https://p2p.thecurestartsnow.org/3291?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR4eMI5-GI7zf9WccJaMMnwEAlAKydxcS-k-fvcIbGOPOeOkPaKrhJbQc

Brave Like Brynlee, Manchester, MI (2026)

10/11/2026

I don’t think I’ll ever stop wondering why.

And I don’t just mean why my daughter. Although that’s a question that will haunt me for the rest of my life. I mean why any of this is happening. Why childhood cancer exists. Why children are dying from diseases they never had a chance to protect themselves from. Why families are watching their entire worlds fall apart while the rest of the world somehow keeps turning like nothing is happening.

I wonder why every single day.

I wonder why a brain tumor started growing inside my daughter’s brain. What happened inside her tiny body that caused cells to turn into something so destructive? Why was it her? Why was it somebody else’s baby down the hall? Why are there parents in this world who have to pick out a casket for a child whose favorite toys are still scattered across their bedroom floor?

How does something so cruel even exist?

I wonder why childhood cancer doesn’t seem to matter until it’s somebody’s own child. Why people can watch a video of a little kid ringing a bell, cry for a few seconds, and then go right back to their lives without ever thinking about the children who never got to ring one. Or the children who rang that bell and still died. Or the children who survived but will spend the rest of their lives dealing with what cancer and its treatments did to their bodies.

I wonder why medically complex children and their families are so often treated like an inconvenience. Why parents have to beg insurance companies for things their children medically need. Why getting treatment, therapy, equipment, medication, and basic accommodations can become another full-time battle. Why families who are already exhausted beyond anything words could describe have to prove, over and over again, that their children deserve help.

What is it about these children that makes the world so comfortable looking away?

Because I can promise you something. When you are the parent sitting in a hospital room watching your child suffer, you don’t get to look away. You don’t get to decide that childhood cancer is too upsetting to think about today. You don’t get to scroll past it because the pictures make you uncomfortable. You live inside the very thing everyone else has the privilege of avoiding.

And I hate that.

I hate cancer more than I could ever explain. I hate what it does to children. I hate what it does to families. I hate that it can take a perfectly ordinary childhood and turn it into a lifetime of medical appointments, medications, scans, surgeries, therapies, and fear. I hate that there are parents who know the exact sound of the machines keeping their child alive. I hate that children learn the names of chemotherapy drugs before they learn how to tie their shoes. I hate that some families leave the pediatric oncology floor carrying their child’s belongings instead of their child.

And I hate that the world has somehow learned to live with that.

People talk about childhood cancer like it’s just another unfortunate part of life. Like it’s something we’re supposed to accept because bad things happen. But I cannot accept that. I cannot wrap my head around the fact that we live in a world capable of extraordinary scientific discoveries, yet there are still childhood brain tumors with devastating outcomes and children who have no effective treatment left to try.

I know there isn’t one hidden cure for every cancer. I know these diseases are complicated, and I know there are researchers and medical professionals dedicating their lives to finding better answers. But knowing that doesn’t make the questions disappear. It makes me wonder what could be possible if childhood cancers received the urgency, resources, and attention these children deserve.

How many more children have to die before we decide that this is unacceptable?

How many more parents have to bury their babies? How many more families have to sell shirts, hold fundraisers, beg for donations, and tell the most painful parts of their lives publicly just to help move research forward?

Why is so much responsibility falling on the very people who are already losing everything?

And then I look at Brynlee.

I look at my beautiful little girl, and sometimes I just cannot believe this is her life. I cannot believe that a brain tumor changed the course of her entire childhood. That my daughter, who should have spent these years worrying about friends, toys, school, and what she wanted to be for Halloween, has instead had to learn how to live with the consequences of brain cancer.

I wonder what she would be like if none of this had happened. If her little body had never been exposed to chemotherapy and radiation. If she had never needed brain surgery. If she could run and play without the pain and difficulties she faces now. If I could still do her hair every morning. If I could watch her grow without knowing that some of the effects of treatment may follow her for the rest of her life.

And one of the hardest things I’ve had to come to terms with is knowing that the hospital will always be part of our lives.

Even with no evidence of disease, cancer doesn’t just pack up its belongings and leave our family alone. There will be scans. There will be specialists. There will be follow up appointments, therapies, and things that have to be watched as she grows. There will be birthdays and milestones that fill me with happiness while a little voice in the back of my mind wonders what the future holds.

