For decades, TV shows such as Prisoner, Wentworth and Orange Is the New Black have perpetuated a stereotype of incarcerated women, portraying them as violent, dangerous and corrupt. Yet for many of the thousands of women in custody across Australia, the reality is far different.
“In Victoria, women are most often incarcerated for lower-level, non-violent offences rather than serious crimes,” says Amelia Pickering, CEO of Prison Network, a Victorian support group for women in and beyond prison. “Many enter the prison system due to property-related and drug-related charges, which frequently reflect the pressures of poverty, unstable housing and substance dependence.”
While incarceration can be challenging, the hardest part is often when prisoners are released and face issues with housing, employment and relationships. “After doing everything asked of them – serving their sentence and working on their recovery – they return to the community more vulnerable than when they went in,” Pickering says.
There is also a stigma that can be hard to shake. “They’re often seen as ‘bad mothers’, ‘unstable’ or ‘unemployable’, and are judged more harshly than men, especially when children are involved,” Pickering adds.
Here, three formerly incarcerated women share the journey of rebuilding their lives after release.
Alisha Fagan, 24: “I thank my daughter for my drive”
“Prior to incarceration, I was drinking daily, tackling built-up childhood trauma and struggling in a household affected by substance abuse and family violence. I am also neurodivergent, with AuDHD [autism and ADHD] and couldn’t manage my mental health or regulate my emotions properly.
In 2022, after my arrest, I spent four months on remand and was bailed to Bunjilwarra Rehab [a Koorie youth alcohol and drug service in Victoria], a healing space for mob [Fagan is a proud Wadawurrung woman], where I spent six months, plus a 12-week rehab program. We went on bush tours and I was able to connect with my culture on Country, away from outside influence.
I spent almost two years on bail while awaiting sentencing, which was delayed due to COVID-19. Within that time, I fell pregnant. In 2023, I was sentenced to 2½ years. My daughter was six weeks old when I entered the prison gates, pushing her in the stroller.
While mothers in prison reside in open units [not cells], with access to a kitchen and bathrooms and all the equipment needed for parenting, being a first-time mum raising a child in a maximum-security prison is a struggle no postpartum or pregnancy book can prepare you for.
When I entered, I was in protective mum mode. I thought I knew prisoners from what I’d been fed by movies. However, after experiencing prison, I realised it was all untrue. The women in prison are mothers, daughters, aunts and sisters, and they helped me raise my daughter by giving me parenting advice. Although it was hard for them because many were missing their own babies, when they held my daughter I saw their eyes light up.
The only judgment I received after I left was from wearing an ankle monitor … people crossed the footpath to avoid me.
Alisha Fagan
While most of my reformative lifestyle changes happened while at the rehabilitation centre, one positive thing that happened in prison was joining The Torch, a non-profit organisation that allows Aboriginal artists to sell their art while in custody. I’ve always loved art because my grandfather is a quite successful artist who taught me the practice and symbols from a young age. This program helped me reconnect with my culture and roots, and express myself through art.
After one year in custody, I was released on parole in April 2024, just as my daughter turned one. The only judgment I received after I left was from wearing an ankle monitor. It wasn’t a problem during the colder months because I could wear long pants to cover it, but as summer came I received many negative looks and people crossed the footpath to avoid me.
On release, The Torch supported my vision of becoming a freelance artist. Since then, I have founded my own business, Warri Bagurrk, where I work with corporate and professional clients to deliver cultural awareness courses, including weaving workshops.
I’ve also found employment advocating for First Nations youth communities and supporting Treaty, and I am at the beginning of a contract with the Department of Justice, running my own community work site.
I thank my daughter and my sobriety for influencing my drive for impactful change, for breaking trauma cycles and as my motivator to reform.”
Pattie Phillips, 56: “My time in prison could mean something”
“The behaviour that led to my offending was deeply connected to trauma from earlier in my life. When I was 16, I was assaulted – something I kept hidden for decades. I also lived through trauma linked to a long-term illness. Over time, those experiences shaped how I saw myself. I carried a sense of worthlessness and tried to mask it by projecting an image of financial stability that wasn’t real.
