The 2,500-Mile Journey to Visit My Brother in Prison

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Bárbara Tamilin

The pinkish light of the setting sun spills across the desert just as I crest the ridge, breath shallow from the climb, boots coated in a thin layer of dust. All around me, the Santa Catalinas glow as if lit from within, their jagged edges softened by the dusk, while the valley below stretches endlessly, the silhouettes of cacti fading into shadow. I pause, letting the silence press in, broken only by the faint call of a cactus wren. Out here, surrounded by so much space, it’s impossible not to feel the weight of what my brother is missing—and the strange, aching freedom I carry in his place.

Two years ago, I unwittingly joined a vast, often invisible network of travelers—nearly six million strong. We come from every walk of life, journeying by car, train, bus, or plane to bridge the distance to our loved ones. My own journey begins in Rhode Island and ends on a dusty, desolate road on the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona, where I visit my youngest brother in prison. In America, the majority of prisons are located far from where inmates—and their families—call home. According to the Prison Policy Initiative, over 63 percent of people in state prisons are incarcerated more than 100 miles from their families, while in the federal prison system, it jumps to 500 miles. For me, that distance stretches over 2,500 miles. The physical distance underscores the emotional isolation incarceration creates. Having a loved one in prison burdens families not only financially—with the cost of travel, lost wages, lawyer fees, long-distance phone calls, the ongoing expense of funding commissary accounts for basic necessities—but emotionally, straining relationships, breaking family units apart, and deepening the sense of helplessness and grief.

My brother is 16 years younger than me—we share the same parents, and I still remember the day he was born, the tiny weight of him in my arms as I first held him. I'm his big sister, and he's my baby brother. Nothing will ever change that, though now the time we share is regulated and restricted. Our visits take place on weekends, in a sterile room with chairs bolted to the floor, under strict rules: no food, no drinks, no cell phones, no distractions. For seven uninterrupted hours, we talk. Through our words and memories, we transcend the barbed wire and armed guards. Together, we imagine a future beyond confinement—what we’ll eat, where we’ll go, what it will feel like to once again plunge into the cherished lakes of our Midwestern childhood summers, together and free. These conversations, unbroken by modern distractions, have taught me the value of sitting with discomfort. My brother’s life will never be what we once imagined, and we talk about that with unflinching honesty. The hardest moment is always the end of the visit. We’re allowed a single, brief hug before he is led away, and I step back out into the desert’s fading light—heartbroken yet steadfast, ready to begin the long journey home.

Reaching Tucson from Rhode Island is neither straightforward nor inexpensive. Each time, I weigh whether to drive into Boston and fly direct or leave from our smaller airport, where I’ll have to connect in Atlanta. Should I rent a car or rely on a rideshare, knowing full well how difficult it will be to get an Uber to pick you up from federal prison 15 miles outside of town? And then there’s the matter of lodging. The costs pile up—and that’s assuming the visit goes as planned. More times than I care to count, I’ve arrived in Tucson after a long day of travel, only to learn the prison is on lockdown with visitations suspended. Our family—my husband, our three kids, and I—once spent Thanksgiving week there, planning to visit my brother on the holiday itself and during the weekends before and after. Upon landing, we learned the prison was locked down and would remain so for the entirety of our trip. I’ve since learned to book refundable hotels and airline tickets, plus a window seat on my return flight, so I can cry in private.

On my first visit, I fully expected to resent the perpetually sunny desert town surrounded by vast mountain ranges. The Santa Catalinas, the Rincons, the Santa Ritas, and the Tucson Mountains circle the city, glowing a brilliant gold at sunset. How dare this place remain warm, bright, and beautiful in the face of my grief. Yet, over time, the stark beauty of the Sonoran Desert has captivated me. Now, I look forward to these visits—not just to see my brother, who I miss with an unending ache, but also to experience this remarkable landscape.

