![\"Kathy](\"https:\/\/missouriindependent.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/prison-nurseries.4095-e1768062995839.jpg\")
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Kathy Briggs is assisted by case manager Kim Immel, left, and nursery program manager Kim Perkins as she puts on a front-loading baby carrier with her daughter Melody inside at the Women\u2019s Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center in Vandalia, Mo. Prison nursery programs allow babies to live behind walls with their mothers \u2014 a rare and controversial approach (Amanda Watford\/Stateline).<\/p>\n
VANDALIA, Mo. \u2014 Kathy Briggs slipped her arms through the thick straps of a brand-new baby carrier, tugging it over her beige shirt as two other women stood beside her, tightening buckles and adjusting the padded waistband.<\/p>\n
The carrier was still stiff from its packaging, and Briggs shifted her feet as one of the women gently lifted then-6-month-old Melody into the front pouch.<\/p>\n
Melody\u2019s gray-blue eyes tracked the women\u2019s hands, and her wispy blond hair \u2014 gathered into a tiny pink bow \u2014 bobbed slightly with the movement. She blinked up at the adults.<\/p>\n
\u201cPut your foot in there,\u201d one of the women said, guiding Melody\u2019s leg through the opening.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s just a little chunk,\u201d the other woman said.<\/p>\n
Briggs\u2019 eyes widened, and she squealed, half laughing, as Melody settled against her chest. Across the room, a few women looked up from boxes of newly arrived donations \u2014 tiny onesies and hip carriers still wrapped in plastic.<\/p>\n
Someone let out a soft \u201caww.\u201d Briggs, 29, bounced on her heels, testing the weight, her palms hovering protectively near Melody\u2019s back.<\/p>\n
For a moment, the room felt like any early childhood nursery: adult chatter and baby babbles, women comparing baby gear and swapping soothing techniques.<\/p>\n
Yet the jangling of keys and the watchful eyes of uniformed officers were a reminder that this colorful corner of the world existed not in a day care, but inside a women\u2019s prison in rural Missouri.<\/p>\n
Programs like this one allow babies inside prisons \u2014 a rare and controversial approach that forces states to confront how punishment, public safety and early childhood development collide. As more women enter state prisons while pregnant, lawmakers and corrections officials are expanding prison nursery programs, betting that keeping mothers and infants together can reduce trauma and recidivism \u2014 even as critics question whether any prison can ever be an appropriate place for a child.<\/p>\n Missouri\u2019s program, which opened<\/a> last February at the Women\u2019s Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center, is the ninth\u00a0nursery program currently operating\u00a0inside of a prison in the country. The program was adopted into state law<\/a> in 2022.<\/p>\n Each year, thousands of pregnant\u00a0offenders are admitted to local jails and state prisons \u2014 most for nonviolent\u00a0crimes. In 2023, the latest year with data<\/a> available, about 2% of women who were admitted to state prisons were pregnant, according to the federal Bureau of Justice Statistics.<\/p>\n The number of incarcerated women has climbed<\/a> sharply over the past several decades, making them one of the fastest-growing segments of the prison population. Some experts say the trend has forced states to confront a basic reality: Most correctional facilities were never designed to accommodate new mothers.<\/p>\n \u201cRoutine aspects of prison operations just really don\u2019t consider the distinct needs of women, and particularly not of pregnant women,\u201d said Alycia Welch, the associate director of the Prison and Jail Innovation Lab at the University of Texas at Austin. Welch researches carceral conditions and oversight with a focus on women\u2019s experiences.<\/p>\n Federal reports<\/a> and research have found that pregnant inmates face systemic barriers to timely care \u2014 from guards controlling access to medical treatment to logistical delays and medical fees. Shackling during pregnancy and childbirth persists despite restrictions<\/a> in at least 42 states.<\/p>\n Prison nursery programs benefit relatively few women, and some criminal justice advocates say they reinforce the notion that incarceration \u2014 rather than community-based drug treatment or diversion \u2014 should remain the default response for pregnant women in the criminal legal system.