The Etsy Shop That Started With a Breakup

When Daniel walked out of our apartment, he left with only a suitcase, a half-used bottle of cologne, and my sense of direction. We’d been together for nearly six years, the kind of relationship that had grown roots deep into every corner of my life—shared Spotify playlists, matching towels, joint savings, holiday traditions, even a name reserved for our future dog.

But just like that, it was over. His voice, once soft with affection, turned mechanical and final. "I just don’t love you like I used to." There was no cheating. No yelling. Just quiet detachment and a door clicking shut behind him.

For the next two weeks, I didn’t leave the apartment. I didn’t answer calls, eat properly, or even shower unless I absolutely had to. I binge-watched comfort shows that made me cry harder, scrolled through old photos I should’ve deleted, and stared blankly at the ceiling wondering how someone could outgrow you like a pair of shoes.

Then one morning, I woke up at 4:37 a.m., heart pounding with a restlessness that wasn’t sadness—it was hunger. Not for food, but for purpose. I needed to make something. Something that wouldn’t leave. Something that might help me reclaim even the smallest sense of control.

That’s how the shop began—with heartbreak, insomnia, and my grandma’s old embroidery kit.

I hadn’t embroidered anything in years. My grandmother taught me the basics when I was ten, and it had always felt like a form of silent therapy—thread, fabric, focus. But now, it became a form of survival.

I started stitching phrases I needed to hear. “You are not unlovable.” “Grow through what you go through.” “Even the moon goes through phases.” Each phrase became a small rebellion against the narrative Daniel left me with—that I wasn’t enough.

I posted a few finished hoops on Instagram under a private art account I’d made in college. To my surprise, people responded. “Can I buy this?” someone DM’d. Another asked, “Do you take custom orders?”

Something cracked open. A thought: What if I sold these? Not just to keep busy—but to build something. To turn this pain into profit. To give the sadness a job.

Setting up an Etsy shop was easy. Naming it was hard. I didn’t want anything too cheesy or too obviously about heartbreak, but I also didn’t want to hide the origin story. I finally settled on “Threadlight”—a play on “guiding light” and the literal thread I used to sew hope into every design.

My first listings were raw and emotional. I took photos of hoops laid on my comforter, surrounded by candles and tea mugs. I didn’t try to fake perfection—I wrote honest descriptions:

“Hand-stitched when I couldn’t sleep. Made with a little sadness and a lot of healing.”

To my astonishment, they sold. Slowly at first. One order a week. Then two. Then someone posted about it on TikTok. That week, I got 47 orders.

My tiny studio apartment transformed into an embroidery cave. The kitchen table became my workstation. I packed orders while crying to breakup playlists. My cat, Willow, sat next to me like a silent supervisor. And every order felt like a step forward—proof that the end of one thing had given birth to something else.

There are a few things people don’t tell you about running a side hustle turned full-time business:

You’ll constantly feel like a fraud. Even as I hit 1,000 sales, I was sure someone would email saying my work wasn’t good enough. That they'd discovered I was just a heartbroken girl with a needle and no formal business training.

You will burn out—if you don’t pace yourself. At one point, I stayed up 36 hours straight to meet a Valentine’s Day order deadline. My fingers cramped, and my eyes blurred. It took that breakdown to finally say no to rush orders.

Packaging matters more than you think. I started adding handwritten thank-you notes, dried lavender, and tiny “breakup survival” stickers. It wasn't just a product—it was an experience. And customers kept coming back.

But the most important lesson?

Grief, when given form, can become art. And art, when shared, becomes connection.

It wasn’t long before the Etsy reviews turned into direct messages and long emails. One from a woman in Oregon read:

“Your hoop that says ‘It’s okay to start over’ is hanging above my bed. I just left an abusive marriage. Every time I see it, I feel a little stronger.”

Another from a college student:

“My roommate bought me one of your designs after I got dumped. It says ‘You’re allowed to miss him and still move on.’ I cry every time I look at it, but in a good way. Thank you.”

I never anticipated that what I started in sadness would resonate with thousands of people. Breakups, job loss, deaths, identity shifts—we’re all grieving something. And somehow, my needle and thread were stitching a collective wound.

By the end of the first year, Threadlight had crossed 5,000 sales. Etsy featured it in their “Small Shops to Watch” collection. I started a monthly newsletter where I shared heartbreak recovery stories and behind-the-scenes business updates. I even got interviewed for a podcast on emotional entrepreneurship.

But here's what truly shocked me: I made over $60,000 in that first year.

No one was more surprised than I was. I had gone from rock bottom to a sustainable income—all because I turned my pain into a product.

But it was never just about the money.

It was about building something that was mine. Something that couldn't leave me in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. Something that didn't promise forever and walk away.

I still think about Daniel sometimes. Not with longing, but with... curiosity. Does he know about the shop? Has he stumbled across one of my hoops online?

It doesn’t matter.

Because the love I thought I lost, I found somewhere else—in myself. In the customers who wrote to me. In the community that rose around a humble embroidery hoop. In the late nights spent crafting instead of crying.

I no longer crave closure from the relationship. Because this shop? This life I built post-breakup?

It is the closure.

A Message to the Broken-Hearted

If you're reading this with a lump in your throat or a familiar ache in your chest, I want to say something I wish someone had told me that morning at 4:37 a.m.:

You are allowed to begin again.

The end of your relationship is not the end of you. Maybe it’s the beginning of a poem. A business. A movement. Or maybe it’s just the start of finally seeing yourself clearly.

Start small. Stitch your sadness. Paint your panic. Bake your bitterness into something sweet.

Turn your heartbreak into a home—one that pays the bills and warms the world.

And who knows? Someday, someone might look at what you built and say,

“Wow. That’s beautiful. Who made it?”

And you’ll smile and say,

“Me. I did.”