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to sit in a doctor’s office with my daughter and not feel my stomach drop. If I’ll ever hear an unfamiliar symptom and not immediately think of the worst possibility. If there will ever be a time when I can look at the calendar without seeing another medical appointment waiting for us.

And none of those questions take away from how thankful I am that she’s here. I would choose this life with Brynlee a million times over having a life without her. But I wish she never had to fight for it. I wish none of these children did.

Some days I am proud. Some days I am grateful. Some days I am hopeful.

And some days, like today, I am just angry and heartbroken.

I’m tired of living in a world where children can suffer so terribly and the people raising awareness are often the same parents sitting beside their hospital beds. I’m tired of families having to fight to be heard. I’m tired of hearing that children are our future while watching families struggle to get them the care, support, and research they deserve right now.

Because these children matter before they become somebody’s heartbreaking story. They matter before their diagnosis becomes a fundraiser. They matter before their parents have to stand in front of a room full of people and explain why their lives are worth investing in.

They matter when they’re alive, when they’re sick, when they’re surviving, when they’re disabled, when they’re medically complex, and when the world has moved on from the month dedicated to their awareness.

I don’t understand why the world is the way it is. I don’t understand why something as innocent as a child can experience something as merciless as cancer. And I don’t understand how anybody can know that children are dying and not want to do absolutely everything possible to change it.

Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering why.

But I know I’ll spend it fighting, too.

Because somewhere tonight, another mother is going to hear the words that changed my life forever. Somewhere, a child is going to be diagnosed with a brain tumor. Somewhere, a family is going to be told there are no more options. And somewhere, a parent is going to kiss their child goodnight for the very last time.

While the rest of the world carries on.

And I will never, ever understand how that isn’t enough to make the whole world stop and demand better. 🩷

10/09/2026

“You have to remember to take care of yourself, too.”

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard those words since Brynlee was diagnosed with brain cancer. And while I know most people say them with good intentions, I wish they understood how frustrating those words can be to a parent who is already drowning in responsibilities.

Because when, exactly, am I supposed to do that?

Is it after I’ve spent the morning trying to get my daughter ready for school while figuring out whether the pain in her legs is something we can manage at home or something I need to call her medical team about? Is it between the appointments, the phone calls, the medications, the paperwork, and trying to make sure my other children aren’t losing their mother to the demands of their sister’s medical needs? Or should I pencil it in somewhere between folding laundry and lying awake at night worrying about things I cannot control?

I would absolutely love to know where this magical extra time is that people seem to think caregivers have.

Because I don’t have it.

And even on the rare occasion that I do get a moment to myself, what makes people think I have the energy left to enjoy it?

That’s what I wish people understood about caregiver burnout. It isn’t always about being physically tired. Sometimes it’s about being so mentally consumed by keeping everything running that you cannot even remember the last time you had a thought that wasn’t connected to somebody else’s needs.

It’s having your daughter’s entire medical history practically memorized because you’re the one answering the questions. It’s knowing what medications she’s taking, which appointments are coming up, what symptoms have changed, what needs to be discussed with her doctors, and what arrangements need to be made for school. It’s having to constantly think three steps ahead because forgetting something isn’t as simple as missing an appointment on a calendar. Sometimes the things you’re responsible for have real consequences for your child’s health.

Sometimes one person is carrying almost everything, and because things are getting done, nobody questions how they’re getting done. Nobody sees the amount of planning, remembering, researching, advocating, and worrying it takes to make everything look like it’s under control.

And here’s what really gets me. The better you become at managing everything, the less people seem to realize how much you’re actually doing.

When appointments are scheduled, medications are given, paperwork is completed, and children are taken care of, people see a functioning household. They don’t see the person who is mentally running through tomorrow’s responsibilities while trying to finish today’s.

They don’t see how much of your life you’ve had to put aside because there is simply no room for it anymore.

And sometimes I wonder what would happen if I stopped doing everything for just one day. Not because I would ever stop taking care of my children, but because I genuinely wonder how many things people don’t even realize are being handled until someone isn’t there to handle them anymore.

That’s a terrifying amount of responsibility for one person to carry.