The desert is a place of quiet marvels. A sunset hike might reveal the fleeting presence of an elusive coyote or a rowdy, ever-hungry pack of javelinas. Sandstone canyons and wind-carved rock formations give way to towering saguaros silhouetted against the clear, endless sky. In spring, the desert bursts into life. Spiny cacti bloom in April, painting the landscape in brilliant fuchsias, peaches, reds, and whites, followed by the creamy, whimsical-looking flowers of saguaros in mid-May. Thorny shrubs erupt with color, and hummingbirds flit frantically from bloom to bloom. The desert feels alive—vibrant and teeming.

Tucson offers something I hadn’t anticipated: a place where grief coexists with beauty. The open desert expanse stands in stark contrast to my brother’s confinement. Here, I’ve hiked the winding trails of Saguaro National Park, gone horseback riding through the foothills at White Stallion Ranch, and gazed up at star-filled skies that feel infinite. I’ve wandered the streets of Barrio Viejo, home to multigenerational Mexican American families, and the largest collection of 19th-century Sonoran adobe buildings in the United States. I've browsed my favorite boutique, Bon, and grabbed coffee and a pastry from Coronet Cafe, and later lunch at The Cup Café. I’ve worked my way through the salsa flight at Boca, taken a whirl around town on the mural tour with Tucson Bike Tours, and treated myself to a slice at Barrio Bread, where every loaf is made with local or heritage grains from the southwest. I always buy a book for the plane ride home at Antigone Books. I have a wish list of places I still want to visit, including Tohono Chul Gardens, San Xavier del Bac Mission, Tucson Botanical Gardens, and Mercado Flea Market, and everywhere I want to eat. Currently El Charro, the oldest Mexican restaurant in Tucson, and La Indita, known for its mole, are battling for first. Though breakfast burritos from Barista del Barrio or Paco’s Mexican Food rank a close second.

There are days when the weight of it all tempts me to hole up in my hotel room, to let the grief swallow the day. But I’ve found that seeking out beauty—however small or fleeting—is what keeps me tethered to hope. These experiences don’t erase the pain, but they make space for joy to live alongside it.

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After Prison, I Went to Miami to Reacquaint Myself With Freedom

Incarcerated at a facility in the Everglades, I spent years living in the shadow of Miami. Finally, I got to visit.

I remember the moment I got the call—my brother had been arrested. I dropped to my knees, overcome by a guttural sob I’ve never been able to replicate since. In an instant, everything shifted. Life became a blur of court dates and legal jargon, of trying to decode a prison system that feels purposely opaque, dehumanizing, and cruel. My family’s days filled with calls to lawyers, navigating bureaucracy, arranging visits. And beneath it all, I struggled to hold two truths at once: my anger at him, and my deep, unwavering empathy.

My beautiful, broken, sensitive, flawed baby brother—reduced to a number in a system designed to forget he’s human. The thought that he might spend decades inside is unbearable. It’s the ache of knowing he’s missing everything: Christmas mornings, my son’s soccer games, graduations, family dinners. It’s the grief of watching our parents age, knowing they may never see him free again in their lifetime. Our visits are rigidly supervised, our phone calls recorded—our love rationed into ten-minute fragments.

Recently, my husband visited him alone while I stayed home in Rhode Island with the kids. When he returned from Tucson, he told me how chapped my brother’s lips were, how he wished he could hand him something as simple as a stick of lip balm. Just one small gesture of care. The visit ended, he walked to the parking lot, sat in the car and cried.

Sometimes, it’s the smallest indignities that hurt the most—the quiet, ordinary comforts withheld.

But through this pain, I’ve learned that travel can expand our understanding of connection. It reminds us that the world keeps turning, even in our darkest moments. Before my brother’s incarceration, boarding a plane meant adventure—new destinations, unfamiliar faces, and the thrill of discovery. Now, it signifies something deeper—unconditional love. I would go to the very ends of the earth to show my brother he is loved.

Originally Appeared on Condé Nast Traveler