Dina Milito has spent over a decade writing to death row inmates, and the friendships she built reshaped her view of justice and humanity.
The California marriage and family therapist, now a longtime volunteer with two prison outreach charities, traces the work to a violent attack she survived at age 19. Walking home from a train station, Milito was assaulted by a stranger who was later caught, tried and imprisoned. The conviction did not quiet her questions about why people commit violence, especially repeat offenders.
Her search for answers led her to writing by incarcerated people and to Minutes Before 6, a charity that publishes work created by prisoners. There she encountered the words of Thomas Whitaker, a Texas death row inmate. She reached out to him, though their early exchanges were fraught.
“I remember thinking, ‘Why should I feel sorry for you when I have my own pain?'” she recalled.
That correspondence gradually became a friendship. Whitaker later connected Milito with another prisoner, Kevin, who had received an execution date. Milito and Kevin began writing daily, and through those letters she came to understand the emotional weight of facing execution: his remorse, his anguish, and how his actions had affected others.
The experience shifted something fundamental in her. When Whitaker asked her to help recruit writers for Minutes Before 6, she agreed. She also joined the Death Row Support Project in 2010 and has maintained relationships through it ever since.
Milito emphasized that much of her correspondence with prisoners has little to do with crime or punishment. The letters cover ordinary ground: family, books, how someone passes the time. She asks about prison life because conditions vary sharply by state. In Texas, she noted, many death row prisoners spend 23 hours daily in their cells. In California and Pennsylvania, inmates have more chances to study, work, eat together and use communal spaces.
Over the years, Minutes Before 6 has collected writing and artwork from hundreds of incarcerated people, many on death row. Milito has developed relationships across the country; some contacts remain acquaintances, while others grew into close friendships spanning more than ten years.
She believes these connections offer what punishment alone cannot.
“Society already has people whose role is to arrest, convict and punish offenders,” she explained, citing a lesson from her mentor at the Death Row Support Project.
Milito sees her own role differently: helping prisoners reconnect with their humanity. She noted that many people she has corresponded with experienced victimization, neglect or hardship before their offenses. Understanding those backgrounds does not excuse their actions, she said, but it can provide context for their lives.
That distinction matters to her when thinking about rehabilitation. She also considers the work part of her own healing, a response to the attack that first drove her questions about violence.
One of the most rewarding aspects, Milito said, is bringing together people from different sides of the criminal justice system to create something meaningful through writing, artwork or personal correspondence.
She encourages interested people to try the Death Row Support Project, a free volunteer-run service that matches members of the public with death row inmates. The project holds regular information sessions on how matching works, what volunteers can expect, and what writing to an incarcerated person involves.
For Milito, the perspective gained through letters could not come from simply reading about the system.
“What I give to this work, I feel like I get far more in return,” she said.
The Death Row Support Project continues to hold information sessions for prospective pen pals.