What makes caregiver burnout especially difficult is the guilt that comes with admitting any of this. Because the second you say you’re exhausted, you feel like you have to explain that you love your child. You feel like you need to remind people that you would do absolutely anything for them, as though being overwhelmed somehow calls your love into question.

I should be able to say that I’m exhausted without anyone questioning how grateful I am that Brynlee is alive.

I should be able to admit that some days I am completely overwhelmed without feeling like I’m taking something away from everything she’s overcome.

And I should be able to talk about how much responsibility falls on my shoulders without having to pretend that everything is divided equally just because it makes other people more comfortable to believe that.

I love being Brynlee’s mother. I love being there for her. I love that she knows she can count on me, and I am proud that I’ve learned how to advocate for her in rooms I never imagined I’d have to walk into.

But I am also a human being.

A human being who has been scared, angry, exhausted, overwhelmed, and stretched in so many different directions that some days I don’t even recognize the person I’ve become.

And I know there are other parents reading this who understand exactly what I’m talking about. The ones who don’t have the luxury of being sick themselves. The ones who cannot simply turn their phones off, disappear for an afternoon, or decide they’re too overwhelmed to deal with another responsibility. The ones who have learned to ignore their own needs because everyone else’s needs feel more urgent.

So please, before telling an exhausted caregiver to take care of themselves, consider what you’re actually asking them to do.

Because taking care of yourself requires more than being told you deserve it. It requires time. It requires energy. It requires support. It requires having someone else willing and capable of taking responsibility for things so that you can actually put something down without worrying about what will happen when you do.

You cannot tell someone to rest while continuing to leave every responsibility on their shoulders.

You cannot encourage a parent to prioritize their mental health while ignoring the circumstances that are wearing it down.

And you cannot expect someone to keep pouring everything they have into everyone around them without eventually wondering what happens when there’s nothing left.

Childhood cancer doesn’t just change the life of the child diagnosed. It changes the lives of the people caring for them, and for some of those people, the responsibility doesn’t become lighter when treatment ends. It simply changes shape.

I don’t want pity. I don’t want a medal. And I certainly don’t need another reminder that I should be taking better care of myself.

I need people to understand that sometimes the problem isn’t that a caregiver has forgotten about themselves.

It’s that everybody has become so accustomed to that caregiver handling everything that they’ve forgotten one person was never supposed to carry all of it alone.

And until we start acknowledging that, we’re going to keep calling parents strong while quietly watching them burn themselves out trying to be everything everybody needs.

Sometimes the most meaningful way to support a caregiver isn’t to remind them to take a break.

It’s to help make it possible for them to have one.

10/08/2026

I haven’t done my daughter’s hair since she was four years old.

I don’t think I’ve ever really said that out loud before, or explained just how much something so simple has hurt me.

Brynlee is my only daughter. My little girl. And from the time she was about a year old, doing her hair was just something I did. It became one of those little pieces of motherhood that I never gave a second thought to because I never imagined there would come a day when I wouldn’t get to do it anymore.

I loved doing her hair. I loved finding new hairstyles to try, watching tutorials, buying bows and hair ties in every color imaginable so that no matter what outfit she picked out, I had something to match. I loved having a little girl to do all those things with. Sometimes it was something cute and simple, other times I wanted to try something completely different. It didn’t matter. It was our little routine, and I had no idea just how much those moments meant to me until cancer took them away.

And I know there are people who will read this and think, “It’s just hair. At least she’s alive.”

Believe me, there isn’t a single day that goes by that I don’t understand how fortunate I am to still have my daughter here. I know exactly what could have happened to Brynlee. I know what childhood brain cancer can take from families, and I will spend the rest of my life being grateful that my little girl is still here for me to love.

But surviving cancer doesn’t mean you stop grieving what it took.

And sometimes I think that’s one of the hardest things for people who haven’t lived this life to understand.

Brynlee didn’t just lose her hair. Cancer took away a little piece of the motherhood I knew, too. It took away those mornings standing behind my little girl, brushing through her hair and deciding what we were going to do with it that day. It took away the excitement of finding something new to try. It took something that had been part of our lives since she was a baby and turned it into something I now have to watch other mothers experience.

I don’t even watch hair tutorials anymore.

