Sunday Morning Coffee Reflection
Well, that was quite a week.
Unless you've been hiding under a rock (and honestly, given the state of politics lately, I wouldn't blame you), you've probably heard about the "blue tidal wave" that swept through our national elections on Tuesday. Democrats made significant gains across the country, securing control of both chambers of Congress and several governorships. Let’s take my home state of Texas as an example. Texas has a history of electing women, and democrats at that, but a Latina? Wowzas! It brought back my faith in my home-town peeps, which frankly, I was beginning to lose.
As for the nation-wide swing, political analysts are already busy dissecting what happened, what it means, and what comes next.
As I watched the results unfold, I found myself thinking about something I've witnessed repeatedly over my nearly four decades working in corrections and education.
The pendulum.
Not the political pendulum, although that's certainly part of it. I'm thinking about the pendulum that determines how our country views crime, punishment, incarceration, rehabilitation, and the people caught up in our justice system.
I've watched it swing back and forth throughout my career. And while elections can certainly influence its direction, I've learned that the relationship between politics and criminal justice policy is rarely as simple as red versus blue.
Still, moments like this give us an opportunity to reflect on where we've been, where we're going, and what we should be holding on to regardless of which direction the pendulum swings.
We've Been Here Before
If you've worked in corrections long enough, you've probably experienced the whiplash.
During one administration, rehabilitation is a priority. Educational programs expand, reentry initiatives receive funding, and leaders talk about reducing recidivism and creating second chances. There's enthusiasm for evidence-based practices, alternatives to incarceration, and helping people successfully return to their communities.
Then the political winds shift.
Suddenly, the conversation becomes about being tough on crime. Budgets tighten. Programs that were celebrated a few years earlier are questioned or eliminated. The emphasis shifts toward punishment, enforcement, and incarceration.
Then, eventually, the pendulum swings again.
Our history is full of these shifts. The tough-on-crime policies of the 1980s and 1990s contributed to an extraordinary expansion of incarceration. In 1994, Congress eliminated Pell Grant eligibility for incarcerated students, effectively dismantling many college-in-prison programs. Decades later, bipartisan criminal justice reform efforts gained momentum, the federal First Step Act became law, and Pell Grant eligibility for eligible incarcerated students was restored in 2023.
These changes didn't happen overnight, and they weren't driven exclusively by one political party. In fact, some of the most meaningful criminal justice reforms have emerged from unlikely political partnerships.
But the larger pattern is unmistakable. Our national priorities change, and the opportunities available to incarcerated people often change with them.
The problem is that the people living and working inside correctional facilities don't get to step off the pendulum while it swings.
People Are Not Political Priorities
This is the part that troubles me most. When we talk about criminal justice policy, we often discuss it in terms of budgets, legislation, political platforms, and public opinion. Those things matter, of course, but sometimes we forget that behind every policy decision are actual human beings.
A student who was halfway through a college degree when funding disappeared.
A correctional educator whose program was eliminated despite strong outcomes.
A person preparing for release who suddenly loses access to workforce training.
A family trying to support someone returning home.
A correctional officer working in an increasingly tense environment where meaningful activities have been reduced.
These aren't abstract policy debates to the people experiencing them.
They're everyday realities.
And when we build systems that expand and contract opportunities based primarily on political cycles, we create instability in places where consistency may be one of the most important ingredients for success. Imagine trying to build a public school system where every four years we fundamentally reconsidered whether children should have access to reading instruction.
We would recognize that as absurd.
Yet in corrections, we routinely treat education, rehabilitation, and reentry preparation as optional investments that can be expanded or reduced depending on the prevailing political climate.
Public Safety and Compassion Are Not Opposites
One of the things I've found most frustrating throughout my career is the way we sometimes frame criminal justice discussions as a choice between accountability and compassion.
As though believing people should be held accountable for their actions somehow requires us to abandon their humanity.
Or as though supporting rehabilitation means we don't care about victims, community safety, or the consequences of crime.
I reject that framing.
We can believe that people should be accountable for the harm they've caused and also believe they deserve opportunities to change. We can recognize the suffering of victims and their families while supporting education, treatment, and rehabilitation for people who have committed crimes.
In fact, I would argue that effective rehabilitation is one of the most practical investments we can make in public safety.
Most incarcerated people will eventually return to their communities. The question isn't simply whether they have served their sentences. It's whether we've done anything during their incarceration to help them return better prepared to live productive, law-abiding lives.
Education, workforce preparation, behavioral health treatment, and meaningful reentry support aren't rewards for criminal behavior.
They're investments in what happens next.
And what happens next affects all of us.
