- Following 2.4K
- Followers 75.8K
- Engagement 2.15%
- Avg likes 1.8K
- Avg comments 38
About Maddie McGarvey
Maddie McGarvey (@maddiemcgarvey) is a Photographer creator on Instagram, also filed under Photography & Video. The account has 75,781 followers and 2,033 published posts. Recent posts average 1,818 likes and 38 comments, an engagement rate of 2.15%.
With 75.8K followers, Maddie McGarvey is a micro creator by the common 10,000 to 100,000 definition. Set against 2,429 accounts followed, the audience works out to about 31 followers per account Maddie McGarvey follows. Maddie McGarvey carries Instagram's verified badge and is set up as an Instagram business account. Flinque files Maddie McGarvey under Photographer, with Photography & Video as a secondary category.
The Instagram bio for Maddie McGarvey runs to 14 words across 2 lines. The bio mentions @nytimes, @natgeo, @propublica and @washingtonpost. The latest activity Flinque has on record for Maddie McGarvey dates from December 2025.
Story Highlights
Unlocking shows the title and cover image of every story highlight this creator keeps pinned to the profile.
2,033 Posts
All 10 recent posts Flinque holds for Maddie McGarvey are carousels. With 2,033 posts published, Maddie McGarvey's archive runs well past the 2,000 mark. Against the audience, that is roughly 37 followers for each post published. Maddie McGarvey also keeps 20 story highlights on the profile. All 10 carry captions, averaging 263 words each. The captions are written mainly in English. Words that recur across them include through, ohio, family, would and life. The captions tag #motherhood, #mothersday and #mother.
But Heather Hornberger’s arrival at the Indiana Women’s Prison meant she’d have a chance at a different fate: a specialized unit for raising newborns.
At four months pregnant, Heather turned herself in for violating probation on a years-old dr-g possession charge. She was 35 years old, fighting for sobriety and starting her fifth incarceration since she was 18 — each one shaped, in some way, by addiction. She already had three older children, and knew the harm her previous stints on the inside inflicted on them — the ache of missed birthdays, first words and bedtime routines, and the hopelessness the separation conjured in her.
She was determined not to repeat the past. In late 2023, her little girl arrived. Heather named her Innocence.
“With Innocence, I held onto hope,” she said.
met Heather while documenting the nursery program and followed her through her eventual release, and later, Innocence’s second birthday. Her story offers an intimate look at resilience, family, and the challenges of rebuilding life after incarceration.
🔗 Tap the link in our bio to see and learn more.
✍️📷: Maddie McGarvey for The Marshall Project
📱: Ashley Dye / The Marshall Project
#motherhood #mothersday #mother
6:00 PM Social Hour | 7:00 Presentation
Six years ago, Maddie McGarvey spoke to CSCA as a young but quickly emerging documentary photographer.
Her future looked bright, and indeed it was—she’s now an established, award-winning photographer with special interests in rural America, poverty, grief, resiliency, politics, and how policy directly affects those living in this country.
A product of the photojournalism program, Maddie captures her subjects in vivid, evocative detail. She’s often most interested in what’s happening just out of view, in life’s margins, literally and figuratively. More human than partisan.
We are thrilled to welcome Maddie back to our stage. She’s seen and experienced a lot since we last talked, and we can’t wait to hear what she has to say.
Open to all!
🎟️ Tickets:
CSCA Members: No ticket required (free!)
Professional non-members: $20
Student non-members: $5
Ticket and membership links in bio.
Learn about Maddie:
Lee, a woman in her 70s, had never met her before.
Still, the two embraced.
After cooing over the newborn, Lee led the mother through her home, down the hallway and into the bedroom where they would stay — a quiet refuge from a feared immigration sweep.
That night, many Haitian families across Springfield were bracing for a federal court decision that could determine whether they would remain legally protected in the United States. If Temporary Protected Status for Haiti expired, thousands of people in the city could have become deportable overnight.
Fear spread quickly. Some families stocked up on food. Others stopped leaving home altogether.
And across Springfield, a small network of residents quietly began opening their homes.
Lee was one of them.
Spare bedrooms and finished basements were prepared as places where families could stay if immigration raids began.
One organizer kept the names of volunteers handwritten in a small red notebook — no spreadsheets, no digital trail — just neighbors helping neighbors.
The small, secret network that began sheltering Haitian families echoes an earlier chapter in the city’s history. In the 1800s, the city was a stop on the Underground Railroad, where abolitionists sheltered enslaved people seeking freedom.
Organizing by ordinary people to shelter immigrants in private homes represents an emerging, invisible front of resistance.
All told, about two dozen immigrant families found sanctuary through the network.
The mother and her baby slept at Lee’s house for six days before returning home after a federal judge blocked the termination of TPS, at least for now.
But the uncertainty remains.
And the spare bedrooms are still ready.
“Whatever happens,” one organizer said, “we are ready.” For. Story by Miriam Jordan
For more than a century, a paper mill in Chillicothe, Ohio, anchored this town — its 475-foot smokestack visible for miles, its union wages holding families together.
Then, in April, the workers were told it would close.