In 2015, I was incarcerated at the Dame Phyllis Frost Centre [Victoria] for more than four years on fraud and deception charges. I lost everything: financial security, relationships and the life I’d built. I’d hurt people I cared about, and I had to sit with that.
Prison was confronting, isolating and at times dehumanising. It stripped away identity I thought I had, and rebuilding any sense of self took time. But I met strong, resilient women who became lifelong friends. We tried to make the best of a terrible situation.
People don’t realise that most women in prison carry long histories of trauma and abuse, and many leave more vulnerable than when they arrived.
Pattie Phillips
Many people don’t realise that most women in prison carry long histories of trauma and abuse, and many leave more vulnerable than when they arrived. While I believe diversion often leads to better outcomes, prison was a circuit breaker for me, a painful pause that forced me to face the harm I’d caused.
When I returned to the community to serve the final two years of my sentence on parole, I had nothing to rebuild from. Release is often spoken about as freedom, but it raised confronting questions: Who am I now? How do I begin again? Who will give me a chance?
Although I technically had housing and family support, I didn’t meet the criteria for most post-release programs. What those criteria didn’t account for was the reality that I was returning with stigma, shame, no financial foundation, and few informal supports.
Re-entering everyday life was harder than I expected. I remember standing in Kmart, overwhelmed by simple choices. In prison, almost everything is decided for you; having to make decisions again felt overwhelming. I also lacked basic ID and couldn’t access my own bank account for six weeks, which felt like a second punishment.
In my first jobs after release, I lived with constant worry someone would ‘find out’. Today, I’m a lived experience co-ordinator with Prison Network and associate director with Beyond the Stone Walls Advisory Collective, non-profits that believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. I’m also completing a bachelor of criminology, a journey I began inside with the support of an education officer who kept reminding me that my time in prison could still mean something.
The journey has been full of setbacks and doubt. But six years after walking out of prison, I haven’t looked back.”
Kiki Gill, 58: “Trust had to be rebuilt within my family”
“When my husband died unexpectedly, leaving me to raise our young daughter, I carried profound grief, and it influenced how I moved through the world for many years.
From the outside, my life appeared stable. I had a professional background in project management and worked in international settings. I had a new partner and a young son. I was functioning. What wasn’t visible was how much unaddressed grief and trauma I was holding. I stayed in survival mode, coping outwardly, without the space to properly recover.
In that state, I made decisions that offered short-term relief but carried long-term consequences. Those decisions led to my incarceration, and I take responsibility for them. Understanding how loss, isolation and trauma shaped that period has been essential to rebuilding my life.
I was incarcerated during COVID, which significantly shaped the experience. Programs were suspended, family contact restricted, and physical connection was not permitted. Being unable to offer physical reassurance as a parent was one of the hardest parts.
There were also practical shocks I hadn’t anticipated. While in prison, my bank closed my account and my son’s account without warning, leaving us without access to our own money. In custody, a decision like that has huge consequences. It amplified my anxiety about how my son would manage and was a reminder of how quickly control over everyday life can be taken away.
Throughout this time, my partner stood by me. For two years, he carried the full weight of caring for our child and supporting me through incarceration. That steadfast support became an anchor when everything else felt uncertain.
During COVID, Prison Network continued to provide support where possible through creative programs, including arts-and-crafts packs. I was also fortunate to participate in the Inside Out Program and its associated think tank, led by Dr Marietta Martinovic in partnership with RMIT University.
When I transitioned to parole, I joined the Beyond the Stone Walls Advisory Collective, the Inside Out program in the community. That unexpectedly gave me a community that understood where I’d been, met me without judgment and supported me as I learnt how to live again.
I now work with Prison Network in lived-experience roles supporting women and families impacted by incarceration and reintegration. I’m also a democracy ambassador with the Victorian Electoral Commission and participate in Corrections Victoria’s Employment Hub.
Leaving prison was not a clean break. Reintegration was gradual. Trust had to be rebuilt, especially within my family, and shame often travelled alongside hope.”
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