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Mothers like Destinie should not have to miss bedtime, milestones, or moments that matter just because they can’t pay for their freedom.

Mother’s Day is a reminder that too many mothers are separated from their children simply because of unaffordable cash bail – not because they’ve been convicted of a crime.

Ending cash bail protects children from unnecessary trauma and ensures mothers can continue caring for their loved ones while awaiting their day in court. Join us in reuniting families this Mother’s Day at the link in our bio.

Mothers like Destinie should not have to miss bedtime, milestones, or moments that matter just because they can’t pay for their freedom.

Mother’s Day is a reminder that too many mothers are separated from their children simply because of unaffordable cash bail – not because they’ve been convicted of a crime.

Ending cash bail protects children from unnecessary trauma and ensures mothers can continue caring for their loved ones while awaiting their day in court. Join us in reuniting families this Mother’s Day at the link in our bio.

Mothers like Destinie should not have to miss bedtime, milestones, or moments that matter just because they can’t pay for their freedom.

Mother’s Day is a reminder that too many mothers are separated from their children simply because of unaffordable cash bail – not because they’ve been convicted of a crime.

Ending cash bail protects children from unnecessary trauma and ensures mothers can continue caring for their loved ones while awaiting their day in court. Join us in reuniting families this Mother’s Day at the link in our bio.

Mothers like Destinie should not have to miss bedtime, milestones, or moments that matter just because they can’t pay for their freedom.

Mother’s Day is a reminder that too many mothers are separated from their children simply because of unaffordable cash bail – not because they’ve been convicted of a crime.

Ending cash bail protects children from unnecessary trauma and ensures mothers can continue caring for their loved ones while awaiting their day in court. Join us in reuniting families this Mother’s Day at the link in our bio.

Mothers like Destinie should not have to miss bedtime, milestones, or moments that matter just because they can’t pay for their freedom.

Mother’s Day is a reminder that too many mothers are separated from their children simply because of unaffordable cash bail – not because they’ve been convicted of a crime.

Ending cash bail protects children from unnecessary trauma and ensures mothers can continue caring for their loved ones while awaiting their day in court. Join us in reuniting families this Mother’s Day at the link in our bio.

Mothers like Destinie should not have to miss bedtime, milestones, or moments that matter just because they can’t pay for their freedom.

Mother’s Day is a reminder that too many mothers are separated from their children simply because of unaffordable cash bail – not because they’ve been convicted of a crime.

Ending cash bail protects children from unnecessary trauma and ensures mothers can continue caring for their loved ones while awaiting their day in court. Join us in reuniting families this Mother’s Day at the link in our bio.

Mothers like Destinie should not have to miss bedtime, milestones, or moments that matter just because they can’t pay for their freedom.

Mother’s Day is a reminder that too many mothers are separated from their children simply because of unaffordable cash bail – not because they’ve been convicted of a crime.

Ending cash bail protects children from unnecessary trauma and ensures mothers can continue caring for their loved ones while awaiting their day in court. Join us in reuniting families this Mother’s Day at the link in our bio.

Mothers like Destinie should not have to miss bedtime, milestones, or moments that matter just because they can’t pay for their freedom.

Mother’s Day is a reminder that too many mothers are separated from their children simply because of unaffordable cash bail – not because they’ve been convicted of a crime.

Ending cash bail protects children from unnecessary trauma and ensures mothers can continue caring for their loved ones while awaiting their day in court. Join us in reuniting families this Mother’s Day at the link in our bio.

Mothers like Destinie should not have to miss bedtime, milestones, or moments that matter just because they can’t pay for their freedom.

Mother’s Day is a reminder that too many mothers are separated from their children simply because of unaffordable cash bail – not because they’ve been convicted of a crime.

Ending cash bail protects children from unnecessary trauma and ensures mothers can continue caring for their loved ones while awaiting their day in court. Join us in reuniting families this Mother’s Day at the link in our bio.

Mothers like Destinie should not have to miss bedtime, milestones, or moments that matter just because they can’t pay for their freedom.

Mother’s Day is a reminder that too many mothers are separated from their children simply because of unaffordable cash bail – not because they’ve been convicted of a crime.