A parade of politicians arrived, promising a miracle.
The newly elected senator Bernie Moreno told the crowd that he’d just received a phone call from a top executive at the private equity firm promising that the facility would remain open until the end of the year, giving it more time to find a new owner.
The mill’s rescue was not assured, Mr. Moreno and the other politicians cautioned. But it was hard to find anyone in the crowd not buoyed by what Mr. Moreno called “a day of hope.”
For a moment, it felt possible that this mill — and these jobs — might be saved.
But the mill had already been hollowed out by years of private-equity ownership, debt, and disinvestment. No buyer was willing to take it on. And the shutdown went forward anyway.
For Thomas Hamner, 27, the timing couldn’t have been worse. He had just learned his wife was pregnant with their second child. “The only time it hit me,” he said, “is when I realized that if my son wants a juice box or cupcakes, I can buy it for him… I’m not sure I’ll be able to say that with the next one.”
The mill has since been sold — not to another paper company, but to a medical glove manufacturer. The new jobs won’t be union. Wages and benefits remain unclear.
For Jeff Allen, a third-generation papermaker who worked there 37 years, the loss is still raw: “That was my life. I went there when I just turned 19. And here I am, 56. I’m angry at the whole process, and I’m hurt for all those employees.”
For
I met Paige when she was three years old. Over time, I’ve watched her grow up in front of my camera and alongside my own life as a photographer. Childhood turned to adolescence. Tenderness gave way to resolve. As Paige grew, I was growing too—learning how to slow down, listen, and let a story unfold over time.
Working with Paige and her family taught me to think of photography as an act of presence. Meaningful moments often take time to reveal themselves. What might have seemed like a small moment — scrounging together dinner, trying on homecoming dresses, friction with family members over messes and broken vehicles — could all hold greater meaning in the context of a family’s life.
The longer you stay, the more you understand that stories aren’t linear. They unfold with gaps, pauses, and uneven rhythms. Documenting a family for 15 years has been a journey of continuous observation and reflection. Continuity becomes an act of care, a commitment to telling the story over time, without rushing toward conclusions or resolutions.
Paige was just three when we met. We would wander the hills near her home, picking wild daffodils and searching for turtles in shallow ponds. When her feet hurt from walking barefoot on gravel, I’d carry her on my hip. Now she’s eighteen — a year younger than I was when I first started photographing her. I’ve watched her grow up before my eyes, often carrying a weight no teenager should have to bear. I’ve witnessed birthdays, weddings, fights, and reconciliations. I’ve felt grief, frustration, affection, and love. At times, I wrestle with the tension between being a documentarian and becoming a confidant, advocate, or even a quasi-family member. That duality is ethically and emotionally complex. But ultimately, my role is not just to see; it’s to stay. And in staying, to honor the fullness of a life that many might otherwise overlook.
I’m so grateful to for believing in and championing this work, and for carefully sifting through thousands of photographs to create such a beautiful edit. — thank you for your moving and thoughtful words that accompany this story. And mostly, to Paige: thank you for letting me be a witness to your life. I’m forever grateful to have met you.
See the full story at
Vans carrying immigrants arrive at Ohio’s Butler County Jail, about an hour north of Cincinnati, throughout the day and night. They come from across the state, from Illinois, Michigan and even Arizona. Some detainees will spend a few nights here, others weeks, as they wait to be deported.
Immigrant detainees are not new to Butler County. Except for a hiatus during the Biden years, the sheriff has held a contract with Immigration and Customs Enforcement to use space in his jail for nearly two decades. But now they fill nearly half the jail’s 860 beds.
Butler is among the largest of a growing number of county jails and other local facilities that now house a sizable chunk of ICE detainees, many of whom have never been charged with a crime. The agency’s use of these facilities has more than doubled since President Trump took office, and jails held about 10 percent of all detainees, or 7,100 people, on average, each day in July.
With detention numbers at a record high, jails have proven to be a quick and convenient way for ICE to expand its detention capacity beyond existing federal and private facilities. Many sheriffs are eager to assist in Mr. Trump’s mass deportation plans — and to shore up their budgets — by offering up their beds.
Jails are often the first stop on the way to somewhere else in ICE’s vast detention network, and they fill a geographic hole for ICE in the Midwest in particular, where there are few detention centers.
At most jails, ICE can easily spin up a contract through existing partnerships to hold federal inmates with the U.S. Marshals Service, reducing the time it takes to approve a new facility. County jails do not have to provide immigrants the same level of legal and medical services as those offered in dedicated ICE facilities, and the bed space is usually less expensive, too.
In a place that appeals to people from both the right and the left, residents strive for a finely tuned state of political harmony. Many focus on the elements of homestead living that brought them together in the first place, rather than political discussions on topics like vaccination.
During a recent open house, Leslie Aberlin, the development’s owner, described Aberlin Springs as a place where “the far lefts with their pictures with the Bidens” can find common ground with “the far rights with their Trump flags and their guns,” connecting over healthy food and close community. While the demographics of Aberlin Springs reflect those of heavily white Warren County, the neighborhood has attracted a diverse range of family types, including single women and L.G.B.T.Q. couples. Political lawn signs are banned.
