Hi! I’m Erica.

Mother to five babies I never got to raise.

Tea drinker. Grief dancer. Beauty seeker.

And maybe the woman you’ve been searching for.

let me guess...

You’re carrying more than most people can see.

Functioning, kind of. Smiling, sometimes. But inside?

You feel like your world cracked open and no one’s really asking how deep it runs.

If that’s true for you, I want to start by saying:

You’re not broken.

You’re grieving.

And I see you.

Before my path to motherhood began, life sparkled.

I was a carefree wild thing—funny, bubbly, a little rebellious. A world traveler with a passport full of stamps and a heart for the people living on the fringes.

Art shows, music shows, dancing until sunrise

Married to the love of my life. Laughing daily. Great sex. Great friends. Corporate job that paid well, even if I knew deep down it wasn’t “it.” With acting on the side—my childhood dream.

We bought our first home and started trying to grow our family.

And then came the ache...

Baby loss cracked me open in ways I didn’t know a soul could survive.

I’ve lost five babies—

Bloom

Heartbeat

Surprise

Bear

and Alex.

Each one a soul I loved. Each one a dream I carried.

The first loss broke me open. I remember the morning after our 10-week ultrasound, sitting on the couch, still carrying my baby’s body, and letting out a scream so guttural I didn’t recognize it as mine. A Lioness cry. Raw. Primal. Devastating.

I tried everything: Talk therapy. Holistic healing. IVF. Fertility clinics. Herbal medicine. Acupuncture. Baby aspirin. Ancestral healing. Womb healing. Anti-inflammatory diets. No alcohol for years. Relaxing with margaritas on vacation. Meditation. Journaling. Affirmations. Gratitude. More supplements. Prayers upon prayers upon prayers.

I did everything right.

And still, the losses kept coming.

When delivering the news of another loss my OB said, “This is the worst part of my job.” Ahem… this is the worst part of my life buddy.

A friend said, “It was hard for me too. We tried for three months.”

Well-meaning people trying to comfort me but only made me feel more alone.

I lost more than babies.

I lost myself.

Meanwhile, I pushed through. I got promoted. I kept working. Didn’t take a proper leave. Didn’t let myself slow down. Tried to audition, tried to “get back to normal,” tried to fake fine.

But nothing was normal.

It’s not just the babies we lose.

It’s the dreams, the identity, the trust in our bodies.

It’s relationships that shift, confidence that disappears, routines that vanish.

It’s a dismantling of self. A dismantling of reality.

It’s the slow, sacred process of rebirth.

And this is continual... This alchemy, this rebuilding, the rebirthing is something I live with alongside grief.

Eventually, something began to shift. Slowly. Quietly.

I found women who got it.

They didn’t try to fix me or change the subject when I cried or expressed anger.

They locked eyes and said, “Tell me more.”

And they held me.

One of them had walked the path of baby loss and IVF. She came to peace with being childlfree, not by choice. Seeing her—whole, joyful, fulfilled—changed everything for me. I needed that mirror more than I knew.

These women were sacred mirrors.

They helped me see my own wholeness.

But the biggest shift came when I became my own witness.

I stopped looking outside for permission to grieve.

I stopped waiting to be seen.

I mothered myself.

And slowly, I returned to me.

Somewhere between the heartbreak and the healing,

I found her.

That woman I kept asking about in my darkest moments:

“Where are the women who’ve walked this path and still feel fulfilled? Did they ever truly live again?”

And then one day, in the shower (as all sacred epiphanies happen), I laughed through my tears and said out loud:

“I’m the woman I’ve been searching for.”

I am her. I am whole. I am enough.

Prize baby or not.

Today, I am a mother. Childfree, not by choice.

And I am still standing.

Five baby losses. One failed egg retrieval.

And somehow—miraculously—I’m here.

I move with grief now.

I expand alongside the triggers.

I know how to reach for support.

I know how to mother myself.

I still cry at surprise ultrasound scenes on TV.

I still have tender days when the grief sits heavier.

But I no longer set up a tent inside the pain.

I know how to come home to myself now.

And now, I’m here for you.

For the woman wondering if she’ll ever feel whole again.

For the one who feels forgotten in her grief.

For the one holding invisible babies and very visible pain.

For the one reinventing herself after years of trying

I’m not here to fix you.

I’m here to witness you.

To sit beside you.

To remind you of your own strength and softness.

This is a space to be seen.
A place to remember your wholeness.
A place to begin again.