The story behind Bridge & Bloom

Having a child lose the daily presence of a parent to incarceration is, without question, one of the most difficult paths I have ever walked.

When my family's world changed, I found myself drowning. I was desperately searching for support, understanding, and some semblance of normalcy in a life that suddenly felt unrecognizable.

I found support group after support group. Groups for spouses of incarcerated individuals. Groups for parents. Groups for families. Almost all of them existed behind screens, in private online communities, anonymous conversations, and spaces where people could speak without revealing who they were.

And I understood why.

There is an enormous culture of silence surrounding incarceration. Families often learn very quickly that the stigma attached to an incarcerated individual does not end with that individual. It extends to spouses, parents, siblings, and children. People who have committed no crime can find themselves judged, excluded, or treated differently simply because of someone they love.

As adults, many of us learn to navigate that reality. We become careful about what we say, who we tell, and how much of our lives we allow others to see. We learn to protect ourselves through silence.

But our children? Our children don't come into this world knowing they need to hide.

And sometimes, they learn that lesson in the cruelest possible way.

Shortly after her father's sentencing, my young daughter attended a school program. While talking with other children, she made what should have been an entirely innocent statement.

She said she missed her daddy because he was in jail.

That was it.

She missed her daddy.

She came home hysterical. Devastated. Other children had bullied and tormented her, telling her that her father was evil, that he was a terrible person because he was in jail, that she shouldn't love him or miss him, and that he deserved to die.

My daughter had done nothing wrong. She had simply expressed love for her father.

And for that, she was made to feel ashamed.

I cannot adequately describe what it feels like as a mother to watch your child's heart break over something so profoundly unfair. I would take that experience away from her a thousand times over if I could.

But I can't.

I cannot erase what those children said. I cannot undo the hurt or give her back the innocence of believing she could talk freely about missing her daddy without someone using that love against her.

What I can do is refuse to accept that this is simply the world she has to grow up in.

No child should ever have to defend loving someone they miss.

A child's love for a parent is not an endorsement of that parent's choices. A child's grief is not a statement about guilt or innocence. And a child should never be expected to understand, explain, or defend the circumstances that led to a parent's incarceration.

They are children.

They deserve to be children.

And they deserve to know that whatever complicated feelings they carry—love, anger, sadness, confusion, resentment, hope, or all of those things at once—those feelings are theirs, and they are allowed to have them.

As a former case manager with the Montana Department of Corrections, I came into this experience with a professional understanding of the correctional system. I knew something about the resources available to incarcerated individuals and the challenges surrounding incarceration.

But when I went searching for something specifically for my daughter, I discovered a different kind of gap.

I wasn't looking for another anonymous chat room. I wasn't looking for someone to explain the correctional system to her.

I was looking for other children.

Children who would understand what it meant to miss a parent who wasn't coming home that night.

Children she could laugh with, play with, and build friendships with. Children around whom she wouldn't have to carefully choose her words or wonder whether mentioning her daddy would make her an outsider.

I found national organizations, virtual meetings, online resources, and programs designed for older children. But I struggled to find a local, in-person community in Idaho's Treasure Valley that offered what I was searching for.

And then I started thinking about just how many children might be living this same reality.

As of January 1, 2026, Idaho had more than 10,000 individuals incarcerated under state correctional jurisdiction. Research on Idaho's incarcerated population has found that 81% of incarcerated women and 55% of incarcerated men were parents. More recent research continues to highlight the significant number of incarcerated mothers in our state.

Think about what that means.

Thousands of parents. Thousands of families. Thousands of children whose lives have been touched by incarceration.

Children who are learning to hide their grief because they are afraid of what other people will think.

Children who feel abandoned or angry with a parent but still desperately want that parent to come home.

Children who are confused because they love someone and resent them at the same time.

Children who feel isolated, embarrassed, frightened, or different.

Children who believe that nobody in the world could possibly understand what they're going through.

But there ARE other children who understand. Thousands of them.

And I began asking myself some questions.

Where are the places for these children to find one another?

Where can they build friendships without having to explain their family circumstances?

Where can they laugh, play, create, and enjoy childhood without the constant fear that saying the wrong thing will change how someone sees them?

And where can a caregiver simply turn their child loose to play, without worrying that an innocent comment about an incarcerated loved one might result in judgment, rejection, or cruelty?

Why should these children have to grow up feeling like they belong on the outside of life because of circumstances they never chose?

They shouldn't. And I refuse to accept that they must.

That is why I founded Bridge & Bloom.

Not to excuse anyone's actions. Not to debate the justice system. Not to tell children how they should feel about their incarcerated loved ones.

But to create a community where they are free to feel whatever they feel, to be understood without having to explain themselves, and to build real friendships with other children who share an experience that can be incredibly isolating.

A place where children are not defined by incarceration.

A place where their circumstances are understood, but never become their entire identity.

A place where they can simply be kids.

I know this community will take time to build. I know how fiercely families protect their privacy, because I live that reality myself. I understand the hesitation to walk into a room full of strangers and reveal something that many families have spent months or years trying to keep hidden.

There may be events with only a handful of children. There may be gatherings where just one family shows up. There may be months of outreach, planning, and effort before families feel comfortable enough to take that first step.

That's okay. I'll keep showing up.

Because if one child leaves a gathering knowing that someone else understands, that matters.

If one child makes a friend they can talk to without fear of judgment, that matters.

If one caregiver can watch their child laugh and play without worrying about what they might accidentally reveal, that matters.

And if my daughter can grow up in a community where she never again feels ashamed to say, "I miss my daddy," then every bit of this effort will have been worth it.

I am a determined momma. And I believe with my whole heart that our children deserve better than silence, shame, and isolation.

They deserve love. Kindness. Understanding. Respect. Privacy. Trust.

They deserve friendships, community, and the freedom to experience childhood without carrying the weight of an adult's circumstances.

Most of all, they deserve to know that they are not alone.

That is the world I want to build for my daughter. And that is the world I hope we can build together for every child who needs it.

We, as parents, caregivers, professionals, neighbors, and community members, have the power to make that world a reality.

One friendship. One gathering. One child at a time.

I hope you'll join me.

Lindsay Hash
Founder, Bridge & Bloom

Support Today. Brighter Tomorrows.

Research references: KHQ, “Idaho Prison Population Grows While Resources Decline” (2026); Idaho Criminal Justice Commission, study of incarcerated parents (2004); Dr. Shannon Lynch, Idaho State University, “Incarcerated Mothers in Idaho Jails and Prisons” (December 2024).