In 2020, I was pregnant with twins. At my anatomy scan, I found out I had lost the first one. My baby girl. I went home still carrying the second. Grief and hope living in the same body, not knowing what to do with either.
Then at 23 weeks, I went into preterm labour. And I lost the second one too. My baby boy. One at a time.
The grief that followed was unlike anything I had ever known. It consumed me in ways I didn't have words for. I cried alone on sleepless nights, not knowing how to process what I was carrying. It was the hardest emotion I have ever had to face. Not just the loss. But the silence around it. The world moving on while I was still standing in the wreckage of something no one around me could fully understand.
In the months that followed, I searched for somewhere to put the words I couldn't say to anyone else. The ones that felt too heavy, too complicated, too grief-stricken to speak aloud. A space that wouldn't rush me, or tell me it was early, or suggest I try again as if they were replaceable.
I couldn't find it.
What I found instead were apps that weren't built for this. Forums that felt cold. Well-meaning people who said the wrong things. Silence where there should have been presence.
After almost two years of trying, I got pregnant again in 2022. And then I had another miscarriage. This one was long and traumatic, and it took a serious toll on my body. I was grieving again, differently this time, but just as deeply.
What I kept coming back to was the space in between. The space between the crisis moments and the okay ones. The 2am thoughts. The anniversaries no one else remembers. The days when you are functioning but still carrying something enormous and invisible. That space had nothing built for it.
Grief is not a problem to be solved. It is love with nowhere left to go. And I needed somewhere to put that love. Gently, privately, without judgment, without a timeline.
Sometimes you don't need to be fixed. You just need somewhere to put it.
Solace won't bring them back. Nothing will. But I want to be honest with you about what it is and what it isn't. Solace is not a therapist. It is not a replacement for the people who love you, for professional support, or for human connection. Those things matter deeply and nothing can substitute them. Solace is a space. A private, unhurried space to say the things that are too heavy for a conversation. To journal the thoughts you can't yet speak. To process at 2am when you can't call anyone. To grieve without performing it for someone else.
That is what Solace is for. The in-between moments. The ones that don't fit into a therapy session or a support group. The ones that live in the quiet.
So I built it.
I built Solace from my phone, with no technical background, while raising my children and working full time. I built it because I knew I wasn't the only one searching for this. I built it because the space I needed didn't exist. So I made it exist.
Solace is for anyone who has lost someone. A baby. A partner. A parent. A friend. A pet. It doesn't matter how long ago, or how the world measured the loss. If you are carrying grief, you belong here.
You don't have to carry it alone.