Retreat, Reflect, Return

I hope you noticed I didn’t post last week. I should’ve warned you. But I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t post until the time actually rolled around to do it, and when it did, I didn’t notice because over the past week, I traded thoughts of concrete walls, reentry challenges, and correctional policies from my back porch for inspiration and fellowship amongst pine trees and the quiet hush of the forest. I was in the Poconos, attending a writer’s retreat hosted by Birth a Book, and let me tell you—it was soul-level good.

Every day started with a nature walk, continued with thoughtful writing workshops, punctuated by yoga in a renovated horse barn, and ended with nourishing meals prepared by a wildly talented chef who sourced as many ingredients as possible locally. We hiked, we meditated, we laughed, we cried (the good kind), and we wrote. We wrote a lot. But more than that, we connected—women with different missions but a shared hunger to birth something meaningful into the world.

I went to this retreat to work on my book—a guidebook of sorts for building meaningful programming for incarcerated students. A “how-to and why-for,” born from decades of experience and countless stories that deserve to be told. And while I thought I was stepping away from the work for a bit, I quickly realized I was stepping into it in a whole new way.

Because what I experienced in the Poconos? It’s exactly what we strive to create in correctional classrooms every day—spaces of reflection, connection, nourishment, and possibility.

So today, I want to share three lessons from the retreat that reinforced what I believe so deeply about this work.

1. Stillness Is Part of the Work
One afternoon, during yoga, I found myself holding a meditative pose in Nidra yoga , eyes closed, the breeze slipping through the trees. It was silent. Still. And in that quiet, I remembered: clarity doesn’t usually show up when we’re rushing from one crisis to the next.

Correctional educators live in constant motion—security checks, lesson plans, shifting schedules, and the emotional labor of holding space for students living in trauma. It’s easy to believe that “busyness” equals effectiveness. But we can’t pour into others from an empty cup. Even a few minutes of stillness—before class starts, after a long day, or in the hallway between chaos—can be a radical act of self-preservation.

Stillness makes room for creativity. It makes room for compassion. And Lord knows, our students need both.

2. Stories Build Bridges
Around the retreat table, I listened to women share stories about surviving cancer, leaving toxic jobs, raising children while healing childhood wounds, and yes—about the fears and hopes tied up in writing a book. I shared my story too. And the beauty of it all? Nobody had to have the same life experience to get it.

That’s the power of story. And it’s just as true in correctional education.

Our students—whether they're writing GED essays or rapping lyrics during creative writing—are desperate for ways to be seen and heard. Storytelling, in all its forms, is one of the most transformative tools we have. It humanizes. It connects. It empowers.

When we give students opportunities to write about their lives, to reflect on their journeys, and to share in safe, supportive spaces, we’re not just building literacy. We’re building self-worth.

And for some of our students, it might be the first time anyone’s ever told them, “Your voice matters.”

3. Good Nourishment Fuels Big Work
Let’s talk about this food for a second. Fresh herbs clipped just before dinner. Creamy pasta with freshly grilled veggies. Warm syrup over fluffy Belgian waffles. It was…divine. But more than that, it was intentional. Every bite said, “You matter enough to eat well.” (Side note: the founder of Birth a Book wrote her own story about this very topic: Love Food that Loves You Back by Dorothy Holtermann. Check it out!)

How often do we offer that kind of nourishment—to our students, or to ourselves?

And I don’t just mean food. I mean emotional, intellectual, and creative nourishment.

Do we give our learners access to ideas that challenge and excite them? Do we offer words of encouragement instead of just correction? Are we checking in on our colleagues—not with a clipboard or checklist, but with real care?

Correctional education is hard work. Meaningful work. And it can also be draining. We need to feed ourselves well—in body, mind, and spirit—so we can continue doing the work that changes lives.

I left the Poconos with a clearer vision for my book and a team to help me get from conception to birth, but also with a deeper commitment to the the students in our classrooms and the staff that are tasked with their educational journey. Because what I experienced there—community, reflection, creative space, and good food—isn’t just for writers in mountain cabins.

It’s what all humans need to thrive.

Our incarcerated students carry stories that matter. They deserve programming that respects their potential and sees their humanity. And the people doing that work—you, me, the folks showing up in prisons and jails with lesson plans and heart? We need care, too.

So this Sunday morning, I offer you this:

Take a breath. Tell your story. Feed your soul.
Because when we retreat and reflect, we return renewed—and ready to plant something powerful in even the hardest soil.

Until next week,
☕️ Amy