When Autumn Mason delivered her third child in June of 2014, she was just two months into a 48-month sentence at the women’s prison in Shakopee, Minnesota. She describes the experience of giving birth while incarcerated as deeply alienating — like “being a phantom or a ghost.” 

“It’s like you’re there in essence, but you’re not really recognized,” she says. “You don’t have any influence  on anything.”   

Just 36 hours after the birth, Mason was separated from her baby and returned to prison. Except for one short visit after three months, she didn’t see her daughter again for an entire year.  

For women who give birth while incarcerated, this kind of experience is common. For Rebecca Shlafer, PhD, an associate professor of pediatrics at the University of Minnesota Medical School, it’s “unconscionable.” 

Driven by this moral urgency, Shlafer has spent more than a decade conducting research centered on childbirth amid incarceration. Now she’s using her findings as a catalyst for legislative change that promotes the bond between a mother and child.  

“I don’t know how we can say we care about moms and babies when this is the status quo,” she says. 

From invisible to actionable

Shlafer has spent the bulk of her career researching the impact of incarceration on families and working to right some of the many wrongs she’s uncovered. 

Her work has illuminated that pregnancy in correctional facilities is far more common than previously assumed; in Minnesota, nearly 6% of women in jail — or roughly 1 in 17 — report being pregnant. These women experience significant health disparities, including higher rates of chronic medical conditions, mental health problems and substance use disorders.

“If you had asked the Department of Corrections 10 years ago how many pregnant women were in their prisons, they couldn’t answer that question,” Shlafer says. 

That data has played a central role in policy and procedural changes in Minnesota that benefit this often-overlooked population, including a law limiting the use of restraints on pregnant and postpartum incarcerated women and the Healthy Start Act. Passed in 2021, this landmark legislation allows pregnant or postpartum women to be placed in community-based programs — such as residential treatment or halfway houses — rather than behind bars. 

Instead of the 36-hour window Mason experienced, these women are given the opportunity to bond with their infants in a stable environment during those first critical months of life. It’s a shift from a punitive model to one centered on public health — an approach aimed at decreasing a child’s long-term risk for mental health problems, poor social functioning and insecure attachment. 

Shlafer has spent the past 15 years building the trust necessary to enter these “inherently closed systems” and gathering the data and stories that were previously uncollected and unheard.

Working directly with people impacted by incarceration is a crucial part of Shlafer’s work as she fights a cultural narrative that labels those who’ve spent time in prison as “bad people.” For her, the reality is far different. 

“When you sit down and talk to somebody [who is incarcerated] about their story, you learn about all these pathways of trauma and adversity that could have resulted in very different stories,” she says. 

Centering lived experiences

To ensure that her work is guided by the people who know the most about the subject matter, Shlafer has organized a philanthropy-funded Community Research Council — a group of formerly incarcerated mothers who meet monthly to turn their own experiences into fuel for change.   

Today, the council is focused on bridging the gap between policy and practice. They are evaluating the Healthy Start Act to identify barriers to implementing the legislation, while also developing peer-support models to help mothers navigate the “unresolved grief” of losing parental rights — a trauma Shlafer identifies as a primary driver of intergenerational cycles of harm. 

Victoria Lopez, a graduate of the Healthy Start program, serves as a recovery specialist and a member of the council.

“There are a lot of [justice-related] policies and rules and regulations that are made without any input from individuals who have lived experience,” Lopez says. “[Being on the council] means I get to turn my pain into purpose.”  

The council’s work focuses on the experiences behind the statistics: the physical ache of a mother lactating in a cell while her newborn is miles away; the administrative delays in birth certificates that can block a baby from visiting for months; and the complex grief of mothers who have lost legal custody but remain deeply connected with their extended families. For Shlafer and the council, these represent some of the “unconscionable” fractures in a system they are determined to heal. 

“My job is to pair the scientific evidence with their lived experiences,” she says. “We can be really proud when we recognize how a little bit of evidence combined with really poignant stories can drive evidence- informed policymaking.” 

The future of family support

While individual policy changes are crucial to her work, Shlafer is pushing for a fundamental shift in how the state views its responsibilities to incarcerated people and their families. She points to the creation of the first-ever Family Supports Unit within the Department of Corrections — a team dedicated to meeting the unique needs of this population — as a watershed moment.

“It signals a shift in structural or systems thinking … [demonstrating] that incarcerated parents and their children are worthy of our time and attention,” she says. 

From helping fathers navigate the child support system to managing the Healthy Start Act’s community placement program for new mothers, the Family Supports Unit serves as a bridge between policy and people. For the first time in Minnesota’s history, a dedicated team exists to ensure that the bureaucracy of prison doesn’t become a permanent barrier to the bonds of parenthood, Shlafer says. 

Mason, who gave birth while incarcerated and later served as the program director for the Minnesota Prison Doula Project, says this support for families impacted by incarceration ultimately benefits the greater community. 

“If we don’t want to show grace or have consideration for the adults who have [faced incarceration], that’s understandable,” she says. “But if we have any investment in the future, we  have to consider the care and well-being of their children, because they are the leaders of tomorrow.” 

Funding a new vision

To expand the reach of these reforms, Shlafer has relied on partners who share her vision for a more compassionate future. Supported by gifts from the Sauer Family Foundation, Johnson Foundation at Wingspread and others, Shlafer says that philanthropy has played an incredibly important role in supporting her work over the years. 

Moving forward, Shlafer hopes to explore some of the root causes of incarceration — dynamics like housing instability, inadequate employment, and community and domestic violence — and develop interventions that may alleviate those issues and help people avoid prison altogether. 

When Shlafer thinks about the future of her work, she emphasizes her commitment to community-engaged research, pointing out that the “people who are closest to the problem are closest to the solution.” She says she’s just “one piece of the puzzle” — her collaborators are central to determining the path forward. 

“I hope the future is bigger than I can dream,” she says. “Because the most beautiful things have come from ideas I could never have imagined on my own.”