The Motherhood Journal 

A reflective moment with a warm drink, surrounded by love and memories. Thanksgiving is here, and I’ve been sitting with this truth: Grief and gratitude can exist together. Not the shiny, performative version. Not “everything happens for a reason.” And definitely not “at least…” Just a quieter kind. The kind that makes room for what’s hard, and still lets one small good thing be real. This year, it’s looked like a few very small things: A warm cup in my hands. A message that

I carry you with love. I carry you with love. Butterfly Run week is close to my heart. Every year, our family walks in memory of our son, Oliver. And I wish I could wrap grief in a sentence that makes sense of it—but it doesn’t work like that. Grief doesn’t line up neatly. It doesn’t stay where you put it. Some weeks it’s a quiet ache. And some weeks it’s consuming—like it fills the whole room, like it lives in your throat, like you can’t find the right words because there ar

Some pieces begin as an idea. This one began as a need. A need for something small enough to carry through an ordinary day, but meaningful enough to meet the moments that feel anything but ordinary. A tiny anchor for the messy middle. The story behind this collection Oleabloom & Co grew from tender places — grief, motherhood, identity shifts, overwhelm, and all the quiet in-between moments that don’t always have language yet. For me, making has often been a way back to steadi

I didn’t start Oleabloom & Co. because I had a product idea. I started because I needed a gentle sanctuary—a soft place to land—when life gave me something I couldn’t hold onto. After saying goodbye to our son shortly after birth, grief rearranged everything: time, body, identity. I longed for something tangible—something I could return to when words felt thin: a small object that could keep love close, make room for feelings I couldn’t name yet, and not rush me forward. So I

You don’t have to know what to say to be here. If motherhood feels tender right now—grief, anxiety, burnout, identity shifts, or a quiet heaviness you can’t quite name—I’m really glad you found your way in. I’m Jessica—an artist and bereaved mom offering gentle companionship, language, and small, optional practices (not clinical care). Take what supports you. Leave what doesn’t. If you’d like the story behind Oleabloom—why it exists, and what it’s trying to hold—start here: W