This Mother’s Day, Remember the Mothers Who Vanish

The following op-ed was written by Bail Project client DeAsia Taylor. We’re grateful to her for sharing her personal story, which reflects the broader injustices faced by countless families impacted by pretrial incarceration.

I came close to missing everything.

My job. My home. My kids’ bedtime.

It was a regular morning when I had to take my three sons down to the courthouse with me. I didn’t have anyone else to watch them. My mom had said she would, but she didn’t show up the night before. So I got up early, dressed the boys, packed snacks, and prayed.

I told myself it was going to be quick. I thought maybe the judge would hear me out. Maybe they’d see what kind of mother I am, the life I’ve built for my kids, the way I show up every day for them. But that’s not how it went.

The judge saw the charges – felony assault. She didn’t ask about the door that got kicked in. She didn’t ask about the window that was shattered. She didn’t ask about the stick I got hit with while the police were standing right there. She didn’t ask about the three boys who would go home that day without their mama.

Instead, she set my bond at $20,000. I’ve learned that, in Cleveland – where I’m from – a common way to post bail is by paying 10 percent of the bond. Not for me. The judge ordered that I had to pay the whole thing to come home. I didn’t have it. Most mothers don’t.

I spent four days locked up, pacing a cement floor, wondering what my boys were doing, who picked them up from school, whether they were scared. I cried. I prayed. And I tried to stay calm.

The only reason I’m home now is because The Bail Project stepped in. They help people who can’t afford bail get out of jail while they wait for court. They saw me for who I really am, not a criminal, not a threat, just a mother caught in a storm. They believed I deserved a chance to keep my life together.

But most women in my situation don’t get that chance.

People think jail is for “bad people,” who break laws on purpose, who don’t care. That’s not what I saw. Most of the women I met were just like me. Struggling. Single moms. Survivors. People who snapped. People with nowhere to turn. People who made one mistake and are paying for it with everything.

Let me tell you what led to my arrest.

I was already under pressure. My rent was late. They were threatening eviction. I work in home health care, and every dollar goes toward gas, groceries, or keeping the lights on. Then my sister asked to move in. She had nowhere to go. She’s younger than me, with a daughter about the same age as my youngest son. I let her stay. That’s what family’s supposed to do, right?

But it got tense fast. I like my house quiet. Clean. I have routines. She came in loud, messy, not chipping in on bills or food. Her daughter and my son argued constantly. She stomped around, blasted the TV, left food in her room. It wasn’t safe, it wasn’t respectful—and it wasn’t sustainable.

One night, after a long day trying to get my kids some boots and coats, she started yelling at my son in the car. I told her to stop. She got in my face. I stayed quiet. I just went into the house, locked the door.

She followed. Banged on my door. Broke it down.

And when she came through that door, everything changed.

I defended myself. I don’t regret that. I regret that it had to come to that. But I won’t apologize for protecting myself and my boys. The cops showed up. She still had the stick in her hand. She hit me in the back with it while they were standing there.

They still arrested me.

That’s the thing about this system: it doesn’t care about the full story. It doesn’t care about the context. It doesn’t care if you’re a mom, if you’re fighting eviction, if you’re surviving. It cares about charges, not circumstances. And once you’re in, even for a few days, it can undo everything.

I could’ve lost my job. I could’ve lost my kids. If I hadn’t had help, I could’ve lost my home.

So when I hear people say, “Well, you shouldn’t have gotten into trouble,” I want them to know: This system is not built to understand people like me. It’s built to punish us.

Even after getting out, I still had to fight. My window was never fixed. My door had to be patched together. The case hung over me for weeks. Even when it was dismissed, the weight of it stayed.

But I stayed strong because I have three sons counting on me. I don’t get to fall apart. I get mad. I cry sometimes. But I keep moving.

Their mental health matters to me more than anything. I want them to know that men can have feelings. That they can talk. That it’s okay to cry, to feel scared, to ask for help. That it’s okay to need your mother – and it’s okay to be protected by her.

On Mother’s Day, I’ll be with my three sons – 12, 8, and 7 years old. We’ll probably go out to eat, maybe somewhere casual, nothing fancy. They’re not old enough to buy me anything yet, but they’ll draw me a picture or pick some flowers from the neighborhood, like they always do. It’ll be sweet, and it’ll be peaceful.

But I’ll also be thinking about the moms who didn’t come home. The ones still sitting in jail, not because they’re dangerous, but because they couldn’t afford freedom.

If you want to honor mothers this year, think of them. Don’t judge women like me before you hear our stories.

Because I almost vanished. And the only thing that saved me was someone believing I deserved to stay.