<\/p>\n Some research suggests that prison nurseries can strengthen early bonding, improve maternal mental health and support the transition from incarceration back into the community after new mothers have time to parent their infants in a structured, supportive environment.<\/p>\n \u201cThis community just lifts us up,\u201d Briggs said.<\/p>\n The room Kaley McDowell shares with her infant daughter, Kimber, is arranged for two mothers and two babies \u2014 twin beds on each wall, a pair of cribs nearby and space left open for feeding, rocking and play.<\/p>\n McDowell\u2019s rocking chair sits in the corner, draped with a warm, butter yellow blanket. She settled into the rocker with Kimber in her arms just as a soft, classical melody drifted from one of the crib-soother toys. Kimber curled tightly against her chest; her cheek pressed into her mother\u2019s shirt.<\/p>\n \u201cShe thinks she\u2019s gonna eat now,\u201d McDowell joked, shifting her baby upright on her thighs as the two rocked slowly back and forth. She then set Kimber down so the child could try standing.<\/p>\n Kimber steadied herself, then reached down toward her tiny toes as if surprised to find them there.<\/p>\n McDowell, 34, is a girl mom through and through. All four of her daughters \u2014 ages 13, 9, 2 and now-7-month-old Kimber \u2014 have \u201cK\u201d names, a small bit of continuity she\u2019s proud of.<\/p>\n Inside the nursery unit, she\u2019s the experienced mom, the one other women seek out for advice.<\/p>\n McDowell isn\u2019t set for release until\u00a0August,\u00a0which means Kimber will leave the nursery\u00a0around\u00a015 months old. In the meantime, McDowell is taking classes to get her GED diploma and hopes to earn her license as a certified nurse assistant.<\/p>\n Missouri\u2019s prison nursery program allows eligible women to live with their newborns for up to 18 months. Women must have no more than 18 months remaining on their sentence at the time of delivery, and those who have committed violent sexual offenses or crimes against children cannot participate.<\/p>\n Prison officials also review disciplinary history, physical and mental health, and engagement in programming before approving someone for one of the unit\u2019s seven bedrooms, which collectively can house up to 14 babies at a time.<\/p>\n About two dozen infants are expected to cycle through the nursery each year, and staff anticipate that number will climb \u2014 a sign of growing demand for the program.<\/p>\n \u201cI have watched moms transform their lives,\u201d said Kim Perkins, the nursery\u2019s program manager.<\/p>\n Across the day, the nursery fills with the kinds of small, steady interactions that shape early childhood: Mothers reading baby books, caregivers rocking fussy infants, babies sprawled across play mats surrounded by stuffed animals. Correctional officers and nursery staff also often help, whether by holding a wiggly baby or fetching supplies.<\/p>\n \u201cThey like to come and steal the babies when they can,\u201d McDowell said. \u201cThey\u2019re like our in-house grandmas.\u201d<\/p>\n The unit\u2019s officers also are trained to expect round-the-clock movement, and the team includes male officers, so infants grow accustomed to hearing different voices.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s going to be a good thing for these women,\u201d said Lisa Unger, one of the unit\u2019s correctional officers. While she was initially apprehensive about the program, she said she has watched women genuinely change over time with the support they receive.<\/p>\n When mothers cook group meals \u2014 something that happens at least once a week \u2014 the unit feels briefly like a crowded family kitchen, with women passing plates, joking and handing off infants so someone else can finish stirring a pot.<\/p>\n Movement across the unit is tightly restricted, though. Babies are not allowed upstairs to the sleeping and living quarters\u00a0of caregivers \u2014 incarcerated women trained for the role \u2014\u00a0and mothers go there only to \u201cshop\u201d in the storage room stocked with donated clothing. When the weather is nice and staffing allows, the mothers can take their babies outside to the play area. The babies do not enter other parts of the prison.<\/p>\n For much of her life, Kathy Briggs did not imagine a future that included her. She was first incarcerated at 15, and has now been in and out of incarceration three times.<\/p>\n Addiction shaped nearly every corner of her adulthood \u2014 where she slept and whom she trusted. Some nights were spent in drug houses, others on the street. She lost two pregnancies.