My story began during a week of impossible extremes: My mother-in-law had unexpectedly passed away and the very next day, I found out I was pregnant. Those first few weeks were a whirlwind of grief tangled with fragile hope. And then the morning of her memorial, I saw the red dot. That moment every woman who’s been through loss knows far too well.

I left the family to go to the doctor, guilt-ridden and hollow. No one even knew I was pregnant. No time you see…I was barely holding it together. But what I didn’t expect was the words I would hear next: “You’re having twins… and then the silence.” No heartbeat. Some blurred conversation. In a matter of seconds, the future I had imagined, planned and hoped. Just disappeared like that. 

I remember driving home in silence, dumbstruck, not knowing how to tell my husband, on the same day as saying goodbye to his mother. I quietly pulled him aside, ripped the Band-Aid… that was it. The house was full. The energy was elsewhere. And suddenly, I felt like my pain had no space.

That week, we never got the chance to talk about it again. The weekend before my D&C surgery, we travelled with his family to spread his mom’s ashes. I was surrounded by grief but none of it was for my babies. I could cry. But I couldn't talk. Couldn’t scream out the pain on the inside. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life.

Until I was lying in the pre-op room…walls covered in soft clouds, cartoon bears and balloons. A nurse walked over, and I completely B.R.O.K.E. I just poured out the pain. A guttural release. Because someone had died. My babies had died. And I had had no place up until that moment to grieve them.

That moment has never left me. Fast forward through fertility treatments, 7 more miscarriages, including a phantom pregnancy, an ectopic/salpingectomy, a uterine rupture, placental abruption, gestational diabetes, a few surgeries, some near-death complications and the rest of my long road to motherhood, I realized something powerful: There are so many of us carrying invisible grief that we don’t acknowledge or talk about.

We’re expected to “move on.” To be strong without being seen. That’s why I designed and made something to hold space for us. A physical, beautiful reminder of the strength it takes to JUST KEEP GOING. That something is the Embrella Necklace.

This necklace was born out of silence. Out of heartbreak. Out of love.

It’s a celebration of you. Your medal for surviving the unimaginable, immeasurable type of grief that often comes along the road to becoming a parent. Whether you reached the end destination or not. I want us to be able to recognise one another. To unite us. To be friends. 

So from my heart to yours, you’re not alone. Your story matters. You are a survivor. You’re not the same you, you were before. I created this necklace for you. Let’s celebrate. For us. For every woman who has struggled in silence. Let’s connect. love. remember.