Ending cash bail protects children from unnecessary trauma and ensures mothers can continue caring for their loved ones while awaiting their day in court. Join us in reuniting families this Mother’s Day at the link in our bio.

(3/3) She remembers feeling lost, without anyone to call – until a counselor referred her to The Bail Project. “When I got to talk to them, it was a breath of fresh air,” she says. “She told me she was working to get me out. And sure enough, I got released that day.”

Freedom didn’t erase the damage. The case kept her from working for nearly a year, and the stigma of incarceration has followed her, making it hard to get a job. “I’m a hard worker,” she says. “All I’ve ever known is to work. But God’s been telling me this is a season to be still, to listen, to recenter.”

Through it all, she says, The Bail Project has been a lifeline. “They’ve helped me with resources and given me advice when I’m in error. They challenge me to grow. That’s how you become the best version of yourself – by having people who really care.”

Dasia wants to return that care someday. “If I could, I’d do what they do,” she says. “It takes patience and purpose. They’re selfless. They help people restart.”

She pauses before adding, softly, “It helps me remember who I am – and that it’s never too late to start over.”

(3/3) She remembers feeling lost, without anyone to call – until a counselor referred her to The Bail Project. “When I got to talk to them, it was a breath of fresh air,” she says. “She told me she was working to get me out. And sure enough, I got released that day.”

Freedom didn’t erase the damage. The case kept her from working for nearly a year, and the stigma of incarceration has followed her, making it hard to get a job. “I’m a hard worker,” she says. “All I’ve ever known is to work. But God’s been telling me this is a season to be still, to listen, to recenter.”

Through it all, she says, The Bail Project has been a lifeline. “They’ve helped me with resources and given me advice when I’m in error. They challenge me to grow. That’s how you become the best version of yourself – by having people who really care.”

Dasia wants to return that care someday. “If I could, I’d do what they do,” she says. “It takes patience and purpose. They’re selfless. They help people restart.”

She pauses before adding, softly, “It helps me remember who I am – and that it’s never too late to start over.”

(3/3) She remembers feeling lost, without anyone to call – until a counselor referred her to The Bail Project. “When I got to talk to them, it was a breath of fresh air,” she says. “She told me she was working to get me out. And sure enough, I got released that day.”

Freedom didn’t erase the damage. The case kept her from working for nearly a year, and the stigma of incarceration has followed her, making it hard to get a job. “I’m a hard worker,” she says. “All I’ve ever known is to work. But God’s been telling me this is a season to be still, to listen, to recenter.”

Through it all, she says, The Bail Project has been a lifeline. “They’ve helped me with resources and given me advice when I’m in error. They challenge me to grow. That’s how you become the best version of yourself – by having people who really care.”

Dasia wants to return that care someday. “If I could, I’d do what they do,” she says. “It takes patience and purpose. They’re selfless. They help people restart.”

She pauses before adding, softly, “It helps me remember who I am – and that it’s never too late to start over.”

(2/3) It wasn’t her first time in a jail. At 21, she’d worked as a correctional officer in the same facility. “When you’re a CO, you’re honored,” she says. “You’re important. But being an inmate – you go from feeling righteous to feeling like a peasant.”

Still, she refused to let that experience define her. “I spoke life into the other inmates,” she says. “We’d talk, and I’d try to broaden people’s perspective about what we were going through. It wasn’t just for them – it was for me, too.”

Dasia has lived with mental health challenges most of her life. “What people don’t know,” she says, “is that without being under a substance, sometimes it feels like you are anyway.” She recognizes that her behavior that night came from a place of pain and confusion, not malice. Still, she takes responsibility. “Even with mental health, you’ve got to present yourself in a way people can honor.”

Inside, she also saw how unevenly people were treated. “I got into it with one of the COs,” she recalls. “She was calling inmates out their name, cussing at them. I had to remind her, that’s not part of your job description. You don’t get paid for that.” Her confrontation, she says, helped shift the tone in the pod. “She told me, ‘You won.’ I said, no, I’m behind this cage. I didn’t win anything. I just need you to stop treating people like that.”

(2/3) It wasn’t her first time in a jail. At 21, she’d worked as a correctional officer in the same facility. “When you’re a CO, you’re honored,” she says. “You’re important. But being an inmate – you go from feeling righteous to feeling like a peasant.”