<\/p>\n At her lowest point, Briggs tattooed \u201cDNR\u201d \u2014 which stands for \u201cdo not resuscitate\u201d \u2014 above her left eye.<\/p>\n When Briggs learned she was expecting again \u2014 this time while in county jail awaiting adjudication \u2014 she doubted her ability to stay sober, to find housing, to understand motherhood at all. When she learned she was carrying twins, her panic deepened and she considered placing them up for adoption.<\/p>\n Who would take them? Who would trust her with them?<\/p>\n The turning point came with a sentence delivered calmly from the bench. Facing drug possession and firearm-related charges, Briggs expected another familiar outcome and that she\u2019d be released shortly. Instead, the judge told her she would go to prison \u2014 and have her babies there.<\/p>\n Briggs protested \u2014 babies did not belong in prison. But the judge insisted. More importantly, he told her he believed in her. It was the first time, she said, anyone in a position of authority had made her feel like she could overcome her past.<\/p>\n She arrived at\u00a0the\u00a0prison\u00a0nursery unit\u00a0seven months pregnant.\u00a0When her daughters were born, she nicknamed them \u201cLittle Lyric\u201d and \u201cMighty Melody,\u201d inspired by the music that always made her feel free.<\/p>\n The infants\u2019 play space is awash in color: Rugs patterned with swirling motifs and florals; shelves crammed with books, dolls and stacking toys; rocking chairs with tufted pillows. A baby swing clicks rhythmically in one corner. Near a window overlooking an outdoor play area, a potted plant soaks up the morning sun.<\/p>\n Inside the nursery, Briggs\u2019 daughters, whom she calls her \u201cbest friends,\u201d thrive. Their father also is incarcerated, and the nursery staff are working to make sure he can receive regular updates and photos of the girls.<\/p>\n \u201cSome of us didn\u2019t grow up with good families or a lot of love,\u201d Briggs said. \u201cHere, they\u2019re teaching us how to grow with our babies, and that is such a beautiful thing.\u201d<\/p>\n Some of the program\u2019s caregivers say the strength of the unit comes from the fact that no one is raising a baby in isolation \u2014 and that some caregivers bring their own lived experience as mothers to guide the others.<\/p>\n One morning, caregiver Tara Carroll sat on the floor, sorting a pile of donated baby clothes while several women gathered around her \u2014 some seated at a nearby table, others standing and talking among themselves.<\/p>\n She organized the outfits by size, slipping the clothes onto tiny colorful hangers. As she logged each item, a few of the women began matching tops and bottoms, holding them up for one another to weigh in.<\/p>\n \u201cThis one will fit her, and it\u2019s got cute little pants and a snowflake,\u201d Carroll told one mother.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s cuuuuuute,\u201d another mom chimed in.<\/p>\n Carroll, 34, has been incarcerated for several years on property-related charges, and she remembers what it was like before the nursery existed.<\/p>\n In 2022, she delivered her now-3-year-old daughter, Dillon Rayee, at a nearby hospital and spent 48 hours with her before her husband took their newborn home.<\/p>\n \u201cIt was heart-wrenching, and I promised my daughter that I would do everything that I could to come home to her,\u201d Carroll said. She hopes to use her experience in the prison to become a doula.<\/p>\n Until the nursery opened, her birth experience was the norm: a day or two with a newborn, then the baby went into foster care or with family and the mother returned to her cell. For Carroll, helping the women in the unit now \u2014 guiding them through feedings, showing them how to swaddle, offering advice during long nights \u2014 feels like a way of honoring her promise to her daughter.<\/p>\n Across the country, fewer than a dozen states operate nursery programs that allow incarcerated mothers to live with their newborns.<\/p>\n New York operates the nation\u2019s oldest prison nursery, which opened in the early 1900s at the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. The program allows up to 25 incarcerated mothers to live with their infants \u2014 typically until age 1 \u2014 under a system governed by state law and administered by a nonprofit provider, Hour Children.