Unlocking the Human Spirit: Elliston Callwood's Journey from Incarceration to Advocacy

Stephanie Shepard • November 21, 2023

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In a world where the perception of cannabis has been rapidly evolving, and laws surrounding its

use have been changing, there's a story that demands our attention. It's the story of Elliston

Callwood, a man who, like many others, found himself trapped by the harsh legal consequences

of cannabis-related charges. What sets Elliston apart is his unwavering determination to turn his

experience into a force for change.


Elliston recently sat down with the Last Prisoner Project’s Director of Advocacy, surrounded by his family, to share his deeply personal journey, one marked by a 48-year prison sentence for a substance that many now view as a harmless plant. His story, rife with pain, perseverance, and the power of transformation, shines a light on the lives impacted by cannabis convictions and calls for a reevaluation of our society's approach to this plant.


As he recounted the events that led to his imprisonment, Elliston's voice carried the weight of disappointment and frustration. Charged and sentenced for possession of marijuana by both the State and the Federal government, his sentence was as excessive as it was unjust. He passionately believes that it's time for marijuana to be recognized for what it is: a healing and medicinal plant, not a threat to society.


Elliston's narrative is not just about the injustice he faced. It's also a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. He shared his experiences of life behind bars, the impact it had on his family, and the incredible longing he felt for them throughout his incarceration. His story details him reconnecting with his family after his unexpected release, and connecting with his youngest daughter, whom he was stripped of knowing due to his incarceration. His story is both heartwarming and heart-wrenching.


Elliston's journey continues beyond his release. He knows all too well the challenges individuals face upon reentering society after incarceration. That's why he looks to create a non-profit re-entry program that provides the support and resources needed to ensure that individuals don't end up back behind bars due to the difficulties of reintegration. It's a vision rooted in compassion and a deep desire to make a difference.


Amidst the darkness of his prison experience, Elliston discovered a source of light that kept him going. Influenced by Bob Marley's wisdom and the Bible's teachings, he found solace in the law of attraction, where positivity begets positive outcomes. He credits his personal growth to the time he had to focus on himself while incarcerated, a time that allowed him to reinforce his positive perspective on life.


Elliston's story is one of transformation from a victim of a broken system to an advocate for change. He is using his voice and his experience to shine a spotlight on the injustices of cannabis-related convictions and to call for its federal legalization.


Join us as we delve deeper into Elliston Callwood's remarkable journey and explore the critical issues surrounding cannabis-related convictions, reintegration into society, and the need for change. This is a story that deserves to be heard, a story that will inspire and ignite hope for a better future.


Q&A:


Stephanie:  As a long-time advocate of cannabis as a medicinal plant, how did you feel going to prison for that very plant? 


Elliston: I didn't feel bad going to prison for cannabis. I felt discriminated against when they gave me all this time for some cannabis. I know it wasn't legal at the time, but I didn't know I would be punished so harsh for a plant.


Stephanie: How did you find out about Last Prisoner Project and the work being done?


Elliston: The first person to write me was Mitzi Wall, telling me about the organization and how LPP was working to get cannabis prisoners out.


Stephanie:  Who is Elliston Callwood? What happened in your life that made it necessary for us to have this conversation?


Elliston: I was sentenced to 48 years for cannabis, I ended up serving 30 years of that sentence. I got locked up in 1992, and I got out in 2022. It was 27 years from the day I was sentenced, but it was 30 years because I didn't have a bond. When they locked me up, the State is who locked me up. The State charged me, but when I went to court, the judge said he had no proof that the guy actually got any weed from me because they didn't find me with any weed at all. The judge said he had no proof of injustice, so the judge dropped my charges in the State; but the Feds picked up the charges and gave me 48 years. It was a 48-year illegal sentence, I wasn't sentenced according to the law!


Stephanie: What was your life like before your incarceration?


Elliston: I was in the music industry. I also used to have a nightclub in Albuquerque, it was the

only after-hours nightclub in the city at that time.


Stephanie: You are the father of 7 children, how did your prison sentence impact your family? Being separated from your wife, and your kids… what do you think those in power, the lawmakers, and the current administration are missing? What do you want them to understand about the impact that your incarceration had on your family, your children, and your wife?


Elliston: ...grandkids, everybody. I think it devastated the whole family because it set us back for 30 years. Marijuana is only a plant, it grows from a seed, even the Bible says every plant that bares its seed is good for man. I don't know if you've seen that, it's in Genesis 1:29. Marijuana has always been used for some type of medicine somewhere, somehow.


Stephanie: When you say it impacted the whole family, how did you try to comfort your family? As someone whose been incarcerated myself, I know a big part of our survival is trying to make our families feel better about the situation. How did you try to comfort your family during that time while doing what you could to stay connected?