Still, she refused to let that experience define her. “I spoke life into the other inmates,” she says. “We’d talk, and I’d try to broaden people’s perspective about what we were going through. It wasn’t just for them – it was for me, too.”

Dasia has lived with mental health challenges most of her life. “What people don’t know,” she says, “is that without being under a substance, sometimes it feels like you are anyway.” She recognizes that her behavior that night came from a place of pain and confusion, not malice. Still, she takes responsibility. “Even with mental health, you’ve got to present yourself in a way people can honor.”

Inside, she also saw how unevenly people were treated. “I got into it with one of the COs,” she recalls. “She was calling inmates out their name, cussing at them. I had to remind her, that’s not part of your job description. You don’t get paid for that.” Her confrontation, she says, helped shift the tone in the pod. “She told me, ‘You won.’ I said, no, I’m behind this cage. I didn’t win anything. I just need you to stop treating people like that.”

(2/3) It wasn’t her first time in a jail. At 21, she’d worked as a correctional officer in the same facility. “When you’re a CO, you’re honored,” she says. “You’re important. But being an inmate – you go from feeling righteous to feeling like a peasant.”

Still, she refused to let that experience define her. “I spoke life into the other inmates,” she says. “We’d talk, and I’d try to broaden people’s perspective about what we were going through. It wasn’t just for them – it was for me, too.”

Dasia has lived with mental health challenges most of her life. “What people don’t know,” she says, “is that without being under a substance, sometimes it feels like you are anyway.” She recognizes that her behavior that night came from a place of pain and confusion, not malice. Still, she takes responsibility. “Even with mental health, you’ve got to present yourself in a way people can honor.”

Inside, she also saw how unevenly people were treated. “I got into it with one of the COs,” she recalls. “She was calling inmates out their name, cussing at them. I had to remind her, that’s not part of your job description. You don’t get paid for that.” Her confrontation, she says, helped shift the tone in the pod. “She told me, ‘You won.’ I said, no, I’m behind this cage. I didn’t win anything. I just need you to stop treating people like that.”

(1/3) Dasia describes the night she went to jail as “just a thoughtless night." “I was under the influence," she says. "And heavily triggered.”

She had just finished a shift at work and was riding with a friend when police pulled them over. Officers approached the passenger side – her side – and ran her name. A warrant appeared in their system: driving under suspension and a missed court date she says she never knew about because the notice went to the wrong address.

That was the beginning of twelve days in jail, on a $250 bail, that changed her life.

“I kind of felt violated,” she recalls. Two male officers searched her, unzipping her hoodie despite her protests. Later, in custody, angry and intoxicated, she flooded the toilet in her pod. “It was like an out-of-body situation,” she says. “I was so mad they wouldn’t let me make a phone call. I could’ve bonded out that night.”

Instead, she stayed in jail nearly two weeks – days that, she says, became a humbling experience and a turning point.

(1/3) Dasia describes the night she went to jail as “just a thoughtless night." “I was under the influence," she says. "And heavily triggered.”

She had just finished a shift at work and was riding with a friend when police pulled them over. Officers approached the passenger side – her side – and ran her name. A warrant appeared in their system: driving under suspension and a missed court date she says she never knew about because the notice went to the wrong address.

That was the beginning of twelve days in jail, on a $250 bail, that changed her life.

“I kind of felt violated,” she recalls. Two male officers searched her, unzipping her hoodie despite her protests. Later, in custody, angry and intoxicated, she flooded the toilet in her pod. “It was like an out-of-body situation,” she says. “I was so mad they wouldn’t let me make a phone call. I could’ve bonded out that night.”

Instead, she stayed in jail nearly two weeks – days that, she says, became a humbling experience and a turning point.

Experiencing a mental health crisis alone in a parking lot, Leah was confused and frighted. But instead of being taken to a hospital, the police booked her into jail.

"I was told I would get mental health help at the jail, but I didn't. Instead, I was put in an anti-suicide jacket and kept alone in a cell."

Those nights in solitary confinement were only the beginning. For months, Leah struggled to navigate a criminal justice system that was not built for her.