<\/p>\n Newer programs \u2014 in Illinois, Indiana, Missouri, Nebraska, South Dakota, Ohio, Washington state and West Virginia \u2014 vary widely in size, eligibility and funding. Many rely heavily on nonprofit partners or donations to cover essentials such as diapers, cribs and parenting classes.<\/p>\n Nebraska\u2019s program, which launched in 1994, allows mothers to participate if their parole eligibility date or release date falls within 18 months of their child\u2019s birth.<\/p>\n Rosita Vizcarra, 29, said the program has been a \u201cblessing,\u201d giving her the chance to bond with her now-9-month-old son, Liam, while also learning how to be a better parent to her two older daughters.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s crawling and starting to stand,\u201d Vizcarra wrote in a message to Stateline through the facility\u2019s messaging platform. \u201cHe\u2019s such a happy baby.\u201d<\/p>\n Miranda Messenger, 37, told Stateline in a message that the program has given her what she and her now 4-month-old son, Kyle, need to succeed and stay connected to her support system while separated from her three older children.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s gonna help Miranda tenfold,\u201d said Shannon Fune, Kyle\u2019s father, who has been able to visit the pair a few times. \u201cI was a little bit jealous or disappointed that I wasn\u2019t gonna be there.\u201d<\/p>\n A 2018 study<\/a> of Nebraska\u2019s program found participation was associated with a 28% reduction in recidivism\u00a0within three years of the initial offense\u00a0and a 39% reduction in returns to prison custody\u00a0within 20 years over the 20-year period of the study. The author, Joseph R. Carlson, a former professor at the University of Nebraska, also estimated that the program saved the state more than $6 million between 1994 and 2012.<\/p>\n A handful of states \u2014 Kansas, North Dakota, Virginia and Wisconsin \u2014 are considering or expanding nursery programs. Idaho and Wyoming explored nursery plans in recent years, but abandoned them due to space, budget and staffing issues, according to state corrections officials.<\/p>\n Many other states offer other programs they say benefit incarcerated mothers, such as doula programs during pregnancy or during labor and delivery, extended visitation for young children or mother-child facilities based in communities rather than a prison.<\/p>\n Although interest in programs for pregnant and postpartum women in the criminal legal system has grown, experts across the country say there is still not enough research to know how well these programs work \u2014 and even basic data on the number and experiences or outcomes of incarcerated pregnant people remains limited.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s, for me, really unfortunate that we are doing this without evidence to inform the policies we\u2019re putting in place,\u201d said Rebecca Shlafer, a child psychologist and associate professor of pediatrics at the University of Minnesota. Shlafer also evaluated<\/a> the implementation of Minnesota\u2019s 2021 Healthy Start Act, which allows pregnant and postpartum women to participate in community-based alternatives.<\/p>\n It\u2019s hard to know exactly how many pregnant people enter jails and prisons each year. The federal government does not require correctional systems to track pregnancy data, and reporting varies widely by state.<\/p>\n By the end of 2023, 305 pregnant women were housed in state prisons, according to the latest federal data<\/a>, which was released by the Bureau of Justice Statistics in April. At least 75 women lived in prison nurseries or residential programs with their infants in 2023.<\/p>\n Some of us didn’t grow up with good families or a lot of love.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n \u2013 Kathy Briggs, an incarcerated mother in Missouri<\/b><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n A 2019 study<\/a> of incarcerated pregnant women \u2014 drawing from both state and federal facilities \u2014 estimated roughly 58,000 admissions to prisons and jails between 2016 and 2017. The study, conducted by the Advocacy and Research on Reproductive Wellness of Incarcerated People group and published in the peer-reviewed American Journal of Public Health, is considered the first national investigation into pregnancy frequency and outcomes in prisons.<\/p>\n There are no federal standards for prison nursery programs, and each state sets its own rules \u2014 who qualifies, how long mothers can stay, what staffing and safety protocols look like and what reentry support is offered.