Blossoming Beyond Boundaries: A Cannabis Felon’s Journey to a Brighter Future.

Stephanie Shepard • August 30, 2024

An interview with Last Prisoner Project’s (LPP) Director of Advocacy, Stephanie Shepard, and Amber Davidson of Cannifest. Cannifest will be taking place on September 7th-8th.


In today’s world, where the cannabis industry continues to evolve and challenge the long-time criminalization of cannabis, the stories of those who have had to navigate its harms offer a side that most don't get to see. As a cannabis felon myself, speaking with someone who knows what serving prison time for cannabis feels like, what type of impact it has, and how moving forward is possible; it always feels like a safe space. I was honored to delve into the remarkable journey of Amber Davidson, a former cannabis prisoner who is transforming adversity into acceptance and advocacy. Amber sheds light on the challenges of navigating the system, the impact of probation, and the driving force behind her determination to reclaim her spot in the industry that she helped create as a legacy grower. 



Stephanie: Amber, can you share a bit about your background and how you became involved in the cannabis industry?


Amber: I started smoking weed when I was 14. It was one of those moments where I wondered if I was doing something wrong, or if was I just trying it because it was not what my parents wanted me to do, but I realized that I was just trying to find my community. Being with people who also smoked weed felt like I had found them. I got jumped a few times when I was younger, so I had difficulty fitting in with people from middle school through high school, especially high school. When I changed schools, being the new kid was difficult. And I just started building community through cannabis. One of my boyfriends at the time was very involved in cannabis, and so for me, it was finding that.



Stephanie: How would you describe those people? What were the characteristics of the people that you found accepted you, and made you feel safe and comfortable in that circle?


Amber: 

We were the people who hung out under the bleachers. We were the ones that didn't fit in with the general groups of people. It was funny because this group was made up of people from different circles. Athletes, artists, and musicians were all brought together by cannabis but also felt like black sheep because of cannabis.

Stephanie:

So even back then, the stigma surrounding cannabis was very prevalent. Does it surprise you now to see the lengthy sentences that victimless cannabis prisoners are still serving all these years later?


Amber:

It's very disheartening to see people still getting in trouble and still serving these insane sentences, and others are afforded the luxury to make careers stemming from the plant. Even myself and others who've been negatively impacted by cannabis criminalization are now able to viably see this as a career opportunity, and it's just mind-blowing that the system holds different people to different standards.


Stephanie:

When you think of Michael Woods (serving life), Parker Coleman (serving 60 years), or Jason Brant Gregg (serving 15 years), do you feel a sense of guilt that you came from the legacy market like them but are now free to openly participate in the legal market?


Amber:

To be honest, it does make me feel guilty because it's difficult to process being on the outside while all of these people have been in for so long for the same plant.

Thinking of people who have committed much more heinous crimes, actual crimes, who get an equal or lesser sentence, it's a hard pill to swallow.


Stephanie:

You served 49 months of a 70-month federal sentence for cannabis. We served time at the same facility in Dublin, California. How did those 49 months impact you and your relationship with your friends and family?


Amber:

I have a very small family. Both my parents were adopted, so I didn't have a lot of the same familial support that a lot of other people had, then and now. My dad passed away when I was in my mid-twenties, and 6 months to the day after I was raided, my mom passed away. Trying to navigate all of it, essentially alone was fucking difficult. I had some step-family, but after my dad died I didn’t feel like a family anymore per se. It felt like “Okay, we'll be here to take your phone calls and send you letters”, but I didn't have a courtroom full of people there to support me.


Stephanie:

Having that support helps you get through the experience. Do you feel like you leaned more on friends, or did you just feel like “I'm in this alone?” 


Amber:

I leaned on friends a lot. I only had a couple who felt comfortable communicating with me during everything. I had one girlfriend, Beth, who offered me a job immediately when I got out, and she was a new friend. She was somebody that I had met when she was helping my ex-boyfriend get his accounting in order for his business before we got in trouble, and so I barely knew her. I may have known her for 7 or 8 months before we got in trouble, as strictly a business relationship.

She ended up being one of the only people who would regularly visit and write to me all the time. She took my call every time I called her and always made sure to email me and send me letters, cards, or pictures. We call each other sisters. There's a reason why we came into each other's lives at the time that we did. I know why she came into my life because I needed her. It's been such a powerful friendship because of that. She just saw that I needed a friend and very rarely do people show up that way. One thing I will say about cannabis, in general, is that I’ve found a lot of people in the industry who just want to be good, want to be friends, and be a good friend to people.


Stephanie:

You made it through that chapter, you got out, but you did a little bit of probation time. How long were you on probation? Can you tell me a little bit about what it was like to navigate life while you were on probation?

 

Amber:

I was on probation for about about 2 years. I treated probation like I was on home confinement, but a much more free home confinement. I couldn't leave certain areas. I couldn't go to Sacramento, Tahoe, or L.A. I got in trouble once for something that I shouldn't have been doing, I fucked up and failed a drug test. I remember profusely apologizing and crying my eyes out. I was terrified and decided at that moment that nothing was worth that feeling.


Stephanie:

What was your biggest fear? Were you afraid of the interruption it was going to cause in your life after all the time you had put into your reentry?