I used to love them. I would save the ones I wanted to try on Brynlee, imagining how cute her hair would look or what little bow I could put with it. Now, when those videos come across my screen, I scroll right past them. Not because I don’t want to see another little girl’s pretty hair, but because it reminds me of something I miss so much that sometimes it’s easier not to look at all.

And what makes it harder is knowing that getting her hair back isn’t as simple as waiting a few months for it to grow.

Brynlee went through chemotherapy and radiation to her brain. The hair around her ears and near her surgical scar is taking much longer to grow back because of the treatment she received. Radiation can damage the hair follicles, and depending on the area and the dose, it can take years for hair to begin growing again. Sometimes it may never grow back the way it once did.

And that hurts.

Because when you’re watching your child fight cancer, you tell yourself that someday the treatments will end. Someday the hospital visits won’t consume every day. Someday you’ll get pieces of your old life back. You hold onto those thoughts because they’re sometimes the only thing that gets you through another day.

But nobody really prepares you for what happens when the treatments stop and some of those pieces don’t come back.

Nobody prepares you for the possibility that years could pass before you get to do something you once did every morning without even thinking about it.

Now, instead of having every color hair tie to match whatever outfit Brynlee wants to wear, she has just about every color hat you can imagine.

And I think that’s the part that really gets me.

I used to stand there picking out a hair tie to match her clothes. Now I help her pick out a hat.

Same little girl. Same mom who wants her daughter to have something cute to go with every outfit. But an entirely different reason for why we’re choosing it.

And some days that realization just breaks my heart.

I love that Brynlee has so many hats to choose from. I love that she can pick one that makes her happy and feel good about herself. And I will continue buying them in every color if that’s what she wants. But I would be lying if I said there weren’t moments when I looked at those hats and wished I was reaching for a brush and a handful of hair ties instead.

I miss her hair. I miss doing it. I miss the little girl who would sit there while I tried something new. And I miss the version of our lives where I could spend my time learning a new braid instead of learning about the lasting effects of chemotherapy and radiation.

And none of that means I love who Brynlee is today any less.

My daughter is beautiful. She was beautiful with hair, beautiful without it, and beautiful through every single stage in between. Her strength, her personality, her smile, and everything that makes her Brynlee have never depended on a single strand of hair.

But I hate what cancer has taken from her.

I hate that my little girl had to lose something that should have been hers to keep. I hate that even now, after everything she endured to survive, her body is still carrying the consequences of treatment. I hate that there are parts of childhood cancer nobody talks about because they’re considered too small compared to the fact that a child is still alive.

Because they aren’t small to the families living with them.

They’re the hair ties sitting in a drawer. The tutorials you can’t bring yourself to watch anymore. The pictures you look back on and remember exactly what it felt like to run a brush through your daughter’s hair. The hats you buy because you still want your little girl to have something in every color.

They’re the everyday reminders that childhood cancer doesn’t simply end when treatment does.

I think people sometimes believe remission is the moment everything goes back to normal. That once the scans are clear and the chemotherapy stops, families get to pick up where they left off.

But there is no picking up where we left off. There is learning how to live with everything that has changed.

There is celebrating the incredible gift of having your child here while quietly mourning the things that were stolen along the way.

And there is a mother who hasn’t done her only daughter’s hair since she was four years old, wondering how many more birthdays will pass before she gets to do it again.

I would choose Brynlee, exactly as she is today, a million times over. Hair or no hair. Hats or bows. None of that will ever change what she means to me.

But I wish cancer hadn’t made those choices for her.

I wish she could have kept something as simple as her hair. I wish I could have kept something as simple as doing it.

And more than anything, I wish people understood that a child surviving cancer doesn’t mean cancer is finished taking things from them.

Sometimes the things it takes are so ordinary that the rest of the world doesn’t even notice they’re gone.

But a mother notices.

Every single day. 🩷

10/07/2026

Cancer isn’t contagious.

I wish more people acted like they knew that.

Because when your child is diagnosed with cancer, people come out of everywhere. They ask questions. They want updates. They want to know what the doctors said, what the scans showed, what treatment looks like, whether she is okay. Everyone is suddenly paying attention because something terrible happened and terrible things make people curious.

Then treatment ends.

