The following post was written by Carly Evans as part of her UNC coursework (MEJO356: Feature Writing)
Tucked away on Thompson Mill Road, it’s easy to miss Benevolence Farm. A short gravel
driveway leads to the farm’s red-brick, ranch-style house. A front porch, framed by bright flower
boxes, and a cozy backyard bookmark the house.
To the right, neat rows of crops stretch across the ground where lavender, hibiscus, bergamot and
jasmine fill the fields. With time, what grows here will be transformed into oils for hand-crafted
body care products, sold through the farm’s online store.
Eight years ago, Eden Gustavsen drove up this same gravel driveway, arriving straight from
Swannanoa Correctional Center for Women where she’d spent two years incarcerated for
manufacturing and possessing methamphetamine. As she took in the sprawling land before her,
one thought came to her mind: freedom.
“Second chances. Starting over. New life,” she said.
Gustavsen is one of more than 3,000 women in North Carolina released from prison every year,
navigating the difficult transition back into society after incarceration. Across the state, though,
reincarceration rates have risen nearly 50% over the past two decades, with 36% of individuals
returning to prison after their initial release, according to The Council of State Governments
Justice Center.
Those numbers reflect a much harsher reality for many women. Faced with immense obstacles
during reentry, many become caught in a cycle of reincarceration. Far too often, home is toxic
and unsafe, filled with perpetual abuse, violence and addiction. Even for those with a stable
home, the weight of a felony conviction impacts nearly every aspect of daily life, from finding a
job and securing stable housing to qualifying for SNAP benefits or regaining custody of their
children.
“You start from the bottom,” said Keia Bazemore, a former resident at Benevolence Farm. “You
start with people not trusting you. You start with having to build up relationships that had been
damaged since you’d be gone. You have to start over getting a job.”
For the thousands of women released from prison every year, that experience often defines
reentry. At Benevolence, though, Gustavsen encountered something more.
She found a home; a place to breathe amidst the chaos of reentry and a second chance to rebuild
her life.
Since welcoming its first resident in 2016, Benevolence has opened its doors to more than 50
women and gender-expansive individuals, each greeted with a home-cooked meal and
celebratory banner. For Gustavsen, it was baked spaghetti, made by her future roommate, that
ushered in a new chapter on the farm.
On 13 acres of rural farmland in Alamance County, Benevolence shows what’s possible when
reentry is met with compassion and intention instead of surveillance and crisis. For up to two
years, residents have access to stable housing and employment through the farm’s body care
enterprise, along with healthcare, therapy and education opportunities.
That difference was central to Gustavsen’s decision to come to Benevolence. Like many others
nearing the end of their incarceration, she began weighing her options for reentry, knowing that
home would likely lead her back down the path of reincarceration and addiction that plagued her
past.
Flipping through a binder filled with reentry programs in the prison library, she stumbled upon
her answer: Benevolence Farm.
Growing up on tour following the Grateful Dead until five years old, Gustavsen’s childhood was
far from normal. As a child of divorce, she spent her school years on a farm in Vermont with her
father and summers with her mother in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.
Benevolence reminded Gustavsen of a simpler time, surrounded by the comfort and solitude of
rural farmland. And with her mother and daughter living in Asheville, she knew she’d be
surrounded by support at Benevolence.
In her first days on the farm, Gustavsen was astounded by her freedom, having gotten used to the
constant regiment of prison life. For two years, she’d been told when to eat, when to sleep, when
to leave her cell. But Benevolence was different; she had her freedom back.
“I can walk down the road here,” Gustavsen said. “I could go outside anytime I wanted. I could,
you know, see the trees and everything.”
Back when she stayed at Benevolence, the farm produced numerous fruits and vegetables to sell
as a Community Supported Agriculture program, known as a CSA. On Mondays, Wednesdays
and Fridays, Gustavsen and her housemates worked in the field, weeding, seeding and harvesting
the crops.
And after her long days in the field, she often found herself on the front porch rocking chairs.
“That was my spot,” Gustavsen said, smiling as she remembers that time. “I just loved being
there and hearing the birds, and, you know, sometimes you can see the sunset.”
Towards the end of Gustavsen’s six months at Benevolence, the farm began experimenting with
ways to infuse homegrown herbs and flowers into oils for body care products. What began as a
small-scale effort has since grown into a prospering farm-to-body care line for Benevolence.
As the enterprise grew, so did the work itself, moving seamlessly between the field and the
workshop. Whether it’s carefully measuring oil for each candle, taping labels onto jars or
organizing shipments, many residents at Benevolence have come to enjoy their time in the
workshop.
