Mother’s Day has never felt one-dimensional to me. It is a celebration, and I hold that part of it very close. I am deeply grateful to be a mother to my two children, who occasionally make their way into the studio and onto our Instagram feed. But there is another side to Mother’s Day that isn’t spoken about as openly, and once you’ve experienced it, you can’t unsee it.
Motherhood exists across a spectrum that holds joy and grief at the same time, connection and longing, creation and loss. And I have lived in both.
In 2018, between my two children, I lost a baby girl at 18 weeks gestation. It was sudden and completely unexplained. One day there was a heartbeat, and the next there wasn’t. I was showing, we had chosen her name, and I already felt connected to her in a way that was deeply physical and real. Even after extensive testing, there were no answers, just absence, and that pain was truly unbearable.
That kind of loss doesn’t resolve neatly. It leaves you carrying something you can’t quite place, an underlying anxiety that stays in your body.
When I became pregnant again with our son Jack in 2019, I felt immense gratitude alongside a level of fear I hadn’t known before. That pregnancy was flagged high-risk and became increasingly complicated, leading to more than 12 weeks on bed rest at UCHealth Anschutz Medical Campus, far away from my two-year-old, Sky, at the time. There were moments that were life-threatening, moments where entire teams rushed into the room at once, and no clear sense of what the outcome would be.
Through all of it, my mom was there. She stayed with me every night, sat in every conversation, and held a steadiness I relied on completely. That time deepened our relationship in a way that is hard to put into words and shaped how I understand motherhood, both as a daughter and as a mother myself.
It also shifted something in me professionally. At the time, I was working as an accounting executive, which provided stability for my family, but after everything we had been through, I felt a clear pull to do something more aligned, creative and personal with my time and energy. LOVE SARO was never intended to become what it is today, but in many ways, it was born from that shift.
Over the past six years, I have had the privilege of working closely with women navigating their own experiences with motherhood. Some are celebrating, some are grieving, some are trying to conceive, and others are processing complicated relationships with their mothers. These conversations happen quietly, but they happen often.
In those moments, what we create together becomes more than jewelry. It becomes a way to hold meaning, to anchor something intangible, to feel supported in experiences that can otherwise feel isolating.
What has been especially meaningful to witness is how many women come into the studio carrying questions about their bodies that don’t have clear answers. Fertility journeys, hormone imbalances, cycles that feel out of sync, the emotional weight of trying and waiting. These are deeply personal experiences that are not always given space to be spoken about openly.
What we offer is not a solution in the traditional sense, but a different kind of support. We often work with stones like moonstone, long associated with feminine energy and the rhythm of the body, and create pieces meant to be worn daily, almost as a physical extension of an intention someone is holding.
I am always mindful to say that I am not a doctor, and this is not medical guidance. But I have seen, repeatedly, that when someone feels more connected to their body and more supported in their experience, something begins to shift. Whether that shift is emotional, energetic, or something we don’t fully understand, it is very real to the person experiencing it.
We have worked with clients going through IVF, clients navigating hormone challenges, clients who felt disconnected from their bodies, and in some cases, they have come back to share that something changed for them after creating and wearing their piece. I don’t view that as a formula or a guarantee, but I do believe there is meaning in intention, in the materials themselves, and in allowing yourself to feel supported in a process that can otherwise feel very alone.
Mother’s Day, because of all of this, carries more weight than a single narrative can hold.
It includes the joy of being a mother, the grief of losing a child, the longing to become one, and the complexity of the relationships that shape us. My own mom experienced a challenging relationship with her mother, and witnessing her move through that and ultimately heal so much of it gave me a deeper sensitivity to the fact that not every story fits into a simple, celebratory frame.
When we only show one version of Mother’s Day, we unintentionally leave people feeling alone in the parts of their experience that don’t match it.
After my miscarriage, so many women quietly shared their own stories with me. Nurses, friends, acquaintances, each one carrying something similar, and yet so few felt comfortable speaking about it openly. It made me realize how much is held beneath the surface, and how important it is to gently make space for those conversations.
Not to dwell in the pain, but to acknowledge it, and to remind each other that we are not alone in it.
Motherhood is not one story. It is many, layered and often contradictory, and this time of year invites all of it to the surface.
For me, Mother’s Day now holds the joy of my children, the memory of the one I lost, the strength of my mother, and the stories of the women who have trusted us with their own.
All of it exists together, and all of it deserves to be seen. If you are dealing with navigating the loss of a loved one, please do not hesitate to reach out to me. I am doing the work and have resources to help you navigate and feel less alone.
