The Story Behind the Name
My baby brother, Christopher, was always too small to catch the fireflies himself, though he tried with all the determination his tiny body could hold. I remember the little furrow in his brow when one slipped away — but even more, I remember the pure, bubbling joy in his voice each time I came running back to add another soft glow to our growing collection. The thrill was in the chase, but the joy was shared — in Grandpa’s proud cheer and in my brother’s bright excitement.
He knew that later, even though I did the catching, we would sit together side‑by‑side. After watching those tiny lights shimmer in the jar for a brief, magical moment, we’d lift the lid and let them rise, free, into the night.
In the end, it wasn’t the pursuit I loved most — it was the gentle, deliberate act of releasing. Those evenings taught me early that peace doesn’t come from holding tight, but from letting the light find its way back into the world.
The Unwavering Light
These moments — the firefly glow, my grandparents’ unconditional love, and my brother’s shared delight — have become some of my most treasured memories. All three of them have since gone on to become my guardian angels, but their presence still feels close, like a soft light I can always find my way back to.
These days, my heart is fueled by the beauty of those early years.
It feels deeply right to honor the ones I’ve lost by continuing forward with the same persistent, joyful spirit I once used to chase fireflies — trusting that every small flicker of hope is worth following
The Sudden Shift
In September 2020, years of pushing through pain finally caught up with me. After several failed treatments for my worsening right knee, an MRI revealed extensive damage — the kind that leaves no room for denial. By October 20th, I was in surgery for a total knee replacement. Recovery was brutal, and just six weeks later, my surgeon delivered the blow I wasn’t prepared for: my long‑time career as a restaurant general manager — the demanding, physical work that had supported my family for years — was no longer possible.
Those who truly know me will tell you I’m notoriously stubborn. It’s a flaw, sure, but it’s also the spark that kept me believing I could somehow return to the long hours of standing, squatting, and running across those mind‑, body‑, and soul‑crushing restaurant floors. I held onto that hope with everything I had. Quitting has never come naturally to me — and, truthfully, it still doesn’t.
A New Basket of Dreams
I was taught early on not to put all my eggs in one basket. So while I focused on healing, I found myself drawn to a small hobby that offered both creativity and rest: candle making. It gave me something to pour myself into while my knee recovered, a quiet outlet that didn’t demand more than my body could give. Slowly, the idea of starting Chaizing Fireflies Candle Company began to flicker to life — a gentle spark of possibility — even though my heart was still clinging to the career I thought I’d return to.
The Flame of Resilience
I knew I had to pull myself out of that darkness. I needed something that wouldn’t punish my body, yet would keep my mind engaged and my spirit awake. And slowly, my little hobby basket — holding those few scattered eggs of possibility — came back into focus, offering me a gentler way forward.
I settled on a new starting line: a ritual of recovery. If I couldn’t stand on hard floors, then I would create something that invited sitting, breathing, and healing.
What began as a small act of self‑preservation slowly became a practice of rebuilding — gentle, intentional, and entirely my own.
The Hands That Heal: A Maker’s Challenge
Just as the warm glow of candle making began to lift my spirit, my body delivered a new blow. In March 2022, I underwent my first hand surgery. For a maker, hands are everything — they pour the wax, wick the jars, label the bottles, and pack the orders. The pain in mine threatened to take away this new dream just as it was taking root. I found myself in an impossible place: I needed to keep working, but every pain cream I tried was too harsh, too greasy, or burned too much to use while handling delicate products.
So I did what I’ve always done when the world fails to offer what I need — I went to the kitchen. I began infusing peppers into oil, searching for a way to bring relief without the heat. That small experiment didn’t just save my hands; it changed our future.
Becoming a Sanctuary for Comfort
What began as Chaizing Fireflies Candle Company quietly evolved into something much greater. As I filled my basket with balms and oils to soothe my own hands, I realized we were no longer just lighting up rooms — we were helping to light up lives. Dropping Candle Company from our name wasn’t a rebrand; it was an acknowledgment that our mission had grown. We were no longer simply a candle shop. We had become a sanctuary for comfort.
