VANDALIA, Mo. — 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.
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.
Melody’s gray-blue eyes tracked the women’s hands, and her wispy blond hair — gathered into a tiny pink bow — bobbed slightly with the movement. She blinked up at the adults.
“Put your foot in there,” one of the women said, guiding Melody’s leg through the opening.
“She’s just a little chunk,” the other woman said.
Briggs’ 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 — tiny onesies and hip carriers still wrapped in plastic.
Someone let out a soft “aww.” Briggs, 29, bounced on her heels, testing the weight, her palms hovering protectively near Melody’s back.
For a moment, the room felt like any early childhood nursery: adult chatter and baby babbles, women comparing baby gear and swapping soothing techniques.
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’s prison in rural Missouri.
Programs like this one allow babies inside prisons — 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 — even as critics question whether any prison can ever be an appropriate place for a child.
Missouri’s program, which opened last February at the Women’s Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center, is the ninth nursery program currently operating inside of a prison in the country. The program was adopted into state law in 2022.
Each year, thousands of pregnant offenders are admitted to local jails and state prisons — most for nonviolent crimes. In 2023, the latest year with data available, about 2% of women who were admitted to state prisons were pregnant, according to the federal Bureau of Justice Statistics.
The number of incarcerated women has climbed 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.
“Routine aspects of prison operations just really don’t consider the distinct needs of women, and particularly not of pregnant women,” 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’s experiences.
Federal reports and research have found that pregnant inmates face systemic barriers to timely care — from guards controlling access to medical treatment to logistical delays and medical fees. Shackling during pregnancy and childbirth persists despite restrictions in at least 42 states.
Prison nursery programs benefit relatively few women, and some criminal justice advocates say they reinforce the notion that incarceration — rather than community-based drug treatment or diversion — should remain the default response for pregnant women in the criminal legal system.
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.
“This community just lifts us up,” Briggs said.
Inside Missouri’s nursery program
The room Kaley McDowell shares with her infant daughter, Kimber, is arranged for two mothers and two babies — twin beds on each wall, a pair of cribs nearby and space left open for feeding, rocking and play.
McDowell’s 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’s shirt.
“She thinks she’s gonna eat now,” 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.
Kimber steadied herself, then reached down toward her tiny toes as if surprised to find them there.
McDowell, 34, is a girl mom through and through. All four of her daughters — ages 13, 9, 2 and now-7-month-old Kimber — have “K” names, a small bit of continuity she’s proud of.
Inside the nursery unit, she’s the experienced mom, the one other women seek out for advice.
McDowell isn’t set for release until August, which means Kimber will leave the nursery around 15 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.
Missouri’s 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.
Prison officials also review disciplinary history, physical and mental health, and engagement in programming before approving someone for one of the unit’s seven bedrooms, which collectively can house up to 14 babies at a time.
About two dozen infants are expected to cycle through the nursery each year, and staff anticipate that number will climb — a sign of growing demand for the program.
“I have watched moms transform their lives,” said Kim Perkins, the nursery’s program manager.
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.
“They like to come and steal the babies when they can,” McDowell said. “They’re like our in-house grandmas.”
The unit’s officers also are trained to expect round-the-clock movement, and the team includes male officers, so infants grow accustomed to hearing different voices.
“It’s going to be a good thing for these women,” said Lisa Unger, one of the unit’s 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.
When mothers cook group meals — something that happens at least once a week — 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.
Movement across the unit is tightly restricted, though. Babies are not allowed upstairs to the sleeping and living quarters of caregivers — incarcerated women trained for the role — and mothers go there only to “shop” 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.
Turning point
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.
Addiction shaped nearly every corner of her adulthood — where she slept and whom she trusted. Some nights were spent in drug houses, others on the street. She lost two pregnancies.
At her lowest point, Briggs tattooed “DNR” — which stands for “do not resuscitate” — above her left eye.
When Briggs learned she was expecting again — this time while in county jail awaiting adjudication — 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.
Who would take them? Who would trust her with them?
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’d be released shortly. Instead, the judge told her she would go to prison — and have her babies there.
Briggs protested — 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.
She arrived at the prison nursery unit seven months pregnant. When her daughters were born, she nicknamed them “Little Lyric” and “Mighty Melody,” inspired by the music that always made her feel free.
The infants’ 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.
Inside the nursery, Briggs’ daughters, whom she calls her “best friends,” 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.
