell what she was doing, but as I got closer, she walked toward me and put out her hand. She said, “Now you go forward.” It felt like a gentle push, telling me it was my time to move ahead, to carry on this work of helping other people. At that moment, I knew I was meant to be there.

It was a sign that I’m on the right path and should keep going, doing what I’m supposed to do. If all I ever manage is to help one or two people at a time, that’s enough.

My plan was: provide a taxi service for women leaving prison, offer essential items to ease their transition, and support a range of programs that help them rebuild their lives. My husband and I pick them up after their release and offer a hot meal if they’d like one. We never force it, because many of these women are anxious to get home to their families.

I remember one woman in particular who reached out while she was still inside. She’d heard about our program and wanted to join our re-entry initiative. She’d been incarcerated for six years, and this was her second time. She said to me, “I don’t plan on coming back. I don’t want to come back.”

She explained that she had almost nothing to start with. She’d be going to a transitional home and needed the basics, like bras and other personal items. She also needed a train ticket. I asked about her release date, then offered to pick her up and get her that ticket. I told her that normally we can’t do this for everyone, but there was something about her that truly moved me.

It felt like a gentle push, telling me it was my time to move ahead, to carry on this work of helping other people. At that moment, I knew I was meant to be there.

When I got her to the train station, that’s when I saw the smile on her face. All we want to do is see someone smile. She texted me not too long after that, and said, “I just want to tell you that you and your husband’s a blessing to me. I got a job, and I’m a supervisor now.” Those are the moments when I’m sure I’m doing the right thing.

We’re there to help eliminate some of the pressure that comes with incarceration. When they get released, they’re already in their mind trying to figure out how to succeed. They’re usually only given $200 and, depending on where their location is, they may have to go down to Los Angeles County. Maybe they’re taking a bus or a train that already costs $50, if not more than that. And that’s all depending on if this woman has a person to go back home to.

Some of the women don’t. Some people have to go to a shelter, a transitional home, or a hotel. There’s so many people casting judgment on them. People don’t care as much about what they think. They don’t want to hear their stories because of what they’ve done, and they’ve got beautiful stories.

The best part of this work is saying, “Yes, I can help you.” Because if I was in a situation and I needed to call out for help, I would truly hope somebody would hear me and help me.

I don’t know these people, so they can’t say, “My family member helped me, because she’s my family and she’s supposed to.” Instead, it’s a stranger. A stranger that doesn’t care where they came from, doesn’t care about their occupation, doesn’t care about who they were in the past, but offered a helping hand anyways.

That’s enough for me. I see the joy and the smile on the faces of the people when we help them or pick them up. It’s beautiful. I get tears and I start to cry when I think of certain things. Whether it’s life in prison or life on our own out in the world, you need the human touch. You need human correspondence. This world is big enough — no one has to do life alone.

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Alyssa Torres is an editorial intern at Pollen Initiative.

LaKeesha Richardson is the founder of KeeshaConnect, a nonprofit that gives a ride home to those who have just been released from prison. This ‘As Told To’ story is based on a conversation between Richardson and Torres and was edited for length and clarity.