<\/p>\n Studies of long-running programs in Nebraska<\/a> and New York<\/a> found that mothers who participated were less likely to return to prison than similar women who weren\u2019t admitted. But those results, some experts say, may be shaped by the programs\u2019 strict eligibility rules: Nurseries typically accept people with lower-level offenses and short sentences.<\/p>\n A study<\/a> published in April in the peer-reviewed Women & Criminal Justice journal found that the existence of prison nursery programs caused stress and anxiety for those who weren\u2019t eligible after giving birth, leaving them feeling like unfit mothers, and diverted resources from other ways to help incarcerated moms maintain bonds with their babies.<\/p>\n \u201cWe can think outside the prison walls for how to keep moms and babies together in ways that still maintain safety and accountability,\u201d said Dr. Carolyn Sufrin, a medical anthropologist and an obstetrician-gynecologist at Johns Hopkins University. Sufrin also leads the Advocacy and Research on Reproductive Wellness of Incarcerated People group.<\/p>\n Critics of prison nurseries argue that the correctional environment is fundamentally ill-suited to meet the health, developmental and emotional needs of pregnant or postpartum women and their infants.<\/p>\n Prisons are usually not staffed with maternal health experts or pediatricians, and medical care is often inconsistent. The environment itself limits babies\u2019 movement and ability to form relationships with other family members. The children can\u2019t go outdoors every day.<\/p>\n Financial stability also is a major concern. Some of the existing prison nursery programs nationwide primarily depend on donations or nonprofit support instead of consistent state funding. Critics argue that this makes nurseries a fragile, resource-heavy solution that helps only a small number of women while reinforcing the broader system of incarceration rather than providing a reliable, scalable alternative.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a real patchwork out there, and every state is different, but again, just not ideal to have women and babies in these settings,\u201d said Erin McClain, a research associate and the assistant director of the University of North Carolina Collaborative for Maternal and Infant Health, a research center focusing on high-risk pregnancies and infants.<\/p>\n Briggs is set to leave Missouri\u2019s Women\u2019s Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center for a halfway house, again with her babies, later this month. She has thought extensively about what she\u2019ll one day tell her daughters about their first few months of life \u2014 and about how far she has come from the days when her \u201cDNR\u201d tattoo reflected a very different outlook.<\/p>\n \u201cI want to live life, and I want to show them that they can live a good life,\u201d Briggs said. \u201cI want to be the light that makes them feel warm.\u201d<\/p>\n Inside the program, she learned how to care for her daughters and, just as critically, how to care for herself, she said. For someone who had grown up without much love or guidance, the nursery became a place where both were taught, deliberately and daily.<\/p>\n She hopes to return someday to help others navigate the early months of parenthood behind bars.<\/p>\n \u201cMore mothers in this situation deserve an opportunity to learn to be a better mother.\u201d<\/p>\n Stateline reporter Amanda Watford can be reached at ahernandez@stateline.org<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n![\"The](\"https:\/\/missouriindependent.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/prison-nurseries.4364-cropped.jpg\")
<\/div>\nInside Missouri\u2019s nursery program<\/h4>\n
![\"Kaley](\"https:\/\/missouriindependent.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/prison-nurseries.4174.jpg\")
![\"Kaley](\"https:\/\/missouriindependent.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/prison-nurseries.4188.jpg\")
![\"Stuffed](\"https:\/\/missouriindependent.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/prison-nurseries.4129.jpg\")
Turning point<\/h4>\n
![\"Parents](\"https:\/\/missouriindependent.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/prison-nurseries.4251-scaled.jpg\")
![\"Tara](\"https:\/\/missouriindependent.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/prison-nurseries.4107.jpg\")
Policies across the states<\/h4>\n
\u2018A real patchwork\u2019<\/h4>\n
\n<\/div>\n\n\n![\"Kathy](\"https:\/\/missouriindependent.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/prison-nurseries.4407.jpg\")
A path forward<\/h4>\n