Thanks to Haley Hodge
Good things are frequently discovered where you least expect them to be.
Haley Hodge has gone beyond books and online in her quest for baby names as her due date approaches. This mother of three, who will soon become a mother of four, made the decision to search local cemeteries for names from earlier generations and former lives in order to find inspiration.
Hodge documented this extraordinary journey in a now-viral TikTok video that has elicited conflicting responses from its 2.5 million viewers. In the video, Hodge can be seen talking about names with her husband Rivers and their kids while touring the Old Smithville Burying Ground in Southport, North Carolina.
Thanks to Haley Hodge
Many viewers were moved by Hodge’s inventiveness and appreciated how she honored the memory of the deceased with her choice of names.
One individual remarked, “This is the first video I’ve ever seen like this; never would have thought about it.” But I adore this concept so much! particularly if you investigate the individual.
“This really is stunning. Another TikTok user said, “What a way to honor those that have passed away.”
Not everyone, though, had the same sentiments. The concept unnerved other viewers, who brought up beliefs about pregnant women not being allowed in cemeteries. Hodge tells PEOPLE that although she had always felt at ease in cemeteries, she had expected some criticism because of different cultural perspectives on death.
Thanks to Haley Hodge
“It seems to me like going to a site where people’s greatest friends, grandparents, and other loved ones are buried. It’s not an evil place, according to Hodge. “These are people who were good people who lived lives, hopefully good lives.”
Furthermore, Hodge finds it inconvenient to be close to the deceased.
She continues, “I don’t think spirits are restricted to cemeteries if they exist.” “We’re already surrounded by it; hospitals have morgues, and we have babies born above morgues.”
Hodge also remembers her own early years, when her mother would take the family on trips and visit graves to teach them about the local history.
Thanks to Haley Hodge
According to Hodge, “she realized we’d be more interested if it was a spooky story rather than just history.” “It just grabs your attention more, kind of like kids telling scary stories at a bonfire.”
Hodge had used more traditional means to find names for her first three children, Finley, 10, Banks, 1, and Crew, 3, frequently making notes of names she heard on television. When asked where her name came from, she wanted this fourth kid to be able to tell an intriguing backstory.
Thanks to Haley Hodge
In addition, Hodge made the decision to film their trip to the grave, hoping to show it to her daughter in the future. She had originally intended to keep the videos to herself, but she ultimately decided to share the naming process with everyone.
“At first, I wasn’t going to post them,” she acknowledges. However, I later decided that sharing this was sort of cool. I anticipated that because it was unique, it would draw attention.
I SPENT MY PROM DRESS MONEY TO HELP A HOMELESS MAN — THE NEXT DAY, HE SHOWED UP AT PROM WITH A LUXURY GIFT
The worn vinyl of the bus seat creaked beneath me as I clutched the envelope, its crisp edges softened by the warmth of my hand. Inside, the money my mom and grandma had painstakingly saved—my prom dress fund. The pink, shimmering gown that would transform me, even for one night, into the princess I’d always dreamed of being.
The bus rattled along, the familiar rhythm a comforting backdrop to my anticipation. At the next stop, the doors hissed open, and two figures boarded, their presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. They weren’t passengers; they were enforcers, their uniforms a stark contrast to the everyday clothes of the other riders.
Their attention fell upon an elderly man, his clothes tattered and his face etched with worry. He sat hunched in a corner seat, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The enforcers approached him, their voices sharp and demanding.
“Ticket, sir,” one of them barked.
The man’s hands trembled as he fumbled in his pockets, his eyes wide with a desperate plea. “Please, I… I don’t have one. I’m trying to get to my daughter. She’s sick, and I have to take her to the hospital. Please, I’m begging you.”
The enforcers were unmoved. “Fine,” one of them stated, his voice flat. “You’ll have to pay a fine.”
The man’s shoulders slumped. The despair in his eyes was a physical weight, a crushing burden that filled the bus. I couldn’t bear it. The thought of my own mother, sick and helpless, flashed through my mind. What if she needed help, and no one cared?
Without a second thought, I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest. I took a deep breath, the crisp air filling my lungs with a sudden rush of determination. “I’ll pay his fine!” I declared, extending the envelope towards the enforcers.
The bus fell silent. The enforcers exchanged surprised glances, then looked at me, then at the man. I didn’t waver. I knew, deep down, that this was the right thing to do. Some things were more important than a dress, even a dream dress.
The enforcers, after a moment of hesitation, accepted the money. The elderly man’s eyes filled with tears, and he rushed towards me, his voice choked with gratitude. “Thank you, thank you, child. You’ve saved my daughter’s life.”
He thanked me over and over, his voice a trembling whisper, before hurrying off the bus, his urgency palpable. I watched him go, a strange mix of relief and a tiny pang of sadness swirling within me.
The next day, prom was a whirlwind of glitter and laughter. I wore a simple dress borrowed from a friend, feeling a little out of place but strangely content. I’d told my mom and grandma what happened, and they’d hugged me, their eyes filled with pride.
As the music swelled, and couples swayed on the dance floor, a commotion erupted near the entrance. I turned to see what was happening, and my breath caught in my throat.
Standing there, amidst the sea of shimmering gowns and tailored suits, was the elderly man from the bus, his face beaming. Beside him stood a young woman, her face pale but her eyes bright. And in his hands, he held a large, velvet-wrapped box.
He walked towards me, his steps slow but steady. “My dear child,” he said, his voice ringing with warmth. “I wanted to thank you properly. You saved my daughter, and I can never repay you. But I hope this small token will express my gratitude.”
He presented the box to me. I opened it, my fingers trembling. Inside, nestled on a bed of satin, was a dress. Not just any dress, but a masterpiece. It was pink, shimmering, and exquisitely crafted. It was the dress of my dreams, even more beautiful than I had imagined.
“My daughter,” the man explained, his eyes filled with tears, “she’s a seamstress. She made this for you, with all her heart.”
I was speechless, tears welling up in my eyes. The dress was perfect, a symbol of the kindness I had shown and the kindness I had received in return. That night, I didn’t just feel like a princess. I felt like a hero, and I knew that some things, some moments, were worth more than all the dresses in the world.
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