Elliston: Well, for one thing, I took a class called "Parenting from a Distance”. It was difficult having my wife raising the kids by herself. Everybody pushed forward and tried to help me get out because my babies were young when I left. My youngest daughter wasn't even born yet. My wife was 7 months pregnant with her when I left. My wife had to get into a different mode and had to shoulder more responsibility to raise the kids by herself. I made sure she brought them to see me so my presence could be seen and felt to create balance.


Stephanie: Seeing as how cannabis is a multibillion-dollar industry in this country, what do you want people to understand about the impact of being incarcerated for the very plant that you have given up over half of your life for?


Elliston: Now that it is legal in so many states, it should make a big difference in resentencing. What we want to see in reform is the release of the people and allowing them an opportunity to succeed when they get out, which entails more than just opening the doors and saying find your way. Part of our family’s plan, once everything’s established in our cannabis business, is to start a nonprofit organization with a re-entry program where when folks get out, they have someplace to go for resources and support. When I got out, I realized how hard it is for people when they just got released and they have no support. I mean, things like that make you cry. Somebody just got out, then you see them come back, you want to know why they came back. You call them all kinds of idiots but, I'd never experienced the reality of what it felt like to get out. When I got out and I actually saw exactly how it is. If I didn't have a support system, I don't know where I would have been, but it wouldn't be where I'm at right now.


Stephanie: How has being home for you been, and what does that feel like after 30 years?


Elliston: It feels like a new life. Being able to interact with my babies, see my wife all the time, and just being able to talk to my children is truly a blessing. I would envision myself on the outside all the time, so when I got out, it was how I actually saw myself when I walked out of those gates because when you're inside, you hear many stories from people with a lot of time, what they'd do if they get out, or when they get out. Everybody has something in their mind about what that would feel like, but I used to visualize my release because I believe if you visualize something enough, you can bring it into existence.


Stephanie: How was the reconnection with your family? Was it instant after being gone so long, or did it take some settling into?


Elliston: When I came home it felt like home, but of course, 30 years is a long time. I had to get to know people all over again, and my youngest daughter, I never even knew her besides them bringing her to visit. I didn't even get to spend much time with my other 2 before I went in. When I left, one was 6, one was 3, and one was getting ready to be born. My other children didn't live with me at that time. We built and maintained a connection because I used to see them all the time in visits and talked to them every day over the phone.


Stephanie: I have to admit, I struggled with being institutionalized when I was released, and still do in some areas of my life. Have you experienced those moments?


Elliston: No, I didn’t have that problem. Sometimes I used to cry, sympathizing over the injustice and maltreatment of the prisoners, many of whom I have built strong meaningful relationships with. When they let me out, they just let me out. They didn't give me a dime; they didn't give me anything. They just opened the door and let me out and told me to make my way. I had been gone for 30 years. No clothes, no food, no money, no car, no job, nothing- they just let me out. So, when I start reminiscing on all those other guys who I used to see coming back all the time; I used to be wondering why they were coming back. I started realizing, that if you let somebody out like that and they do not have anybody there for them, what are they supposed to do? But, thank God, I had my family, and they embraced me, and I was able to have a better start than a lot of people; that's a blessing! When I left, my grandson Hasani wasn't born at the time, that's my oldest grandson and you see how big he is now, that's how much time has passed…over some cannabis.


Stephanie: You sound so positive. LPP’s co-founder, Mary Bailey speaks so highly of you. She said “Wait until you speak to him, he is such a bright light”…and now that I'm speaking with you, I understand why she feels that way. I hear such positivity in your voice. How do you not carry bitterness for the injustice you’ve experienced?


Elliston: That's the past! I see life as “what you put in is what you're going to get out.” If I put in

negativity, I'm going to get negativity in return. If I put in positive stuff, I'm going to get out positive stuff. I believe as a man thinketh, so is he. Another belief is thoughts are things and you can think things into existence and that the law of attraction doesn't differentiate; so, if you put in negative things, you're going to get negative things out in return.


Stephanie: Have you always thought this way or is it something that developed while you were in prison?


Elliston: I had some clues and some inclinations before I went to prison. I listened to people like Bob Marley and read some psalms and different things in the Bible. From what I gathered; I developed some kind of conclusion that I've drawn for myself, but being in prison actually reinforced my outlook on life. I had time to think and analyze things; I was able to examine a lot of other people's literature, and I was able to compare thoughts/theories and determine what I wanted to put into the either and channel what I wanted to get out of it.


Stephanie: You mentioned Bob Marley. Music was a saving grace for me while incarcerated. I had a little MP3 player, and it was worth more than gold because it mentally took me out of that space when I needed that. How did music play a part in your positive attitude?


Elliston: I still got my MP3 player! It has thousands of songs on it; I play some of my musical treasures in the car as I ride around. That’s a lot of memories! Just the other day my wife and I were coming home, and she was talking about how she wanted to listen to the song “Tyrone” by Erykah Badu, and that brought back memories because I used to listen to that song on my MP3 inside.


