Healing Spirits Judgement Free

A local man was arrested recently. What he was accused of isn't really the point—at least, it shouldn't be. We’re supposed to live in a society where innocence is presumed until guilt is proven. But then the cruel, dehumanizing comments by people who think they are perfect.
I started Pagans Behind Bars with no funding, no major platform, and no expectations of praise. It was born from a simple yet radical idea: that even those who are incarcerated deserve compassion, community, and a connection to their spirituality. Especially those who walk the Pagan path—a path already misunderstood and marginalized by mainstream institutions.
What does the project offer? On paper, not much: letters, resources, a listening ear. But in practice, it offers something that many people inside prisons haven’t felt in a long time—kindness, connection, and the validation of their humanity.
I do not judge. That’s a decision I made a long time ago, and one I stand by. Not because I think everyone is innocent. Not because I’m naive about the darkness that can live in people. But because I understand that judging someone by the worst thing they’ve ever done erases the entirety of their story. It dehumanizes them. And in a world where the system is already stacked against so many, that kind of erasure is not justice—it’s cruelty disguised as moral superiority.
Let’s talk about that system.
The criminal justice system in this country is broken—partly because of the way it is built, but also because of the people who feed it with their judgments. You know the ones. The folks in the comments section under every arrest report:
“Lock him up and throw away the key.”
“What a piece of trash.”
“I’ve got a wood chipper for sale—discreet delivery.”
They speak like judge, jury, and executioner, as if they’ve never made a mistake, never hurt someone, never broken a law. As if their shit doesn’t stink.
What they don’t see—or refuse to see—is how this judgment spills over long after the time has been served. Reentry into the world is a battleground. People trying to rebuild their lives after incarceration face doors slammed in their faces every day:

• Housing denied.
• Jobs refused.
• Communities shunning them.

All because of a past they cannot erase, no matter how hard they work to change.
Pagans Behind Bars is my way of pushing back. A letter, a prayer, a kind word—these may seem small, but to someone sitting in a cold cell, they can mean the world. They can be a reminder that someone still sees them as a person. Someone still believes in their capacity to change, to grow, to heal.
I don’t pretend that spirituality will solve everything. But I know it can be a lifeline. And for many, it already has been.
If you’re reading this and thinking, “But what about the victims?”—don’t worry. I think about them, too. I hold space for their pain and healing. But I also hold space for the truth that two things can be real at once: harm was done and the one who caused it is still human.
I created Pagans Behind Bars because our community needs to show up in all the places society forgets. If we truly believe in redemption, in personal transformation, in the power of magick and the gods—we cannot turn our backs on those who need it most.
Not everyone is called to this work. But everyone is called to compassion.