"With Innocence, I held on to hope."
—Heather Hornberger, Mother
In 2023, Heather Hornberger turned herself in for violating probation on a years-old drug possession charge. She was four months pregnant. But, luckily Heather’s arrival at the Indiana Women’s Prison meant she’d have a chance at a fate different from the majority of incarcerated pregnant women.
Don’t get the wrong idea: Indiana Women’s Prison isn’t a spa, it isn’t cushy, it’s a prison. But unlike most states, when a woman gives birth in Indiana, she doesn’t have to hand her newborn baby over to a friend or foster care, and she won’t have to return to her cell with a body ready to feed a child who is no longer there.
Heather’s story isn’t unique. She was 35 years old, fighting for sobriety and starting her fifth incarceration since she was 18—each one shaped, in some way, by addiction. She already had three young children and knew the harm her previous stints on the inside affected them—the ache of missed birthdays, first words, and bedtime routines, and the hopelessness of being separated from them.
But in Indiana's Breann Leath Maternal Child Health Unit, Heather was determined not to repeat the past. When her little girl arrived, Heather named her Innocence, raising her baby inside prison alongside other women who have been given the opportunity to bond to their children and perhaps find a permanent way to steer clear from the problems of the past.
In the U.S., fewer than a dozen states operate prison nursery programs that allow incarcerated mothers to live with their babies, typically for 12 to 30 months. These programs are often limited to women convicted of nonviolent offenses and require participants to comply with strict rules around parenting, behavior, and sobriety. Indiana’s program includes parenting education, substance use treatment, and mental health services.
Heather’s life had been shaped by cycles of addiction and incarceration since her late teens. Xanax led to pain pills, which led to heroin. Each sentence behind bars pulled her further from her children. Her oldest son, Braxton, was three years old when she began getting into serious trouble. Ariel, her daughter, was just a year old when Heather went to prison for the first time. Heather says, “I remember calling home and hearing my children crying, ‘I want you, Mommy.’ I cried every day. I’d lost so much. And I had so much to live for,” she said.
Today, Heather works a factory job from 6 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., dropping Innocence off with a babysitter before dawn. She’s stayed sober. She limits her social media, blocks old numbers, and keeps her world small by design. “You can never get too confident in your recovery,” she said. “That’s when people mess up.”
Those first months with Innocence marked a turning point for Heather. Those months provided her with a map and the focus to be the mom she wanted to be. These days, she manages anxiety carefully, even turning down medications that might put her at risk. “I’m not going to take meds that can cause another addiction,” she said. “My focus at IWP was being a mom,” and today, that’s just what she is.
Jim
