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.

Sixteen Years and Counting: The Story of Parker Coleman

By Stephanie Shepard • October 26, 2026
Parker Coleman should be thinking about what comes next. He should have been thinking about how he would celebrate his recent 41st birthday, spending time with his family, building a career, falling in love, making plans, and living the life that so many of us take for granted. Instead, Parker is still in prison. He has spent nearly his entire adult life behind bars, serving a 60-year federal sentence for a nonviolent cannabis conspiracy. He was in his early twenties when his life changed forever. Today, the plant at the center of his case is legal or decriminalized in much of the country, and a multibillion-dollar cannabis industry has grown around it. But Parker is still serving 60 years. And perhaps the hardest part is that every one of his codefendants has gone home. His codefendant, Corvain Cooper, received a pardon from President Trump in January 2021 after serving a life sentence. Another codefendant, Clyde "Monroe" Wilburn, spent 14 years as a fugitive before turning himself in. Within days, prosecutors moved to dismiss his indictment, and the same judge who sentenced Parker released Wilburn. Parker remains in prison. Still waiting. The Day Everything Changed Parker remembers the day his life changed with extraordinary clarity. He was at a car dealership picking up his car after repairs when federal agents came after him. "They jumped on the hood of my vehicle with guns," Parker recalled. "My mouth was busted from slamming against the steering wheel. I thought it was a robbery at first." When he tried to run, an ICE agent who had arrested him two weeks earlier on the same charges tripped him. The agent told him that if he made a phone call and cooperated, he would not have to go to prison. Parker refused. That decision, made in the back of a car behind a cafeteria off Independence Boulevard, would shape the next sixteen years of his life. A Family That Never Stopped Standing With Him For Parker, incarceration has never been something that affected only him. As his case moved forward, his codefendants began cooperating with prosecutors, including making statements about his younger sister and wearing a wire on his mother. At one point, Parker was faced with the possibility that his own mother could be indicted as prosecutors tried to pressure him into cooperating. He remembers telling her the news while he was being held at the Mecklenburg County Jail in Charlotte, North Carolina. Her response is something Parker has carried with him ever since. "Son, you know I love you to death," she told him. "Fight for your life. We're here with you. But what we will not support is you telling on others to get out of prison on account of my name. You choose to live a certain way. So you take what comes with that." It was one of the hardest conversations of his life. And it says a lot about the family Parker comes from. "I couldn't imagine the woman who birthed me sending me letters from prison to prison over ghost weed," he said. "That's just unfathomable." Sixteen Years of Moments He Can't Get Back The true cost of Parker's sentence is not measured in years alone. It is measured in birthdays. In family dinners missed. In relationships that never had the chance to grow. In watching the people you love get older through letters, phone calls, and photographs instead of being there beside them. Parker hasn't seen his parents in more than a decade because of their health issues. The last time he saw his niece, she was three years old. She turns thirteen next month. He has watched from behind prison walls as his parents moved through their forties and into their sixties. His grandmother, who he says wants nothing more than to see him have a child of his own, will turn 81 this year. And then there are the people he will never get back. Parker lost his Nana, an uncle, and an aunt while incarcerated. They were people who helped raise him while his father served overseas in the Marines. Those are the losses that don't show up on a sentencing document. When Parker was asked what prison has taken from him, his answer was simple: "Time and opportunity to be successful." He talked about the relationships he never had the chance to build: romantic relationships, business relationships, friendships. A life interrupted before it had a chance to fully begin. He Doesn't Call It Hope When asked how he has held onto hope after sixteen years in prison, Parker offered an answer that sounds surprising at first. "I hate hope," he said. "I don't hope for anything." For Parker, hope can feel like waiting for someone else to decide when your life gets to begin again. "Hope is cruel, basically pacifying an issue you know is not going to be okay," he explained. "In my reality, I know I'll be out soon. So I move with conviction toward that goal." That conviction has carried him through a level 7 maximum-security prison without