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Some urn stories are about long lives, deep connections, and decades of memories. Others are smaller, shorter—but no less meaningful. This is the story of Squid.
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Squid was a budgerigar. Not just any budgie—he was dazzling. His feathers shimmered with turquoise, deep indigos, navy, aqua, and warm greens, all crowned with a golden head and wings that seemed to glow in the sun. A living jewel with a sparkle in his eye.

Some urns are simple. Some are grand. And some… are teapots.
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When Katie’s family contacted me, they had one request: a pink teapot urn. Not just any teapot, but one that captured their daughter’s love for tea, her doodles of funky cats, and her habit of leaving sweet notes for her mum. It had to be something that felt like her—not just a vessel, but a warm embrace of who she was.
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Katie had passed away overseas in her early 20s after a long battle with severe anorexia. A cruel disease, anorexia robs its victims of so much, but it could never take away the love her family had for her. And if there was one thing they remembered most, it was how much she loved sharing a cup of tea with them. So, a teapot it would be.

​When I first created the Unicorn Urn, I envisioned it as a delicate and magical resting place for the ashes of little girls who had adored unicorns. The first designs, which I called Fairy Unicorns, had soft pink and purple manes and tails, their golden horns adding a touch of ethereal elegance. Later, I introduced Mermaid Unicorns, with oceanic hues of blue and green flowing through their manes and tails, capturing a different kind of whimsy.
I thought they would be the perfect tribute for children who had cherished these mythical creatures in life. But as it turns out, unicorns—and grief—don’t always follow predictable paths.