


I didn’t start in healthcare thinking about scrubs.
I started because I wanted to care for people — to be present in moments that mattered, to contribute to something meaningful, and to show up when people needed it most.
For over ten years, that’s exactly what I did.
I worked 12-hour shifts across British Columbia and Alberta in acute care, psychiatric units, and long-term care. The work demanded everything — your attention, your energy, and your emotional capacity.
And over time, I started noticing something that never really left me alone.
While I was focused on my patients, I was constantly fighting my uniform.
Scrubs that didn’t move with me.
Pockets that weren’t built for what I actually carried.
Sizing that changed depending on the batch.
And pricing that didn’t reflect the reality of the people wearing them.
It was constant friction in a job that already asked so much.
But there was a deeper reality to the work, too.
In certain environments, physical aggression wasn’t rare — it was something you learned to navigate regularly. Being hit, grabbed, or put in unsafe situations became part of the job in a way that was never openly talked about, but quietly accepted.
Over time, that takes a toll.
Eventually, I reached a point where I had to step away from clinical work to recover — physically, mentally, and emotionally. What made it harder was navigating that process largely on my own, without clear guidance or meaningful support on how to actually rebuild.
That experience changed how I saw everything.
Not just the work itself, but the systems around it — and how often the people on the front lines are expected to keep going, no matter what they’ve been through.
It gave me distance. And with that distance came clarity.
I started thinking about all the small, daily frustrations I had ignored for years — the uniforms that didn’t function, the lack of inclusivity, and the sense that the people doing the hardest work were often an afterthought in the products made for them.
And I realized something:
If no one was going to build something better for us, I would.
That’s where Solera started.
Not as a business idea, but as a response to lived experience — both the everyday realities of the job and the moments that force you to stop and reassess everything.
I didn’t want to design scrubs that just looked better.
I wanted to design scrubs that worked better.
Every detail comes from real experience:
Solera isn’t about fashion. It’s about function, fairness, and respect for the people doing the work.
The name Solera means foundation — a steady base that supports everything built above it.
That’s what I set out to create.
Because I know what it feels like to give everything to your work — and not feel supported in return.
And I believe you deserve better.
With you on every shift,
Leah
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