BIRTH STORY

I started my family later in life. Later than most. At thirty-nine, medicine stamped my pregnancy “geriatric,” a term conjuring silver-haired sunset years. There I was, creating life. 

Two years later, my second son made an early debut, landing us in the neonatal intensive care unit. Born at thirty-three weeks, he was so small. Barely three and a half pounds. He was still getting ready for the world. 

In those early days, he couldn’t coordinate sucking, swallowing, and breathing. He was fed through a vein with Total Parenteral Nutrition, individualized and adjusted daily to meet his needs. Even digestion wasn't ready.

His tiny diapers were changed regularly. Diaper rash cream smoothed on each time.

Curious, I picked up the tube and read the label. Synthetic preservatives. Artificial fragrance. Talc. Petrolatum. These substances, again and again, touched my preemie’s thin, permeable skin.

So much care and precision went into his feedings. Yet what was applied to his skin, what his body could meaningfully take in, received far less thought.

I wanted my baby to grow stronger. To be nourished in ways that would build resilience, inside out and outside in. Not just to survive.  

That cream wasn’t just a physical exposure. It was a philosophical one. It asked whether my child’s vitality was worth staying awake for. I couldn’t unsee what it revealed.

How readily the standard goes unquestioned. How easily habit, protocol, and assumption begin to think for us.

My son's skin barrier was incomplete. His detoxification pathways were still maturing. Synthetic compounds, sealed against his skin by petrolatum, were being absorbed before his body was ready to handle them.

I wanted care that didn't ask his body to compensate. I wanted ingredients that belonged to living systems, materials his developing tissue could recognize and work with, rather than compounds it had to work around or defend against.

I refused to accept that compromise for my son. If his nutrition deserved such precision, so did what touched his skin.

I set out to create what I could not find. That meant ingredients as safe and nourishing as a baby's first foods. Certified food-grade. Certified organic. Plant-based. It meant omitting water to remove the need for preservatives and emulsifiers that can burden delicate skin. It meant supporting skin's natural intelligence rather than forcing it to adapt. These weren't aspirational standards. They were necessary.

The botanical butters I created transformed how I cared for both my boys' skin. They gave me true peace of mind.

Other parents were scrutinizing labels, questioning what they'd been told was safe, and searching for care that honored their children's vitality. They needed this choice, too.

I decided to build it.

Cocoa LaBear was born from that commitment.

Every child is born to bloom.