Project Rose

I babysit from home.

Nothing fancy—just my living room, a soft rug, a basket of toys, and the quiet hum of a house that has seen a lot of life. Mothers come in and out during the week, dropping off their babies for a few hours so they can work, run errands, or simply breathe.

It’s a small group, just a handful of little ones who nap and play and fill the space with that warm, innocent energy only babies carry. I love it. I love the rhythm of it, the softness, the way babies remind you that life can still be slow and gentle.

Last week, a mother came in with her baby on her hip. She handed her to me the way mothers do when they’re in a rush—not with words, but with the slight relaxation in their shoulders. The baby curled into my arms immediately, settling in like she’d known me all her life.

Later that day, she picked her up, and we started talking, the way mothers talk when they’re tired and trying to hold everything together. About sleep schedules. About bottles. About how babies always seem to know when you’re about to sit down and rest.

And then, without meaning to, she said something small—a detail, a pause, a shift in her voice. Nothing dramatic. Nothing explicit. Just enough for me to recognize a familiar undertone.

I’ve heard that tone before.

I’ve lived that tone before.

And suddenly it hit me with a kind of quiet force:

Everyone knows someone who has lived through domestic violence.

Everyone.

Sometimes it’s a sister.

Sometimes it’s a friend.

Sometimes it’s the woman who drops off her baby in your living room and keeps talking because talking feels safer than silence.

And sometimes it’s you.

I didn’t ask questions.

I didn’t push.

I just listened—because sometimes listening is the first safe thing a survivor experiences.

As she spoke, I felt something rise inside me. Something steady. Something clear. Something I’ve been circling for months without naming.

A project.

A mission.

I just wanted to give her a rose. A purple one—one that represents domestic violence, and no one around us would figure it out. Something small, symbolic, gentle. A reminder that she wasn’t alone, even if she never said another word about it.

A place for women to land softly.

Project Rose.

The idea came quietly, the way roses bloom—one petal at a time. A space for survivors to feel seen without being exposed. A space for women rebuilding safety to find gentle tools, calm words, and reminders that their strength never disappeared. It just went underground for a while. (Read more: A Purple Rose – The Rose Miller Story)

Project Rose isn’t about telling anyone what to do.

It isn’t about giving instructions or advice.

It’s about offering steadiness, clarity, and dignity.

It’s for neighbors, or friends, or the mothers who bring their babies to my little group and carry stories they don’t always speak aloud.

It’s for the women who survived more than they ever share.

It’s for the ones still trying to understand what happened to them.

Or to those they love.

It’s for the ones healing quietly, slowly, privately.

It’s for all of us.

That morning, holding her baby in my living room, I realized something simple and enormous:

Domestic violence isn’t a rare story.

It’s a common one.

But not everyone is brave enough to share.

And if I can’t erase it, I can at least soften the world for the women who walk through it.

Project Rose is my way of doing that—one gentle page, one quiet reminder, one survivor at a time.