“Some of us didn’t grow up with good families or a lot of love,” Briggs said. “Here, they’re teaching us how to grow with our babies, and that is such a beautiful thing.”
Some of the program’s caregivers say the strength of the unit comes from the fact that no one is raising a baby in isolation — and that some caregivers bring their own lived experience as mothers to guide the others.
One morning, caregiver Tara Carroll sat on the floor, sorting a pile of donated baby clothes while several women gathered around her — some seated at a nearby table, others standing and talking among themselves.
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.
“This one will fit her, and it’s got cute little pants and a snowflake,” Carroll told one mother.
“That’s cuuuuuute,” another mom chimed in.
Carroll, 34, has been incarcerated for several years on property-related charges, and she remembers what it was like before the nursery existed.
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.
“It was heart-wrenching, and I promised my daughter that I would do everything that I could to come home to her,” Carroll said. She hopes to use her experience in the prison to become a doula.
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 — guiding them through feedings, showing them how to swaddle, offering advice during long nights — feels like a way of honoring her promise to her daughter.
Policies across the states
Across the country, fewer than a dozen states operate nursery programs that allow incarcerated mothers to live with their newborns.
New York operates the nation’s 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 — typically until age 1 — under a system governed by state law and administered by a nonprofit provider, Hour Children.
Newer programs — in Illinois, Indiana, Missouri, Nebraska, South Dakota, Ohio, Washington state and West Virginia — 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.
Nebraska’s program, which launched in 1994, allows mothers to participate if their parole eligibility date or release date falls within 18 months of their child’s birth.
Rosita Vizcarra, 29, said the program has been a “blessing,” 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.
“He’s crawling and starting to stand,” Vizcarra wrote in a message to Stateline through the facility’s messaging platform. “He’s such a happy baby.”
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.
“It’s gonna help Miranda tenfold,” said Shannon Fune, Kyle’s father, who has been able to visit the pair a few times. “I was a little bit jealous or disappointed that I wasn’t gonna be there.”
A 2018 study of Nebraska’s program found participation was associated with a 28% reduction in recidivism within three years of the initial offense and a 39% reduction in returns to prison custody within 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.
A handful of states — Kansas, North Dakota, Virginia and Wisconsin — 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.
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.
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 — and even basic data on the number and experiences or outcomes of incarcerated pregnant people remains limited.
“It’s, for me, really unfortunate that we are doing this without evidence to inform the policies we’re putting in place,” said Rebecca Shlafer, a child psychologist and associate professor of pediatrics at the University of Minnesota. Shlafer also evaluated the implementation of Minnesota’s 2021 Healthy Start Act, which allows pregnant and postpartum women to participate in community-based alternatives.
‘A real patchwork’
It’s 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.
By the end of 2023, 305 pregnant women were housed in state prisons, according to the latest federal data, 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.
A 2019 study of incarcerated pregnant women — drawing from both state and federal facilities — 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.
There are no federal standards for prison nursery programs, and each state sets its own rules — who qualifies, how long mothers can stay, what staffing and safety protocols look like and what reentry support is offered.
Studies of long-running programs in Nebraska and New York found that mothers who participated were less likely to return to prison than similar women who weren’t admitted. But those results, some experts say, may be shaped by the programs’ strict eligibility rules: Nurseries typically accept people with lower-level offenses and short sentences.
A study 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’t 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.
“We can think outside the prison walls for how to keep moms and babies together in ways that still maintain safety and accountability,” 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.
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.
Prisons are usually not staffed with maternal health experts or pediatricians, and medical care is often inconsistent. The environment itself limits babies’ movement and ability to form relationships with other family members. The children can’t go outdoors every day.
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.
“It’s a real patchwork out there, and every state is different, but again, just not ideal to have women and babies in these settings,” 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.
A path forward
Briggs is set to leave Missouri’s Women’s Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center for a halfway house, again with her babies, later this month. She has thought extensively about what she’ll one day tell her daughters about their first few months of life — and about how far she has come from the days when her “DNR” tattoo reflected a very different outlook.
“I want to live life, and I want to show them that they can live a good life,” Briggs said. “I want to be the light that makes them feel warm.”
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.
She hopes to return someday to help others navigate the early months of parenthood behind bars.
“More mothers in this situation deserve an opportunity to learn to be a better mother.”
