Once again… lighting the ember - the story of Solilo’s beginning.
This image is from Solilo’s first dinner, where this story was read and the art piece was created. Throughout the evening, each of us added our own colors to the canvas, symbolizing the beauty and uniqueness of every story that brought us together.
I believe it was 2016, maybe a year earlier or later. I used to go to Union Station in Denver early in the mornings, before work — just to write and people watch. This particular morning, I got there around 6:30 a.m. I found a cozy chair to snuggle into and sprawled all of my stuff around me — my journal on my lap, my purse, and all of my pens laid out. I began scribbling in my journal, pausing occasionally to look around. Union Station is the perfect place for me — I receive rest when I’m alone, usually in nature, but I get life and inspiration by being surrounded by people.
There was a soft instinct to look up, and that’s when I saw a blind man walking on the other side of the station — I assumed he was blind because he had a guiding stick in front of him. Then he stopped. He stood in the middle aisle. Said something under his breath. Then louder: “I’m lost. I need help.” And for a moment… no one moved.
Even I didn’t move.
I had all my things sprawled out around me. I couldn’t decide if I should pack it all up to help or just leave it — so I froze, watching him from the other side of the station. Then he said it again: “I’m lost, could someone help me?” I saw an older man stand up from his seat and softly touch the blind man’s arm. I watched him lean in, and they whispered for a moment. The older man gave a slight nod to his wife, who was still seated, and gently guided the blind man out of Union Station. A minute later, he came back and sat beside her again — as if this was something he did every day.
Tears started streaming down my face at the quiet beauty of a stranger’s kindness. I felt something bubbling within me, and I grabbed my pen. With a trembling hand, I wrote: “I want to share stories like this.” I didn’t know what to do with that desire, but it kept coming back.
Eventually, I applied for a creative internship at a mega church — and I got it. In my application video, I actually shared the story from Union Station and said I wanted to capture people’s stories and share them. Within the first few weeks, I was given access to an online portal with hundreds of story submissions. No one had touched them in a long time. My job was to read every single one — and respond to every person. There were submissions from kids and people of all backgrounds and experiences.
I read every one of them in those first few months. I remember getting coffee with a sweet, sweet human who told me she didn’t think anyone would ever read her story — let alone reach out. She said it felt vulnerable to sit across from someone who had, but also freeing. I loved creating that space for people to share — to be fully present, simply listening. I could see healing happening in them… and I could feel healing happening in me.
I was passionate about this project. About halfway through the internship, I realized this idea was way bigger than a church, but I still poured everything I had into it. I had journals full of ideas for the website. I watched TED Talks, took notes on how to interview people. I oversaw a team of volunteer writers. I passed them stories, and they helped craft the written pieces. Some stories I passed to our videographers to film. I loved seeing people’s stories become something bigger than a softly typed submission.
I remember when the first story was published. One of the writers wrote it, and I took the photos for it. I felt like — this is it. I even had meetings with our web designers to update the stories page. It was going to look like Pinterest, but filled with people’s stories.
I couldn’t believe this thing that had lived in my head was becoming real.
Then the internship ended.
I wasn’t offered to stay.
I wasn’t devastated about leaving the church… I was devastated because I was stepping away from something I loved and was proud to create. I could feel myself deflating. I put my journals — full of dreams — aside. And as the months passed, I watched the page I had worked so hard on slowly die and disappear. It felt like my only chance at making this dream real had died.
So, I moved on.
I worked at a coffee shop. Then I started nannying. But the dream of sharing stories would still wake me up in the middle of the night. I’d open my journals, read a few lines… and put them back on the shelf.
Then in 2019, the little boy I nannied — Lukie — and I started writing cards to strangers at coffee shops. We’d go on our little dates, pick a person — any person — and write a card with a message for them. In each one we’d write something like: “You are kind. You are loved. Your words matter.” Whatever felt right for that person. Lukie would walk up and hand it to them. Their faces would light up. They’d sit up straighter, look at me, smile — almost every time mouthing, thank you.
One time, we gave a card to a woman sitting with her friend. As we were leaving, she got up, followed us out to the street with tears in her eyes, and said, “Thank you. Please keep doing this.” I felt like my whole body erupted in technicolor.
It felt right again.
At the end of 2019, I bought the domain kindnesscards.com and started an Instagram account. We began sharing kindness more and more — and people started submitting their own stories too, which felt incredible.
And then… 2020 happened.
Fear swept the nation — and myself. The world shut down. And one day I realized: Kindness Cards had quietly died, too. I didn’t even see it coming. I didn’t know how to keep it going.
In 2021, I helped open Vibe Coffee and Wine. As time went on, it became my life. I loved that place and the people there.
As years went by I remember sitting at a fancy dinner with my boyfriend at the time — now my husband — and he asked me, “If you could do anything in life, what would it be?” And for the next hour, I shared everything: how I believe stories are powerful, and healing happens when people share them, hear them, and create through them. I slowly started rereading my old journals again. And the dream — that ember — began to rise to the surface once more.
In early 2025, I decided to quit my job. To leave people I loved. To leave a stable income. I had felt this longing for about a year, but in March, I finally took the leap. I remember calling Rob, my boss, on Saturday night, March 8. Through tears, I told him: I have to quit. My last day was April 18.
I decided to pursue — again — the thing that would not let me sleep at night. The dream that had resurfaced again and again.
There was so much fear around quitting something beautiful and stable to pursue this inner longing. I felt like I was making the biggest mistake of my life. But I also felt peace. I felt confusion. I felt excitement. I felt overwhelmed — because I could see this big vision of what it could become, but I had no idea how to get there.
I wasn’t afraid of failing, not really.
I was afraid of watching the dream die again.
But I was more afraid of never seeing it come to life.
So I started Solilo — a place where people can share stories, and then those stories are interpreted into art. I don’t know exactly what it will become, but I know I have to do something. So I bought the domain. Got the Instagram handle. I’m writing my own stories. I’m asking my humans to do the same.
Here we are.
Once again… lighting the ember.
Written by: Liza Giles