His name was Dorian.
And to know him was to witness a light that doesn’t dim — even now.
⁠
And this space?
It was born for him…
and for every light I’m still learning how to live without.
Of the love that never left.
Of the ache that shaped a calling.

Dorian's life and passing changed everything.

His laughter. His light. His fierce, gentle soul.
When I lost him, the world shifted. It didn’t just feel empty—
it felt hollow.

Like someone had carved out the center of me and left the shell behind.

And yet...
Inside that hollow space, something sacred started to bloom.

Not healing. Not right away.
But holding.
A deep kind of holding.

Holding memories.
Holding grief.
Holding the love that remained.

The Story Behind
The Hollow + The Holding

I couldn’t bring him back.
But I could build something in his name.
A place for others to say the things they never got to say.

That’s how The Hollow + The Holding began.

Not as a product.
Not as a business.

As a promise.
To tell the truth about grief.
To create space for what still aches.
To honor the love that lives on — even when the person is gone.

Everything here is shaped by Dorian’s legacy —
his courage, his joy, his belief in saving lives beyond his own.

And everything here is for you, too.
Whether your loss is fresh or ancient.
Loud or quiet.
Named or unspoken.

Because children grieve too.
That’s why The Hollow & The Hug exists —
a gentle line of comfort tools for tiny hands with big feelings.

Grief will never be tidy.
It will never follow the rules.
But it can still be beautiful.

You don’t have to be okay.
You just have to keep holding.

And we’re here to hold it with you.

Some stories begin with joy.
Ours begins with loss. 
But what grew from the hollow...was still holy.

Dorian Lamar Price

Forever light. Forever loved.

Meet The Maker

Made by grief. Moved by love. Called to comfort.

 where this calling took root.

Hi, I’m Tina-Marie—the heart behind The Hollow + The Holding. 

I never planned to create a grief brand. I just knew what it felt like to be hollowed out by loss. When someone I loved with my whole heart died, my world cracked wide open. I didn’t want quick fixes. I didn’t want platitudes. I wanted space to still love them. To remember, to ache, to write, to breathe—and to not be rushed. 

That’s where the adult journal came from. 

But the kids’ kits? That was born from another sacred ache. 

I had just been hired by an incredible, faith-filled mother to nanny her five children. One week later, she passed away suddenly. And for the next three months, I showed up every day—heart shattered right alongside theirs—navigating the unimaginable with five tender little souls. 

They didn’t always want to talk. But they played. They asked questions. They cried in silence. And I realized: children need tools too. They need spaces to feel, remember, and heal in their own beautiful way. 

That season changed me forever. It showed me that grief is not just for grownups—and comfort doesn’t always come in words. 

What I didn’t know then—what I see now—is that this project was years in the making.
Long before the journal had a name. Long before the kits were born.
I didn’t know what I was doing back then.
But looking back, I see it clearly:
I was already building the first pages of this journal.
Already learning how grief carves out holy space inside us.
Already holding memory with both hands.

I lost a dear friend in 2009.
Xavier Lamar Hewitt.
It shattered my world.
And all I could do was write.

I had been writing for years.
Printing conversations.
Tucking grief into pages.
Letting memory live wherever it could find breath.

But when I lost Dorian, everything became clear.
That’s when I felt it shift—
the grief I had carried loud and raw
began to take shape.
Not as something to share.
But as something to build.
Something holy.
Something that could hold the love that was still here.

This work had lived quietly in me for years.
Dorian’s absence was the moment it stepped into the light.


I didn’t have the words for it then, but I was already learning to make memory a ministry.

The journal didn’t begin with his passing—
but his loss gave it its name.
Its voice.
Its fire.

Gave me the courage to put it in your hands.

Both of them…
Xavier Lamar.
Dorian Lamar.
Two sacred lights with the same middle name—
woven into my story, and now into this work.

And somehow, with that name echoing through both losses,
it felt like something sacred had come full circle.
Like the ache itself had whispered:
“You were always meant to build this.”

What I Believe

• That grief is not a problem—it’s proof of love. 
• That Jesus doesn’t shy away from our brokenness. 
• That memory is a ministry. 
• And that there is something holy in sitting with another heart that’s hurting. 

More About Me

• I love Jesus, hardcover books that haven’t even been cracked yet, and quiet mornings with creamy coffee. 

• I believe tears are sacred, and so is laughter—especially when it sneaks in. 

• I’m a maker, a feeler, and a faithful grief warrior. 

• I’m not here to fix your grief. I’m here to sit beside it with you. 
• Also? I’m a big believer in Disney magic.
Not the perfect endings—just the wonder, the music, and the hope that lingers.

Whether you’re here for your own healing or trying to hold space for someone else—thank you. 

You are proof that love outlives loss. 

And I’m honored to create tools that carry it forward. 

With grace and memory, 

TM