Located in the basement of the main house, the workshop smells of subtle fragrances from the
array of freshly harvested herbs and flowers, neatly stored on black shelves. Along the back wall,
large sheets of white paper display careful measurements written in thick, colorful marker.
Across the room, rows of neatly stacked products in candles, soaps and lotions sit waiting to be
sold through the farm’s online store and local vendors.
While many residents prefer the climate-controlled, predictable nature of the workshop, others
find more fulfillment outdoors.
For Gustavsen, being in the field became a source of comfort, describing the work as freeing and
meditative after years of incarceration. As she pulled weeds from the ground, she often imagined
uprooting her own obstacles, erasing them from her mind one by one.
Beyond the farm, though, reentry rarely allows for that kind of reflection.
“Sometimes this is people’s first like, calm living environment,” said Executive Director Kristen
Powers, “like the first time they’ve not been in constant crisis.”
And when basic needs like safety and stability aren’t met, healing becomes secondary. For many,
survival takes priority.
The same was true for Gustavsen. That is, until she came to Benevolence.
At Benevolence, she was finally given the resources to truly thrive. She had a home, she had a
job and she had a community of women fighting, just as hard as her, for her success.
In just six months at Benevolence Farm, Gustavsen earned her high school diploma after
enduring Algebra 2 and Geometry, secured a second job at Saxapahaw General Store and
enrolled in college courses at Alamance Community College. She renewed her driver’s license
and got her very own Nissan Altima through Wheels for Hope, a local nonprofit that donates
used vehicles to other organizations.
After leaving Benevolence, Gustavsen began building a life of her own nearby in Saxapahaw,
North Carolina, with a roommate. Wanting to bring the farm with her, Gustavsen and her
roommate had their own chickens and a small garden.
Lighting up, Gustavsen recalled meeting her husband in 2019 and eventually moving into their
own one-bedroom apartment. Later, in 2022, Gustavsen officially reunited with her daughter,
buying a cozy two-bedroom home for the three of them.
In her sixth year as executive director, watching residents succeed and rebuild their lives remains
one of Powers’ favorite parts of the job.
“When we see people get their needs met, you kind of see under the layers of trauma and hurt
and harm,” Powers said. “Like, oh, that’s who you really are. If you had been given all that from
the start, you’d be viewed as a very different person.”
But in a justice system often focused on surface-level solutions, many never get the chance to
discover that version of themselves, instead caught in the cycle of reincarceration.
“If that underlying issue isn’t being treated, then you’re gonna see a repetition,” said Sydney
Calas, a staff attorney at the Center for Death Penalty Litigation.
At Benevolence, the work goes beyond addressing those gaps. It’s about creating empathy within
a system built to punish. It’s about seeing people as more than their worst mistakes.
That vision, however, wasn’t always embraced by the surrounding community.
At its founding, the citizens of rural Alamance County felt blindsided by Benevolence’s arrival,
uneasy about its mission to welcome individuals of all conviction types. For many in the
community, the idea of a reentry program in their backyard sparked fear rather than support.
At Benevolence, however, that inclusivity was central to their work, grounded in the belief that
everyone deserves a second chance. For Founder Tanya Jisa, those concerns only reinforced the
need for Benevolence.
“That’s exactly why we’re doing this,” Jisa said, “to provide opportunities for these women to be
successful rather than to continue down that path of criminal behavior.”
While attitudes have shifted, the work is far from over.
Looking ahead, Powers hopes to continue that work through narrative change, encouraging
others to question the assumptions that sustain cycles of incarceration and addiction. Rather than
accepting the system for its mistakes, Powers challenges people to look deeper, at the beliefs
behind the system and the individuals caught inside.
“The point isn’t just about tearing something down,” Powers said. “It’s about building what we
wish was in its place.”
And at Benevolence, that movement is most powerful when led by those with lived experiences.
Now serving as Benevolence’s reentry wellness director, Gustavsen carries that mission forward,
drawing on her own experiences to guide others as they begin their transition out of
incarceration.
“I’m not interested really in where they’ve been, or what they’ve done,” Gustavsen said, “more in
where they’re going and where they want to be.”
For Gustavsen, recovery isn’t a finish line but a daily commitment. It remains the most difficult
part of her life after incarceration but helping others find their footing has become part of how
she sustains her own.
“It does remind me, like, why I’m doing this,” Gustavsen said. “I need to not be using so that I
can be the best mother, wife and person that I can be.”
When Gustavsen first arrived at Benevolence, she was at her lowest point. But the program gave
her the opportunity to rebuild, to breathe, in a way many women never receive.
Now, she finds herself on the other side of reentry, holding the celebratory banner and serving
the home-cooked meal as she welcomes new residents home from prison.