The hospital pictures slow down. The scary updates are fewer. There are no more bags of chemo hanging beside her bed. There are no more constant admissions and urgent phone calls and moments that make everyone stop what they are doing to ask what is happening.

And little by little, people disappear.

But this is the part I wish people understood.

Cancer did not disappear when treatment ended.

Brynlee came home with an entire life to rebuild.

She had to rebuild her strength after her body had been pushed through treatment. She had to work her way back into school when the world had kept moving without her. She had to learn what normal even looked like again after hospitals, appointments, medications and adults had become such a huge part of her childhood. She had to figure out friendships again. Confidence again. Independence again. She had to find pieces of herself that cancer interrupted before she was ever old enough to understand what was being taken from her.

And I have been standing beside her trying to help put all of those pieces back together.

That is the part nobody rushes toward.

Nobody is lining up to watch a child slowly rebuild everything illness took from her. Nobody is asking for constant updates about physical therapy, school accommodations, survivorship appointments, fatigue, friendships or the thousand little things that come with trying to give a child her life back.

That part is not dramatic enough.

And that is where my anger lives.

Because I see how easy it is for people to be around when something is happening. I see how quickly people appear when there is something scary to hear or something new to talk about. But when the crisis gets quieter, suddenly so do they.

Meanwhile, she is still doing the work.

She is still showing up.

She is still rebuilding.

And somehow the child who already had to fight cancer is expected to do the aftermath with fewer people standing around her than she had when everyone thought she might die.

That will never make sense to me.

Cancer isn’t contagious. Survivorship isn’t something people should be afraid to get close to. You can invite her. You can include her. You can check in when nothing dramatic happened that day. You can remember that she is still a child who wants friendships, laughter, normal days and people who choose to stay.

Because surviving cancer should not mean surviving everyone leaving afterward too.

The hardest part is not always the moment everything falls apart.

Sometimes it is standing in the wreckage afterward and realizing how few people stayed to help you rebuild.

10/06/2026

The holidays are coming.

Soon there will be costumes and pumpkins, Thanksgiving tables, Christmas lights, school parties, family pictures and all of those little traditions that make childhood feel like childhood.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, there will be a child sitting on a pediatric oncology floor.

That is the part I wish more people understood.

Last year, Brynlee was receiving chemotherapy during this season. There were holidays that had to be recreated inside hospital walls. There were nurses, IV poles, medications, blood counts and hospital rooms mixed into moments that should have just been about being a kid.

And yes, the hospitals do incredible things to make those days special. Nurses decorate. Child Life shows up. People bring costumes, gifts and crafts. Everyone works so hard to give these children pieces of normal.

But I need people to understand something.

We should be grateful for the people creating magic inside pediatric oncology.

We should also be furious that so many children need that magic in the first place.

There are kids who will spend Halloween walking hospital hallways instead of their neighborhoods. There are families who will eat Thanksgiving dinner beside an IV pole. There are parents who will put Christmas decorations around monitors and medication pumps because cancer did not care what month it was when it entered their lives.

And while the rest of the world keeps moving, those families learn how to celebrate and be terrified at the exact same time.

That changes you.

It changed me.

Because once you have watched your child fight for her life, you cannot unsee the children still fighting.

I cannot look at pediatric cancer and simply say, “That is heartbreaking,” and move on.

I want better treatments.

I want more research.

I want more funding.

I want families to have access to the best possible care without having to beg insurance companies, cross state lines or depend on fundraising to get it.

I want children treated like a priority before their disease becomes somebody else’s tragedy.

And I will keep talking about it.

I will keep using Brynlee’s story.

I will keep asking uncomfortable questions.

I will keep pushing for better access, better treatment and better outcomes, because loving these children cannot stop at calling them brave.

They need people willing to fight beside them.

Brynlee gets to experience so much more normalcy this year, and I am grateful for that in ways I could never explain.

But I know there are families entering the season we just survived.

There are moms packing hospital bags right now.

There are children learning words like chemotherapy, radiation and blood counts when they should be thinking about costumes, Christmas lists and what they want to be when they grow up.

Those are the kids I will keep fighting for.

Because our children deserve so much more than a beautifully decorated hospital room.

They deserve the chance to go home.

10/05/2026

Brynlee had such a good weekend with friends, and I don’t think people realize how much that means to me now.