The Danger of Celebrating the Swing
I understand why people celebrate election results that align with their values and hopes. Elections matter, and political leadership influences which policies are pursued, which programs receive resources, and which voices are heard, but I think we need to be careful about assuming that a favorable election automatically means meaningful progress for criminal justice reform.
It doesn't.
A change in political leadership may create opportunities, but opportunities still require thoughtful policy, sustained investment, effective implementation, and accountability.
And political parties aren't monolithic. There are Democrats who support punitive criminal justice policies and Republicans who have championed meaningful reforms. Some of the strongest advocates for rehabilitation I've worked with have come from very different political backgrounds.
That's something worth remembering, particularly in a country that seems increasingly determined to divide people into opposing teams.
If we want lasting change, we need to build support that survives elections.
We need correctional education and rehabilitation to be understood not as partisan initiatives, but as essential components of a functioning justice system, because if our commitment to human dignity only lasts as long as our preferred political party holds power, it isn't much of a commitment.
What Happens When the Pendulum Swings Back?
Here's where my optimism comes with a little caution.
Political pendulums swing.
They always have.
The current moment may create opportunities for renewed conversations about justice reform, sentencing, rehabilitation, and investments in education and reentry. I hope it does.
But history suggests that another shift will eventually come. Perhaps in response to economic conditions, a highly publicized crime, changing public opinion, or another election, and when that happens, we need to ask ourselves what will remain.
Will the educational programs we've built still exist? Will policymakers continue to recognize the value of rehabilitation? Will correctional leaders protect meaningful programming even when budgets become tight? Will communities continue supporting people returning from incarceration when the political conversation becomes less welcoming?
Or will we once again begin dismantling the very things we've spent years building?
I've seen too many good programs disappear because the political or organizational climate changed. I've watched leaders spend years creating opportunities only to see those opportunities vanish when priorities shifted.
It's exhausting. And it's enormously wasteful.
We can’t keep rebuilding the same bridges every time the political winds change.
Compassion Shouldn't Have an Election Cycle
I keep coming back to this idea: Compassion shouldn't have an election cycle.
Neither should human dignity.
Neither should our belief that people are capable of growth and change.
Compassion doesn't mean ignoring harm or pretending that difficult decisions don't have to be made. It means recognizing the humanity of everyone affected by the justice system, including victims, incarcerated people, families, correctional staff, and communities.
It means refusing to reduce people to the worst thing they've ever done.
It means remembering that accountability and redemption can coexist.
And it means making decisions grounded in evidence, fairness, and the long-term well-being of our communities, even when those decisions aren't politically convenient.
I think this is especially important for those of us working in corrections, education, and reentry. We have a responsibility to keep our focus on what works and what is right, regardless of who occupies the White House, the governor's mansion, or the director's office.
Our professional values shouldn't change every time the political landscape does.
Hope Is a Practice
I’m hopeful about what this week's elections might mean for the future. Not because I believe one election will solve our problems, but because moments of political change can create space for new conversations, new partnerships, and new possibilities.
And I believe we should take advantage of those moments.
We should advocate for educational opportunities, invest in evidence-based programs, strengthen reentry systems, and help policymakers understand that rehabilitation and public safety belong in the same conversation, but we should also be doing those things when the political climate is less favorable.
Especially then.
Because hope isn't simply the belief that things will get better when the right people are elected. Hope is the decision to keep working toward something better, even when progress is slow, setbacks are inevitable, and the people making decisions don't always share our perspective.
It's choosing to treat people with dignity when others don't.
It's protecting opportunities when resources are scarce.
It's building partnerships across political differences.
It's remembering that kindness and accountability aren't mutually exclusive.
And it's refusing to let cynicism become our default response to a complicated world.
Keeping Our Eyes on What Matters
As I finish my coffee this morning, I'm thinking less about the election results themselves and more about what we choose to do with this moment. We have an opportunity to ask better questions about justice, safety, punishment, rehabilitation, and the kind of communities we want to create. We also have an opportunity to resist the temptation to see progress as something that belongs to one political party or another.
The people we serve deserve more than that.
The educators, correctional professionals, and community organizations doing this work deserve more than that.
And frankly, our communities deserve more than a justice system that changes its understanding of human potential every few election cycles.
So yes, I'm hopeful.
But I'm also mindful that the pendulum will swing again.
When it does, I hope we'll remember that compassion isn't weakness, rehabilitation isn't the opposite of accountability, and treating people with dignity isn't a political position.
It's a reflection of who we choose to be.
And perhaps the most important thing we can do, regardless of which direction the pendulum swings, is make sure we don't lose sight of that.
