“So, what exactly is institutionalisation?”

A question I am often asked since my release.

Usually followed by: “It can’t be that bad—you had three meals a day and a bed for free!”

As if prison is some kind of government-funded retreat.

Artwork from HG Morning Magic project

As if surviving a system founded on colonialism and patriarchy—a system that claims to “correct” but consistently fails, stripping people of autonomy, dignity, selfhood, and the ability to function as human beings post-release in the process—is some kind of privilege.

So, I have spent a long time sitting with this question—turning it over in my head, trying to find the right words. Words that will hit hard enough for those who’ve never lived it to actually feel it.

Words that honour those who’ve survived it—and those still caught in its cycle.

Trying to explain institutionalisation is like asking a fish to describe water to someone who’s never been wet.

When you’ve been submerged in that world—whether for months or years—it seeps into how you think, move, and survive. Until one day you’re “free,” gasping for air, wondering why everything feels so foreign, so overwhelming. Like you don’t belong.

That’s the thing about institutionalisation—there are no perfect words that truly capture that pain. No easy way to explain how it fundamentally reshapes a person from the inside out.

Unless you have felt it, you can’t fully understand.

Prisons aren’t just about punishment—they are designed to break humans. The harm goes far beyond having your freedom removed and adapting to rules. It’s about what gets lost in that process.

 Institutionalisation is the deep psychological and emotional shift that happens when someone is confined, controlled, and dehumanised for so long that functioning outside that structure becomes almost impossible.  

The hardest part of institutionalisation isn’t just being inside—it is trying to exist outside afterwards.

That’s why movies like Sing Sing matter. They are a vital act of visible education about a population so often erased by the very system that locks us down. At our Home Ground screening fundraiser, I sat and watched Sing Sing alongside some of the very Corrections officers who once oversaw me inside. Hearing their reactions moved me more than I expected. For the first time, it felt like this movie breathed life into the words I have been unable to find, giving shape to the thoughts I have struggled to articulate.

Mainstream media has a long history of reinforcing harmful stereotypes about people in prison, shaping public opinion in ways that cause lasting, real harm. These narratives don’t just misrepresent—they divide. They build invisible walls, reinforcing an “us vs them” mentality that mirrors the very real prison walls that cause the damage in the first place.

These one-dimensional portrayals might boost viewer ratings or win political points, but they come at a serious cost—not just to those doing time, but to their whānau, children, and loved ones for generations. People who are innocent but are treated by the system as collateral damage. 

Prison is full of experiences no one should ever have to endure.

It is a world built on control, abuse, isolation, and survival.

It’s not just the cell or the sentence—it’s the thousands of small, daily moments that chip away at the very essence of who you are. Like you’re a defective model, damaged goods—easier to discard than take the time to repair.

I share my prison experience as testimony.

As resistance.

As proof that despite a system designed to silence us—We are still here.

Still healing.

Still fighting for what is right:

To be valued as people, not hidden as problems.

You don’t need to fully understand.

You just must be open-minded and care enough to listen.

Author: FREEBIRD