Sprouting Goodness
Over the years, Sprout has donated custom necklaces to dozens of school fundraisers. It’s always the same faces—loyal moms, repeat customers, asking if I could help again. And the answer is always yes. A gift card, a little joy, a chance to share the story of Sprout. We’ve also donated annually to the Make-A-Wish Foundation’s silent auction. Some stories—like a child’s last drawing or a soldier’s signature—move us so deeply that we cover the cost entirely. Because this isn’t just business. It’s a love letter to the moments that define us.
Don't hesitate to reach out to us if you know someone in need, you just never know, there might be a Sprout's box waiting for them to encourage and bring a little hope to their lives.
Love, Zach
Every year on Memorial Day, I revisit a memory that has etched itself into the heart of Sprout. One of our earliest custom necklaces was made with the signature from a soldier’s final letter home. His cousin sent us the words, “Love, Zach”—a simple but eternal sign-off from a life of courage. We turned it into a piece that now lives close to the heart, not just as jewelry but as a legacy. Every year, we honor Zach. Every year, his story reminds us why we do this.
Mountains
There was a young woman who chose a phrase her father once wrote to her: "You will move mountains." She had just started nursing school—exhausted, anxious, determined. Her necklace carried his handwriting, steady and strong, a quiet encouragement with every shift, every exam, every long night. It wasn't just jewelry. It was belief, cast in silver. A mountain she wore until she moved her own.
Love, Scribbled
Sometimes love is messy. A young woman once came to us with a letter from her father—his writing barely legible. He had worked for hours to form those letters, even as his body failed him. That scribble? It was everything. We preserved his hard-won “love” in a necklace. It’s imperfect. It’s beautiful. It’s her favorite.
Connor’s Cross
A simple crayon drawing of a cross. No backstory. No caption. Just a mother who asked if we could turn it into something she could wear. Later, I learned it was the last thing her son, Connor, drew before he passed from cancer. That cross now rests close to her heart—etched in silver, born in love, carried forever.
Tiny Footprints
Two perfect footprints. So small they barely filled the space on our screen. Twin boys, born silent. One ink print saved from the hospital, gifted by the nurses. We preserved it in metal—a weightless memory for parents who carry so much. It’s not about what could have been. It’s about what was: love, real and eternal.