How The Little Bench Project Began

The Little Bench Project was born in a moment of grief, connection, and unexpected clarity. After helping my beloved dog, Gordo, across the Rainbow Bridge, I found myself seeking refuge in a familiar, grounding place—a quiet bench by the local duck pond, a place where I had often gone to reflect.

As I sat there, carrying the sharp ache of heartbreak, I reached out to my people and shared the rawness of my loss. Even though miles separated us, their love and presence wrapped around me. From that shared vulnerability, a simple phrase emerged—one that would come to mean everything:

I’m sitting on the bench with you.

What began as a literal statement quickly grew into something much deeper. It became a quiet commitment: I’m here. You are not alone. A shorthand for comfort, community, and radical presence.  Even in moments of disagreement—when we may sit at opposite ends of the bench—we are still sitting on the same bench.

In the days that followed, an old idea resurfaced with new clarity—the belief that shared spaces, however small, have the power to soften us, to invite honesty, reflection, and connection. Throughout my life, I had witnessed how simple gathering places—decks, benches, quiet corners—naturally become magnets for conversation, support, celebration, and remembrance.

The final piece fell into place when a friend spoke about the bench as a metaphor for unwavering support and wished aloud that such benches could exist as real, tangible objects—something to give, something to hold, something to remind someone they are not alone.

In that moment, everything aligned. The grief, the phrase, the longing for connection, and the need for a physical symbol all converged into a single, undeniable truth: these benches needed to exist.

And so, The Little Bench Project was launched—a mission to offer a small but enduring symbol of connection, comfort, celebration, remembrance, and community, shared one lovingly crafted bench at a time.

From the beginning, the benches were never meant to stay in one place. They were imagined as offerings—objects meant to move through the world, carrying presence from one person to another. Some are given directly. Some are left behind. Some are found unexpectedly. All are meant to remind us that connection often arrives quietly, right when it’s needed most.

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