But a shared passion for healthy soil and fresh vegetables sometimes fails to bridge the political divide created when some MAHA believers reject scientific consensus and modern conventions of motherhood. Parents wrestle with whether to vaccinate their children, weighing the advice of a neighborhood mom against that of their pediatrician. And even the most family-focused conservative mothers, determined to put their kids first, struggle with what Ms. Lauchlan described as the “wildly challenging” decision to take a step back from a high-powered career.
Ms. Aberlin loves that so many “traditional wives,” as she calls stay-at-home moms, are raising their children in her community. While she brought up her two kids as a single mother, divorcing her ex-husband soon after her second baby was born, she calls herself a “boss woman by accident.” She believes women have been “sold a bag of goods” about the importance of a career, and are usually more fulfilled when they focus on their kids full time.
Even as the GOP and some of their neighbors called for mass deportations, the Vitals were sure nobody meant them, immigrants here legally. So last July, they made a down payment of $8,000, their entire nest egg. In August, they moved in, installed lace curtains and hung a family portrait in the dining room. One month later came the cracks.
Around the same time, Trump falsely claimed that Haitians here were eating pets and pledged “the largest deportation in the history of our country,” starting with Springfield. Bomb threats closed schools. Neo-Nazis marched through town with swastika flags, decrying the immigrants as an “invasion.”
The Vitals huddled in front of the television, watching the spectacle unfold. Many Haitians they knew went into lockdown, trekking out solely for necessities. In WhatsApp groups, some friends wrote that strangers had screamed at them on the street, “Go home!” Others shared plans to leave. Fernande pressed her family to stay inside, and they mostly did, which meant more time staring at the walls. Soon her 17-year-old daughter, Sarah, pointed to her bedroom ceiling. More cracks.
“Everything is breaking,” Fernande said — their house, their sense of security, the life they’d charted over plates of stewed chicken and rice.
But what could be fixed in a world that seemed to be falling apart? It was hard to justify doubling down on an investment in a country that didn’t seem to want them. Even harder to give up on what their piece of America had represented.
“Our legacy,” Fernande declared after signing the closing documents. She imagined growing old on Chestnut Avenue and building some real estate wealth for the kids to inherit, hoping the next generation wouldn’t need to sweat over an assembly line.
They could mend the worst problems, gradually, Rocher believed, and cross their fingers that a structural engineer would uncover no urgent defects. Their legal status faced more scrutiny than ever, though. No renovation could shelter the deported.
Maddie McGarvey's engagement
Maddie McGarvey's engagement rate on Instagram is 2.15%, between 1% and 3%, or 1 to 3 likes and comments per 100 followers. On a typical post that comes to about 1 like or comment for every 47 followers. An average post collects 1,818 likes and 38 comments, close to 48 likes for each comment.
Engagement rate
2.15%
- Avg likes
- 1.8K
- Avg comments
- 38
- Interactions : followers
- 1 : 47
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Frequently asked questions
These answers about Maddie McGarvey are generated from the Instagram profile data Flinque holds for the account.
Who is Maddie McGarvey?
Maddie McGarvey (@maddiemcgarvey) is a Photographer creator on Instagram, also filed under Photography & Video. Maddie McGarvey carries Instagram's verified badge and is set up as an Instagram business account. The Instagram bio for Maddie McGarvey runs to 14 words across 2 lines.
How many followers does Maddie McGarvey have?
Maddie McGarvey has 75,781 followers on Instagram (75.8K). Set against 2,429 accounts followed, the audience works out to about 31 followers per account Maddie McGarvey follows. With 2,033 posts published, Maddie McGarvey's archive runs well past the 2,000 mark.
What is Maddie McGarvey's engagement rate?
Maddie McGarvey's engagement rate on Instagram is 2.15%, between 1% and 3%, or 1 to 3 likes and comments per 100 followers. On a typical post that comes to about 1 like or comment for every 47 followers. An average post collects 1,818 likes and 38 comments, close to 48 likes for each comment.
What does Maddie McGarvey post about on Instagram?
Flinque files Maddie McGarvey under Photographer, with Photography & Video as a secondary category. All 10 recent posts Flinque holds for Maddie McGarvey are carousels. The 10 recent Instagram captions Flinque holds for Maddie McGarvey repeatedly use the words through, ohio, family, would and life. Maddie McGarvey's captions carry hashtags such as #motherhood, #mothersday and #mother. Maddie McGarvey writes those captions mainly in English. Maddie McGarvey keeps 20 story highlights, which open with a free Flinque account.
How do I contact Maddie McGarvey for a collaboration?
Maddie McGarvey's contact details are not published on Flinque's public profile. The Instagram bio links to 3 external sites, and a free Flinque account opens those links. The account is registered as an Instagram business account. Brands with a free Flinque account can shortlist Maddie McGarvey and use Flinque's outreach tools wherever a contact route is on file.
Links
Maddie McGarvey's own Instagram profile is the one outbound link Flinque publishes for the account, and the 3 bio links open after signing up.
Public profile data sourced from Instagram. Flinque is not affiliated with Maddie McGarvey.