Amber:

I was afraid that I was gonna lose all of my good time, be violated, and go back! I had to drive to see my probation officer after I knew I had failed the drug test, knowing that's why I was going there, and in fear as I was walking into her office in the Federal Courthouse buildings. There were agents of all types, including U.S Marshals, that I knew were going to be waiting for me when I walked in the door. While I was sitting there with her, I just kept thinking they were going to come in the door and arrest me. Thankfully, that never happened. But, oh, my God! Was I terrified? Scared straight for sure. There are some things that I took away from prison that weren't entirely bad. 


Stephanie:

What lessons did you learn what lessons did you learn from your overall experiences that personally and professionally stick with you today?


Amber Davidson: One of the biggest lessons I learned is nobody's going to come save you. You have to figure it out for yourself and be okay with whatever decision it is that you make. For that to happen to me, there was a period where my ex-boyfriend was firing attorneys left and right, hiring new ones, and he did the same to my attorneys or convinced me to do the same to my attorneys. There were a lot of things that I should have done differently, but I know that the decisions that I made were based on the information that I had at the time, so I'm okay with those decisions now. For me, being okay with myself and the decisions that I made. Even in this situation, I just had to ask myself “What will I do moving forward? And how do I make the best out of it?”


Stephanie:

You are now a leader in the legal cannabis space, what advice do you have for others who may have faced similar challenges and are looking to move forward as you have?


Amber Davidson: 

The most frequent question that I was getting asked as I was deciding to get into the legal cannabis industry was, “What do you want to do?” It took me a while to figure out what it was that I wanted to do. The one thing that I did know was that I deserved a space here. I'm supposed to be here. It took me honing in on what it is that I wanted to do to be able to say, ”This is how I'm going to move forward.” When I began defining what that looked like, more opportunities started coming to me, even from the same people who were already asking me “What do you want to do?”


Stephanie:

That makes all the sense in the world. And that is a great first question to ask yourself. When we get out and see what the market looks like for some, we want to dive head-first into it without having the tools to make it happen and that can be incredibly frustrating.


Amber Davidson: 

Specifically for somebody who is in the same position that we’re in as a felon. I just recently got my dream job working with Cannifest, a 2-day music and cannabis festival in Humboldt County, but it took me having to interview with several places, like the local casino, where I got a big, fat “Unless you can get your felony expunged, absolutely not!” It was very disheartening. I don't know if it's because as soon as you Google my name, my case comes up, but once I found what it is that I wanted to do, I started even getting real interviews with people who were ready to go to the next step, but then having to have that conversation with people that are not in the cannabis industry, and saying “...so I do have a felony.” I had to practice having that conversation. Figuring out how I was going to portray what happened to me, and what were the events of my story that I'm willing to share with people. Coming to terms with how it may be received. Figuring that out is probably one of the best pieces of advice I can give.


Stephanie:

With all that you have experienced, how have those experiences motivated you to be an advocate for reform?


Amber Davidson: 

It's really hard to see people sitting in a place that I once was and didn't have the support that exists today. It's really important to amplify everyone else's mission like LPP or other organizations that are trying to do good by trying to be that bridge and include as many people within the cannabis industry as possible. It's unfathomable to me how LPP can support so many people when we look at how many people are still incarcerated. In all of the different ways, you know whether it be helping them find attorneys, helping them get back on their feet when they get out, helping their families while they're in, making sure that people are getting letters and being remembered and talked about. It's really important to me to also amplify that message for everybody because bridging the gap between people who are in the industry today that even acknowledge that this is a reality, which a lot of people don't even want to acknowledge. That's my main advocacy goal.


Stephanie:

How do you think that your background and your experiences help influence the public perception of cannabis, and what a cannabis “criminal” looks like?


Amber Davidson: 

I've been hopeful and getting more comfortable being the face of the idea that I could be your sister, daughter, or wife. Sometimes it's a little bit disheartening because some people don't see it as that. They're just like “Okay, cool. You got in trouble. That's not gonna happen to me.” A lot of people don't think of it as being a real reality because of the way that the laws are in each State. It's easy to live in your bubble and forget that our experience is still a very real possibility for anyone.


Stephanie:

That's one of the challenges I feel like I encounter a lot, people feeling like it's so safe and forgetting that it's federally illegal. The normalization of cannabis is great, but I fear it will become so normalized that people forget about the tens of thousands incarcerated.


Amber Davidson: 

My goal is not to scare people but to remind them that the plant is still under siege by many people. Many people have put themselves out there in social media land, trying to amplify their voice or their brand, and in turn, ended up getting caught in the crosshairs over a variety of things, but unless we keep talking about it, how will others ever learn?

Stephanie:

I couldn't imagine if all of the advocates just stopped talking about it. If there was no LPP, no Free My Weedman. I know what not being fought for feels like and I can't imagine not being the voice that I didn't have serving my 10-year sentence. If you had one message for outgoing President Biden, the incoming new administration, or state governors, what would that message be? How can they right the wrongs of cannabis criminalization?


Amber Davidson: 

I think there needs to be a better understanding of the disparities in the types of crimes and the types of sentences that are being given right now, the punishments do not fit the “crimes” 99% of the time. I don't know if there's a way to right this wrong. If they decide to deschedule things or reschedule things, what we did is no longer considered a crime. There is no making things right for us, but they can start with the release of currently incarcerated cannabis prisoners, that is a given, then really taking a look at moving forward and not treating cultivators and distributors like we had bad intentions with what we were doing.


Stephanie:

Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me, Amber. I don't think people hear enough from the women who have had these experiences. Your voice is incredibly valuable. Thank you for your advocacy, your work in the space, and for bringing Cannifest to Humboldt!

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.