How do you wish a happy 10th birthday to a baby who never took a breath?
When the birth was wrapped in death, and the first hello was also the final goodbye—how do you mark that?
It’s been a whole decade since Josiah was birthed into eternal death.
Ten years. A full-blown lifetime. And yet this one calendar date—April 18th—drops me right back into that hospital room. Into the sterile stillness. The excruciating silence. The weight of it all still lingers, even now.
How do you capture a life barely lived? A baby who only ever existed within me—held in the deepest chambers of my body, known only to me in the most sacred ways?
Some days, it feels so distant. The memories are blurry around the edges. Faded like an old photograph left out in the sun. And sometimes I wonder… did it even happen? Did he really exist?
And then—
I catch glimpses.
Tiny glances of what once was,
and what could’ve been.
I see him in his siblings’ faces.
I hear him when his brother plays ball.
I feel him in the April breeze.
And I swear I smell him every time his brother takes off his goddamn socks.
He lives and moves and breathes amidst the chaos and beauty of the life we’ve built since.
We talk about him.
We honour him.
We refuse to let him fade.
Josiah cracked me wide open. His death gutted me. But from that grief came something—something I didn’t see coming.
What started as a quiet attempt to survive—crocheting baby slippers in the dark, aching hours—slowly, tenderly, turned into something more.
josiah+co. became more than handmade slippers.
It became a vessel for grief.
A container for heartbreak and healing.
A space to say the things no one else says out loud.
It’s no longer just a business.
It’s legacy.
It’s love.
It’s his.
Josiah is the reason I became a Certified Grief & Loss Coach, a Bereavement Doula, a space-holder for the messy, brutal, beautiful in-betweens of loss. Through him, I found this work. And every person I sit with, every story I hold—he’s there. Not as a memory, but as momentum.
So yeah…
Happy 10th birthday, Josiah.
You are missed beyond measure.
You are loved beyond words.
And your impact echoes far beyond what this world ever gave you the chance to become.
If grief has cracked you open too, and you’re staring at the pieces wondering what the hell to do next—hey. I see you. I’ve been there.
Check out my grief support page to see how we can work together, or set up a free consult today.
In Support,
Melissa.
You don’t have to do this shit alone.