There was a time when her days were built around hospitals, treatments, medications, appointments, blood work, and whether or not she even had the energy to get out of bed. There was a time when school, friends, and normal kid stuff felt so far away.

Now I get to watch her spend a weekend laughing with friends and then get up and go to school.

That matters to me in a way I can’t really explain.

She has been doing so good lately. She is still easing back into school with partial days, and I’m really hoping this is the week she makes it all five days. We are not rushing her. We are not pretending her body and brain did not just go through something enormous. We are letting her build her strength back, find her routine again, and take this one day at a time.

And I am so thankful for her school and the team around her because they get that.

They work with her. They listen. They adjust things when she needs it. They make sure she is still included while also understanding that her needs are different right now. They have made going back to school feel possible instead of overwhelming, and that has meant everything.

This is the part people do not always see after treatment ends. You do not just close that chapter and go right back to the life you had before. There is still so much healing. So much rebuilding. So much learning how to do normal life again after cancer changed everything.

But she is doing it.

She is going to school. She is spending time with friends. She is laughing. She is making memories. She is getting stronger.

And every time I see more of her life come back, I think about how hard she fought to get here.

I am so proud of her.

Here is to another good week, and more moments where she gets to just be Brynlee. 🩷

10/02/2026

Brynlee is still NED.

And after this scan, those words hit a little harder.

After her MRI, Brynlee’s doctor showed me a spot toward the front of her brain, away from where her original tumor had been. It was something unusual enough that he wanted it looked at more closely, and at that moment, there was not a definite answer for what it was.

That is a hard thing to hear when your child has already had brain cancer.

Because no matter how much time passes, there is emotion tied to these scans.

There is history in them.

There is fear in them.

There are memories attached to those machines and those images that never completely leave you.

One scan can take you right back to the beginning.

Back to the months when Brynlee was getting sicker and sicker.

The sleeping.
The headaches.
The fevers.
The vomiting.
The weight loss.
The walking differently.

Back to knowing something was wrong long before I knew exactly what.

Back to the moment everything finally had a name.

Brain cancer.

So when her doctor showed me that spot, of course my mind went places I did not want it to go.

Not because I knew something was wrong.

Because I know what it feels like when one image changes your entire life.

And I am beyond grateful for the way Brynlee’s doctor takes care of her through all of this.

He knows her.
He watches her closely.
He cares about what happens to her.
And he understands that this is not just another scan or another appointment to us.

He wanted me to know what he was seeing as soon as possible, and he wanted answers just as much as I did.

That kind of care matters.

Especially after everything Brynlee has already been through.

She has survived brain surgery.

She has survived treatment.

She has had to work for strength, balance, movement and pieces of herself that used to come naturally.

And now she is finally getting more and more of her childhood back.

She is going to school.
She is using her right leg more.
She is getting stronger.
She is laughing.
She is growing.
She is living.

So the thought of anything threatening that again?

Terrifying.

But thankfully, that is not what this is.

What they found is a blood blister on a blood vessel, something that can happen because of everything her brain and body have already been through from treatment.

It is not cancer.

And Brynlee is still NED.

No evidence of disease.

I do not think those words will ever feel ordinary to me.

Not now.
Not in a year.
Not in five years.
Not in ten.

Because when your child has had cancer, you never really forget how quickly life can change.

But today, I get to breathe.

Today, I get to look at this little girl who has already fought so hard and know that cancer did not come back.

And there is another piece of this that means so much to me.

Brynlee is also part of a research study focused on better, earlier diagnosis for children.

That one gets me every single time I think about it.

Because the little girl who spent months getting sicker before anyone finally found the tumor in her brain is now helping researchers work toward making that road different for another child.

Maybe another parent gets answers sooner.

Maybe another child does not have to keep getting worse while everyone is still trying to figure out why.

Maybe what researchers learn from kids like Brynlee helps change the beginning of someone else’s story.

That matters.

Research matters.

Good doctors matter.

Being listened to matters.

And every single child deserves all three.

Brynlee has already given so much to this fight.

And somehow, she is still giving more.

She is still healing.
Still growing.
Still getting stronger.
Still helping move research forward.

And today, most importantly

Brynlee is still NED.

After everything she has been through, I will never stop being grateful for those three letters.

Brave Like Brynlee

10/11/2026

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