allowing incarceration to define who he is. He has watched people around him lose themselves to the trauma of prison. "A lot of people, under my circumstances, have given up," he said. "They might be physically here, but they're gone mentally," Parker says he has fought to remain himself. "My mental strength hasn't allowed me to succumb to the trauma we see on an everyday basis. My morals and principles are still the same as before incarceration." A World That Changed Without Him Perhaps one of the most painful parts of Parker's story is the world he has watched change from inside his cell. The same cannabis plant that became the foundation of his sentence has become a legitimate business, a source of jobs, investment, and wealth. Companies built around cannabis are publicly traded. Entrepreneurs are building careers and businesses around an industry that did not exist in its current form when Parker was sentenced. He knows that world could have been his, too. "I probably would've been a part of one of those billion-dollar companies if I were free," Parker said. "I was doing my research thoroughly on government taxes and the parameters of the legal weed business before incarceration." Instead, he is still serving a 60-year sentence. And to people who legally purchase cannabis today, Parker has a message: "They could've been me at any given time, depending on their location in the United States." That is the part of Parker's story that is easy to miss when we talk about cannabis legalization only in terms of laws, markets, and tax revenue. There are people whose lives were permanently changed by the same prohibition that the country is now moving away from. Parker is one of them. What Parker Wants Us to Remember Parker has thought about what he would say to the judge who sentenced him. His words are not complicated. "All of us make mistakes. I haven't made 60 years' worth of mistakes." Then he asks a question that has stayed with him for years: "I could've been your son or grandson, and the chances you give your family, the amount of time you gave me, are a little close to none. So what did I do for you to throw away my life when violent offenders come in and out of prison every day, even for rape and senseless killings? What justifies my sentence?" It is a question about proportionality. But it is also a question about whether a person should be defined forever by the worst thing they have been convicted of. Parker does not believe his life should end where his sentence began. Parker Still Believes His Story Is Not Over After sixteen years, Parker could understandably believe that his story has already been written. He doesn't. He looks at what happened to his codefendants and sees evidence that change is possible. "I have full faith my story is by far not over," he said. When Parker comes home, his dreams are not extravagant. He wants to see his family. He wants the opportunity to build a life. He wants to be "the voice for people who can't speak for themselves." And he wants to take the support he has received from people who never stopped believing in him and pay it forward. "Freedom will mean everything to me," Parker said. "My whole existence is based on freedom, not a cage. I can't accomplish any of my dreams in a small bathroom known as a cell." After sixteen years, Parker is still waiting to find out what the rest of his life can look like. Parker's Story Is Not Over Parker's case is a reminder that the end of cannabis prohibition does not automatically mean freedom for the people who were imprisoned under it. His codefendants have been released or had their sentences changed. Parker remains behind bars, serving a 60-year sentence for a nonviolent cannabis offense. The world around him has changed dramatically. He has not. He is still a son. Still a grandson. Still an uncle. Still the person his family has loved all these years. Still someone with dreams for what his life could become. And still someone waiting for the opportunity to come home. Why This Work Matters Parker's story is why Last Prisoner Project exists. Our work is about people, not statistics. It is about knowing the names behind these sentences and refusing to let them disappear simply because the laws around cannabis have changed. It means working case by case to pursue clemency, commutations, compassionate release, and other pathways to freedom. It means supporting people and their families while they are incarcerated and helping people rebuild their lives when they come home. And it means continuing to tell these stories, not because Parker is a statistic, but because he is a person whose life is still unfolding. Every letter written, every petition filed, every law passed, every record cleared, and every person who stands with this work can move someone closer to freedom. Parker has spent sixteen years waiting. His story is far from over.  Help Last Prisoner Project free every last cannabis prisoner. Learn more and support the work at Last Prisoner Project .