Stephanie: Holidays are upon us and I know prison can be a lonely place, especially during the holidays. I head up the letter-writing program and I know you received letters of support from the community. How did receiving those letters affect you?


Elliston: I still have some of those letters. When I read the letters and I realized how many people want change and marijuana reform, I knew something would happen because words got power. We live in a world of cause and effect, and every cause has an effect. Even when I was a kid, my parents would say, "Be careful what you say out your mouth because it might come to pass." So these are the things that I used to hang my hat on, trying to speak things into existence.


Stephanie: 30 years is a long time. How did you spend your time?


Elliston: Trying to accomplish everything I could accomplish while I had the time instead of sitting back and watching everybody play dominoes, cards, chess, etc. I couldn't find time for that; I still don't know how to play chess; I didn't need to play games. I spent a lot of time in the law library, reading a lot of books, taking classes, and watching some games. The library was my friend because I had to find a way out of prison. I used to crochet in my leisure, I could watch the sport games while crocheting. I could do a lot of things and still crochet; I don't have to look to do it. I also used to do ceramics.


Stephanie: How did your release come about? 


Elliston: The judge gave me a compassionate release due to my impeccable prison record, conduct, and all the different things that I accomplished while being incarcerated. First, I made a motion, then I hired a great lawyer to represent me on it; this resulted in me getting immediate release.


Stephanie: After having a routine for so many years, what do you do on a daily basis. How do you spend your time?


Elliston: I go to work Monday through Friday! I have a job doing woodwork. In my spear time, I still crochet. I try to read, I make sure to read the newsletters that I still get from LPP, and I've been slowly getting back into my extensive fitness routine.


Stephanie: As we bring this conversation to a close, what do you want to see change in cannabis reform? What do you want that to look like if you could make those changes?


Elliston: I want it to look like every other product that's in the supermarket. I'm talking about FDIC-insured and FDA-approved... I'm talking about the whole nine. Cannabis is so useful for so many different things, many of which is being held back from the people. People depend on it! Being FDIC insured is very important because when you make your money in the industry, it’s hard to secure and actually utilize your gains because the Feds are so shrewd. If you aren't on top of your game, they will charge you again.


Stephanie: I know you and your grandson Hasani are working on getting your cannabis license. What have been obstacles that you have experienced in going through this process of trying to get licensed?


Elliston: Not just my grandson, but also my daughter, my wife, my youngest son, and my oldest daughter. Tremendous obstacles! They waited like 6 to 7 months before they asked me for a copy of my criminal record. Then, when I got that, they waited some more months and then asked me for the letters that you guys wrote in support of me. Then they wanted a background check on me, I was subjected to a background check when nobody else was. I still wonder why they were scrutinizing me and had me actually jumping through all these hoops to obtain my cannabis license; while everybody is just getting theirs with no problems. 


Stephanie: How did you feel when you got out and saw how normalized cannabis was becoming? Was it triggering for you?


Elliston: I was glad they were doing it because it took me back to Peter Tosh, for years and years, he was screaming, “legalize it, and I will advertise it.” Peter has transitioned from this realm and didn’t get the opportunity to witness the legalization of cannabis, but his legacy will continue. In New Mexico, the cannabis laws are not really strict in nature. It is just basically the license that we are asking for, nobody else has one of them already so we asked for a license that they don't know how to support. Nobody else has a delivery license in New Mexico at this time.


Hassani:  I feel like they should also have grants and programs to help people that were affected by the war on drugs. Family members who were affected should get assistance getting licensed and established in the business because they're working from a disadvantage, especially those who were in prison and are not as technical savvy as others. If we had more grants and more organizations to aid and assist prisoners being released, those affected would benefit the collective tremendously while providing checks and balances in the industry. There are too many qualified individuals not exercising their privilege into the industry due to the lack of support.


Stephanie: What's one thing? If you could tell President Biden one thing after what you've been through, what would it be?


Elliston: If I tell him one thing, I'll tell him to legalize it. You have the power to do it.


Stephanie: You received a reentry grant when you got home. Can you share how you used that money? What did it mean to you to have something when you got out waiting for you, as opposed to the way the system does it, and they just open the doors and put you out?


Elliston: I was truly grateful. I was amazed when LPP sent me the letter telling me that when I got out, I could apply for a re-entry grant. I used to read the LPP newsletters, so when I got out, I already knew about the grant. So, we signed up for it and you guys blessed us by awarding us the grant. We already had the plan of having a mobile dispensary, so we went out and purchased the van. We also had to get the license which cost $5,000 plus another $1,500. That grant money was really useful and beneficial at the time. I'm glad that I could utilize it for something positive, especially trying to get this business started.


Stephanie: Thank you and the whole family for taking the time to share a little bit of your journey.


Elliston & Family: Thank you! Thanks for having us. We appreciate you guys; please let Mary

and the rest of the organization know that we truly appreciate them.

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.