The following open letter was written by a PEF member who works at the Lakeview Shock Incarceration Correctional Facility in Brocton, N.Y., who was violently assaulted by an incarcerated individual on Feb. 23, 2026. We will share more of the member’s story in the March issue of The Communicator, but wanted to share this letter first as a powerful testament to the courage and grace being shown in the most difficult of circumstances.
To Whom It May Concern,
I pray this never happens to you. I pray you never experience the moment when life flashes before your eyes. A normal day suddenly shattered—cornered in a locked room, realizing you must fight for your life against a man twice your size and strength – or it all ends. All it takes is a single moment, and everything changes.
Right now, I write from a place of compassion. That does not mean I have always felt this way. Over the past 48 hours I have felt anger, shock, and deep hurt—emotions that do not resemble love. But as I sit here trying to make sense of it all, I have come to this.
I do not hate the man who attacked me. I do not hate the others who sat and watched as their counselor was beaten repeatedly, as though it were no more than a boring scene of a movie. I was angry and disappointed. Remaining angry would be easy, yes. But I choose to move past anger. What remains is sadness.
I wanted to believe there was more humanity in that room.
But I also understand self-preservation. I cannot fault them for self-preservation. I know I would not put myself between them and a 350 lb. man intent on violence. To do so could risk their own lives.
But if they are at risk, and I am at risk, and the officer outside the door is at risk—then what exactly are we doing?
Every day, my coworkers and I walk into these facilities with the same purpose: to listen, to guide, to offer support, and to provide opportunities for change. I do not pretend that I am responsible for anyone’s rehabilitation. All I can do is offer the chance for it. What someone chooses to do with that opportunity is up to them.
But rehabilitation cannot exist in an environment where survival is the primary concern.
Restraints are often discussed as though they are a punishment. They are not. They are protection—for staff and for incarcerated individuals alike. People who must remain constantly on guard for their safety cannot meaningfully participate in rehabilitation.
This attack would never have happened if restraints had remained in place.
The individuals in that room would never have been forced to choose between their own safety and mine. An officer would never have been forced to choose between breaking protocol and risking his career or standing by while someone was killed.
This program once required restraints until individuals progressed through phases and demonstrated they could safely manage themselves. That was reasonable. It was cause and effect. If someone is a danger to staff or peers, they should not be unrestrained around staff or peers until they have proven otherwise.
Yet from the very first day restraints were removed, staff warned leadership that this would happen. Counselors and officers expressed fear. Some came to tears. Officers said openly that it was only a matter of time before someone was seriously hurt.
We spoke up.
No one listened.
Instead, we were told we were safe.
The truth is that the people who show up to work in these buildings do so because we still carry hope. We acknowledge the risks, yet we come back every day. We trust the officers who protect us. They are our only line of defense.
In my case, Officer Murdoch did far more than simply perform his job. According to policy, his duty is to wait for backup and check on me every thirty minutes. That is what is written.
But what these officers do goes far beyond what is written.
They risk their lives every day. They are fathers, brothers, sons, and friends. I have worked beside many of them for years, and I know their character. They care deeply about the safety of those they work with.
I am alive because of that.
What happened to me has replayed in my mind again and again. I still struggle to believe it was real. The same question echoes every time I relive it: Why?
I remember the moment he stood up and the sudden realization that nothing was stopping him. He was free to kill me. I remember asking him, “Why are you doing this?”
I still do not know the answer.
I do not believe he saw me as a human being—only a body to overpower. And because I do not believe his mind operates the way ours does, I cannot bring myself to hate him.
In fact, I believe the system may have failed him long before it failed me.
I will prosecute. I am the victim. But somewhere in his past, perhaps he was a victim too. Perhaps there were moments when intervention might have helped. Perhaps not.
What I do know is this: the system failed him, and it failed me.
And it is failing the people who serve this state.
I cannot understand how those responsible for shaping these policies can watch what is happening and remain unmoved. Are they truly blind? Or simply callous?
If nothing changes, someone will die. It will be either an incarcerated individual or a staff member. Families will lose fathers, mothers, husbands, and wives.
And then what?
That is how cycles begin. That is how division grows deeper.
All while a simple and reasonable solution exists.
In just 43 days since restraints were removed, there have already been more incidents of classroom violence than in the entire previous year. One cannot claim a commitment to reducing violence while ignoring the clear cause and effect of a policy change.
To do so is either ignorance or disregard.
As I lay on the ground, blind, I put my hands over my head, I did not know if he was coming back for more, and I did not know if help was coming. What I did know was in those seconds, or milliseconds, I thought my head couldn’t take much more blunt force.
I will die here.
But I have two daughters, who need me. They do not deserve to grow up without their mother. I rolled over and I fought back with everything I had, until I saw a blur of feet coming into that locked door. I crawled out – still blind, still in shock. Disbelief. Still unsure if I would live. If I got hit in the right place, if my brain would swell or bleed.
I thought about my children.
I wanted to call them, call my husband, just to say I love them. To tell them to take care of each other. Not to not be angry. Just to love each other. To hold each other.
While in the ambulance a thought crossed my mind. I am an organ donor. At least my organs might go to others (RIP Riesen). I thought maybe that would be a story my children could tell. I thought, I will never leave them. I would watch over them forever.
I watched my husband run up to the ambulance with tears in his eyes. I gave him a thumbs up- because I was alive.
And by the grace of God, I am. Beyond bruises, strains, and scratches, I survived. I owe that to God. I carry Him with me and am not shy about it. He protected me. Since I am alive to speak, I will.
Let this not be a close call.
Let it be a moment someone finally listened.
Let it be a wake-up call.