I didn't set out to start a company.

I set out to solve something small and deeply personal: how to help my kids when they miss their dad.

My husband is a surgeon. We met freshman year of college, lived two doors apart in our dorm, became best friends, then eventually more. We've been together ever since — through long distance, medical school, residency, research years, fellowship, and now life as an attending. If you know the path, you know it's long. And unpredictable. And full of missed dinners, night shifts, and weekends away. But every late night means someone else's family got him when they needed him most and for that, I'm extremely proud of him.

By the time he finished training, we had two kids. A son and a daughter who worship their dad and struggle when he's not home.

I've posted in surgery-spouse Facebook groups over the years asking for advice. What do you do when your three-year-old is crying at bedtime because their parent is working overnight? How do you explain night float to a toddler?

We tried FaceTime stories. We tried calendars. We tried "daddy is helping people" explanations. Some nights worked better than others.

We even came up with our own language for it. My son was three when I told him his dad worked a silly schedule, like an owl that stays awake while others sleep. That one stuck. Now his little sister asks it too: Is daddy an owl tonight? It's both sweet and a little heartbreaking, which is sort of the theme of this whole thing.

In 2023, during a particularly intense stretch of fellowship, I cut up an old pair of scrubs and made my son a bracelet. Something physical. Something from his dad. Something he could hold when he wasn't around. It wasn't beautiful. But it helped. I shared the idea in the same Facebook group in case it worked for others.

As he got older and learned to write, notes became part of our routine too. Little drawings slipped into his dad's work bag, Post-it notes left on the kitchen table before an early call. Something passing between them across the distance of a shift that mattered more than I expected.

Then just a few months ago, when my daughter was having a hard time missing her dad at night, I made her a little stuffed animal out of scrubs. Hot glue gun, googly eyes, glitter heart sticker on the front. Lovingly hand-crafted, let's say. She picked it up almost immediately and started carrying it everywhere.

Seeing her attachment to it reminded me of my own childhood comfort object: a kangaroo my mom gave me before my first summer at sleepaway camp. She had a pocket. I kept notes inside. I still have her today, patched up with love and stitches from my mom over the years.

And I thought: What if this had a pocket? What if the notes lived here, too?

I called it Scrub Hug. I found a manufacturer that specializes in ethical, organic children's products, and talked through the emotional side with my cousin, a child psychologist, whose input shaped the Comfort Cards and Connection Cards that now come with it.

It's for healthcare families — the kids counting down until a parent comes home, and the healthcare worker who also needs to carry something from home. It's for children receiving medical care who deserve something soft and familiar in an unfamiliar place. And it's for anyone who has ever needed something small and steady to hold onto.

— Alyssa