"When I was in court I didn't understand what was happening to me. I was still dealing with my mental health. But now that I'm better it's too late."

Leah is not alone. Pretrial detention cuts people off from treatment, support, and stability – worsening mental health and making recovery harder.

Real safety means investing in care, not incarceration. This #MentalHealthAwarenessMonth and every month, we're committed to reducing unnecessary jail time for clients like Leah. Join us at the link in our bio!

April is Second Chance Month – a time dedicated to people reentering the community after incarceration. In a conversation on the Let It Be Known podcast, our CEO David Gaspar challenges the traditional narrative around second chances.

A second chance implies having received a first chance. But the reality is, hundreds of thousands of Americans do not even get an initial opportunity to succeed. Underfunded schools, unaffordable housing, and other policy failures create instability and a slippery slope towards incarceration.

We must build the world that is missing for so many of the people we serve – investing in support long before the legal system gets involved. At The Bail Project, we don't just offer a second chance. We offer the first real chance many will ever have. Join us at the link in our bio.

Henry was detained for nearly one month at the Maricopa County Jail after a traffic stop. His wife sold what possessions she could, but it wasn’t enough to afford his $5,000 bond. His free bailout changed everything.

The first step out of a jail cell can be a powerful opportunity to reclaim freedom, but stability comes with the support that follows.

You can be part of someone’s next steps toward freedom. Join us today at the link in our bio!

Calling all obstacle course enthusiasts! You can now register for any Spartan Race across the country and be a fundraiser for The Bail Project.

By fundraising, you will help free thousands of people from unnecessary incarceration and support our mission to end cash bail.

And what’s more, the top 10 fundraisers for The Bail Project will receive a free VIP ticket to any national Spartan or Tough Mudder race!

All 2026 races are eligible for fundraising, but don’t wait – the deadline to register as a fundraiser is June 30th, 2026. Together, we can create a system where wealth is no longer a barrier to freedom. Register today at our link in bio and get ready to race to end cash bail!

Support for our clients goes beyond bailing them out of jail. It gives each person a fair chance at justice and an opportunity to rebuild life on their own terms. You can help people trapped in the cash bail system take their first steps to freedom. Donate today at the link in our bio! 🌸 #FreedomShouldBeFree #spring

(3/3) Henry’s pretrial freedom did not just mean his case was over. It meant his health was no longer at daily risk. It meant he could sleep in a bed without three other bodies stacked above and beside him. It meant he could talk to his wife without wondering when the next lockdown would cut the line.

Freedom did not erase the charges. It restored the conditions necessary to live – and to defend himself.

Henry is careful when he speaks about what happened to him. He does not ask for sympathy. He asks for recognition. “People who haven’t been found guilty shouldn’t be confined like this,” he said.

For Henry, the issue is not abstract. It is the taste of food that made him sick. The weeks without medication. The men he watched collapse on the floor. The silence his wife endured on the outside.

(2/3) Henry’s bond was set at $5,000, a sum that might as well have been a wall. “There was no way we could afford it,” Henry’s wife said. They sold what they could. They considered selling their RV. Still, it was not enough.

Inside, Henry saw men held on minor charges, some for things as small as walking across the street at the wrong time. They were not being punished by a judge. They were being held because they could not pay.

When The Bail Project agreed to help Henry, he was released after 30 days.

Outside, he received his medication. He could speak freely with his lawyer. He could resist the impulse that had shaped previous arrests: the urge to accept the first plea simply to escape confinement. “Every other time, I would just sign it,” he said. This time, he could fight.

(1/3) At 40 years old, Henry was booked into jail following an arrest he describes as an unlawful stop and search.

He describes the jail as a place stripped of basic care, where time is marked not by clocks but by meals that come too late and medical attention that never seems to arrive.

The jail didn’t feel violent in the way outsiders imagine. “There’s really no violence unless you create it yourself,” he said. The environment itself was the threat. The food left many people sick or unable to eat. Some were allergic to what was served but had no alternative. Cleaning supplies were scarce; men used their own soap or shampoo to scrub cells, if they had any. Lockdowns were constant and often arbitrary, confining people for hours without explanation.

Inside the jail, illness was ordinary. Not dramatic, not rare. The message was unspoken but clear: Your body is not a priority.