When people see the endless stream of costumes Hannah Hargrove and her mother make for her little boy, Sawyer, they usually ask the same thing. Why? Why spend so much time turning a toddler into a sushi roll, a weather reporter, or a bowl of spaghetti? Most people assume it’s just for fun, but the truth runs deeper. For Hannah, each costume was a small act of healing, a way to stitch together the pieces of a heart that had once shattered.
Hannah grew up in Texas with a close-knit family. Her mother stayed home to raise her, and her father ran an old home salvage yard, the oldest one in the state. Life was full and comfortable, surrounded by love, laughter, and hard work. Yet, even with such warmth around her, Hannah often wrestled quietly with depression from a young age. She didn’t feel like she quite fit in at school. Her learning challenges made her different; sometimes, that difference felt like isolation.
Still, she pressed forward. She finished high school, went to college, fell in love, and returned home to join her father in the family business. She imagined a simple, happy future, working beside her dad, building a life with her fiancé, maybe raising kids one day near her childhood home. But life has a cruel way of ignoring plans. Six weeks before her wedding, Hannah’s father was murdered. The day that should have been filled with cake tastings and dance rehearsals turned into grief and disbelief. Instead of planning a celebration, her family planned a funeral. Her father’s absence hollowed out the joy she had once felt. He had been more than a parent; he was one of the few who truly understood her. Losing him meant losing part of herself.
In the months that followed, she tried to hold everything together. The business had debts, the house needed attention, and there was still a wedding to get through. She and her mother worked side by side to save what her father had built. Though the world kept spinning, Hannah felt stuck in grief’s thick fog. Even after her wedding, the bills were paid, and life looked “normal,” she still felt broken. When she finally became pregnant, she hoped motherhood might fill the hole that loss had left behind. It took over a year of trying, and every negative test deepened her sadness. When she finally saw the faint pink lines, hope returned, but pregnancy wasn’t easy. The morning sickness lingered all day, the exhaustion never let up, yet she clung to the belief that her baby would bring back joy.
Sawyer’s birth was everything she dreamed of, and yet, when she held him in her arms, the sadness didn’t disappear. It just changed shape. She adored her son, but grief is stubborn. Sometimes, while rocking him to sleep, she would cry because her father wasn’t there to hold his grandson, to sing to him like he had sung to her and her siblings. The thought that her son would never know the warmth of his grandfather’s embrace haunted her. Then one night, Hannah dreamed of her father. She saw him smiling at her little boy, dressed as a penguin in that strange, dreamlike space where nothing makes sense but everything feels real. He told her to live in the present and find joy again. She felt something stir when she woke, a tiny spark of purpose.
The next morning, she told her mother she wanted to make Halloween costumes every day for Sawyer. Her mother, creative and supportive as ever, jumped right in. Together, they spent hours cutting fabric, gluing felt, and laughing around the same kitchen table where they had once shared family dinners. Each costume became more than just an outfit; it was therapy. It was a connection. It was a way for Hannah to honor her father’s memory by finding joy in creating. By the end of that first October, their dining area was cluttered with fabric and thread, but Hannah’s heart felt lighter. The pain didn’t vanish completely, but she could finally breathe without the weight of sorrow crushing her chest. When people began smiling at their creations online, it added another layer of meaning. She wasn’t just healing herself anymore; she was spreading happiness.
Years later, Hannah still makes costumes with her mom, as long as Sawyer enjoys them. Some days, the grief still creeps in, quiet and heavy, but she meets it with scissors, fabric, and laughter. What began as a way to survive has become a family tradition that celebrates life, love, and creativity. Her father’s death changed her forever, but through motherhood and imagination, she learned something profound: that healing isn’t about forgetting the pain. It’s about creating joy where the hurt once lived.