"Nobody Should Be Locked Up for a Plant": Kelly Barbieri's Story of Loss, Resilience, and Reform

By Mary Bailey • August 20, 2026
For Kelly Barbieri, incarceration for a cannabis offense in Georgia cost her far more than her freedom. It cost her time she can never get back with her family, time she needed most when tragedy struck at home. Her story is one of grief, community, and an unshakable belief that no one should ever go through what she and her family endured. A Family Rooted in Tradition Kelly and her husband, Dan, have been married for more than 30 years and have raised two sons together, the younger of whom is autistic. Kelly describes their household as very traditional: the couple made sure a parent was always home, even when that meant working separate shifts and sacrificing time together. Kelly eventually left her teaching job to homeschool her younger son. Family life centered on simple pleasures: cooking, watching old movies, spending time outdoors, caring for their dogs, cats, and chickens, and tending a garden of food, flowers, and medicinal plants. Everyone in the family is a devoted Grateful Dead fan, a shared love of music that has long been part of their household. How It Began In March 2018, the family's Georgia home was raided after Kelly provided cannabis to a friend whose mother had cancer. Unbeknownst to Kelly, that friend had become a confidential informant to help resolve his own drug charges; he later died of a fentanyl overdose. The case didn't go to trial until late August 2023, more than five years later. Kelly and Dan were convicted of manufacturing and distributing marijuana and sentenced to 10 years, with three to serve. The judge issued a modification order recommending early parole so the couple could return home to care for their special-needs son, but the parole board set Kelly's tentative parole date for October 2026, just two months before her maximum release date. A Hard Beginning Kelly's incarceration started with Diagnostics, an intake process she describes as the hardest part of her time inside. "We ate cold food out of Styrofoam trays, were often in lockdown, and it was just a gross place," she recalls. It was the only period, she says, when she felt genuinely unsafe. But even that hardship paled in comparison to what came next. An Unimaginable Loss While incarcerated, Kelly learned that her eldest son was sick. His health declined rapidly, and he died a week later. She was powerless to help. "If I had been home, I could have made him go to the doctor or hospital," she says. "That feeling of helplessness and being powerless was horrible." The loss shook her faith. "I think what helped me get through it the most was the other women in there with me who had been through similar experiences and supported me," Kelly says. "I don't know that it was any kind of faith that helped. If anything, I lost some faith in a higher power during that time." What carried her forward was her remaining son, and her determination to stay strong for him. Kelly recently attended her son's memorial, an experience she calls healing. "Seeing how many people loved him and came to honor him warmed my heart," she says. She still grieves every day, but has found grounding in nature, family, and keeping her son's memory alive. "I know the only way to get through this is to feel it, and remember that grief is the price we pay for love," she reflects. "I believe he would want me to live, and not just exist and survive." The Power of Community Even from behind bars, Kelly felt the support of people she'd never met. Letters from strangers reminded her she wasn't alone. "It's so nice to hear your name called at mail call, and then just hearing the validation from others that what I was going through was so ridiculous," she says. She saved every letter. "It still makes me feel good to know that there is a large community of people out there who want to help those in a similar situation to ours, and it definitely gives me hope." Last Prisoner Project's Role Kelly remembers the exact day she learned Last Prisoner Project would sponsor her case, a day that had started with the loss of her beloved dog. "I was so depressed, but then my son told me that y'all had accepted us to sponsor, and it really brightened my day," she says. The financial support meant she no longer had to rely on her sons to put money on her books, and a grant to her son eased the family's financial strain. "LPP was truly a blessing," she says. "It's easy to feel lost and alone while incarcerated, and knowing y'all were there helped so much." Reflecting on LPP's broader work, Kelly is direct: "Some organizations just pay a lot of lip service to cannabis policy change, while LPP is actually doing something to help, and that is huge." Looking Ahead Now home and back at work, Kelly is rebuilding the life she and Dan always envisioned, one centered on family, gardening, cooking, and caring for their special-needs son, while carrying the memory of the son they lost every day. But she's also clear-eyed about the work still ahead. "My husband and I should have never been sentenced like we were in the first place, and then for the parole board to keep us in there for so long, even months after our son died, was just unnecessary," she says. "Nobody should be locked up for a plant, period. No victim, no crime." Her call to action is simple: full decriminalization of cannabis at the national level, so state reform can follow. "Nobody stopped using cannabis because we were locked up," she says. "So the whole incarceration thing is pointless."  Kelly Barbieri is a Last Prisoner Project constituent. Her story is shared with her permission as part of LPP's ongoing work to end the incarceration of individuals for cannabis-related offenses and support their successful reentry.

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 .