Our Story

This mission began because of a little baby who changed our lives forever — Mia Joy King.

Since Garrett and I came together in 2021, we have experienced three miscarriages, including the loss of Mia’s fraternal twin. One loss happened while we were all sick with COVID. Another was due to a chromosomal abnormality in our baby boy. Mia’s twin was lost early on — what doctors refer to as an “absorbed twin.”

With each loss, we grieved deeply. And with each loss, we held onto hope that one day we would get our happy ending — an “ours” baby.

As a bonus mom to Garrett’s three children, I always felt our family would feel complete once we had a little soul of our own — half him, half me.

When our pregnancy with Mia progressed, even after losing her twin, we continued to hold our breath. Because of my history, we took it day by day, week by week. It was the most beautiful pregnancy — gentle, joyful, and full of anticipation.

At the same time, my mother was terminally ill. Mia’s life on the horizon kept all of us grounded in the belief that even in the shadow of death, there is still joy to be found in each day.

On my due date, I woke up in the middle of the night knowing something was not right. We had been checked just two days earlier, and everything was “perfectly fine.” What unfolded in the hours that followed was nothing short of a nightmare.

I suffered a placental abruption and required an emergency C-section, completely different from the holistic, doula-supported, peaceful birth we had carefully planned and prepared for.

Mia was born and passed away two hours later.

She spent that short time in the NICU with Garrett. The nurses were incredibly kind to him as he prepared to say his own goodbyes.

When I woke up and saw my husband, ashen and in tears, I knew she was gone.

Hours later, I met her body after her soul had left this earth.

She was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
She is what I am most proud of in this life.
When she died, a part of me died too.

As I sat in my hospital bed, in pain physically, emotionally, and spiritually, I stared at her beautiful body and thought to myself, “This cannot be for nothing. This will not be for nothing.”

Before my C-section dressings were even removed, it was clear we were meant to start this project in Mia’s name. For us. To keep us going. For our family, so we could keep saying her name out loud.

I had daydreamed about saying her name for the rest of my life — praising her for taking her first steps, calling her name when she was about to be grounded, and cheering and screaming it when she graduated high school. I want to be able to say her name every day.

In the hours that followed her birth, we were handed a stack of brochures and pamphlets — helpful resources, support groups, mental health services. We were too exhausted to open them. Instead, we were faced with decisions no parent should ever have to make.

We had to arrange for Mia’s body to be picked up. How does one even do that? Why is it so expensive?

My milk started to come in as my body wept for my baby girl. The nurses gently asked whether I wanted to be shown how to “dry up” my milk or if I wanted to pump and donate it. If so, how? I was a first-time mother. I didn’t even know how to pump. We scrambled to find a pet sitter. We tried to remember which appointments we had scheduled for Mia’s arrival — all of them now needing to be cancelled because she was gone.

We had no idea what we were doing. We were shattered and still expected to function.

In the weeks that followed, Garrett lost his job. We were 45 days away from losing our home. Through the generosity of people in our lives — online and offline, near and far — we received an outpouring of funds, gifts, and meals.

Each act of kindness felt like a sign that Mia was still with us, holding her mom and dad together when we were desperate and falling apart.

In the depths of that despair and exhaustion, Garrett and I made a vow. We would help other parents facing this unfathomable loss. We did not know when. We did not know how. We only knew we had to take this pain and turn it into purpose.

We also promised one another that we would not let this tear us apart. Tragedy has a way of doing that.

Six months later, we understand something we did not understand in those hospital hours. We are still deep in our grief. Still taking it one day at a time.

Living in a way that makes her proud.

Families facing NICU stays are living in suspended breath. Families facing stillbirth and infant loss are living in shock. Both are navigating trauma, paperwork, medical language, decisions, and survival at the same time.

We created The Mia Joy Project to stand in that gap.

To support families with babies still fighting in the NICU through tangible resources, comfort items, and human presence.

And to support families whose babies have died by offering guidance, logistical help, advocacy, and community when the world feels impossibly quiet.

Because when you are handed brochures in the worst moment of your life, you do not need a stack of paper. You need someone to sit beside you and say, “I will help you through this.”

Support for the moms.
Support for the dads.
Support for the siblings waiting back home to meet their new brother or sister.

Mia’s life was short, but her impact is not.

This project is how we keep her name alive.
This is how we turn grief into action.
This is how we make sure it was not for nothing.

With Love and Light,

Hope Alcocer King Co-Founder, The Mia Project
(and most importantly, Mia's Mom)