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Brave Like Brynlee, Manchester, MI (2026)

04/13/2026

Today was one of those quiet, beautiful steps forward that probably wouldn’t mean much to anyone else but to me, it means everything.

Brynlee went in for her 30 minute homebound time today. For anyone new here, she’s not back in school full time yet. Right now she goes in for a short 30 minutes each day as she eases back into it. And I can already see it..how much better she does being there in person instead of behind a screen. There’s just something about her being in that space again, sitting in a real chair, flipping through books, being part of something, it’s bringing pieces of her back.

She’s getting more comfortable every time we walk through those doors. Less hesitation, more curiosity, more of that little spark that’s been through so much this past year.

And now Fridays..Fridays are becoming her favorite. She gets 30 minutes actually in her classroom, with her teacher and all of her classmates. The excitement in her voice when she talks about it, she cannot wait to be around her friends again. After everything she’s been through, something as simple as 30 minutes in a classroom feels like the biggest gift.

Today she sat there so focused, flipping through her book like it was the most important thing in the world. Surrounded by little stuffed animals, her cozy chair, that calm little corner, just being a kid. And then she went up to the board and drew a picture of me and her in her own sweet little way. I don’t think she realizes how much that moment means to me. After everything we’ve walked through, she’s still choosing joy, still choosing love.

I will never be able to put into words how thankful I am for her teachers and everyone at the school. The way they go out of their way to make her feel safe, welcomed, and loved, it doesn’t go unnoticed. They’re not just helping her learn, they’re helping her heal.

And I see it. Every single day, I see it.

04/12/2026

This weekend was one of those quiet, full circle moments I don’t think I’ll ever be able to properly put into words.

We spent a late Easter with Grandma and Papa, and they had a cake waiting for Brynlee to celebrate beating cancer..and even typing that still feels unreal to me, because there was a time not that long ago when everything felt so uncertain and so heavy, and now here we are in a room filled with family, laughter, and a little girl who fought her way back to days like this.

She got to spend time with her cousins she hasn’t seen in a while, just running around, laughing, and being right in the middle of it all like she never missed a beat, and I think that’s what hits me the most. How naturally she just steps back into being a kid, how easily she finds joy again, how she carries something so big and still chooses to live so light.

There’s something about these kinds of days that stay with you, not because they’re extravagant or perfect, but because they’re normal in a way that once felt impossible, and I don’t think I will ever take that for granted.

I don’t take the laughter for granted, or the noise, or the simple fact that she gets to be here, surrounded by people who love her, celebrating not just a holiday but the fact that she made it through something that tried to take so much from her.

She’s here, she’s living, she’s growing, and getting to witness that will always be one of the greatest gifts of my life. 🩷

04/09/2026

April 9th.

I’ve gone over this day in my head more times than I can count, and somehow it still doesn’t feel real that an entire year has passed since the day that changed everything about our lives.

One year ago today, I walked into that hospital as a mom who knew something wasn’t right, but I walked out carrying a word that would split our world in two. Cancer. The kind of word that doesn’t just land, it settles into you, into your bones, into every quiet moment that follows.

What people don’t see when they look at today is everything that came after that moment. The days that blurred together inside hospital walls. The nights that didn’t have sleep, just worry and machines and prayers whispered quietly so I wouldn’t wake her. The way time stopped and somehow moved too fast all at once.

59 doses of chemo. 30 rounds of radiation.

Numbers that don’t just sit on paper, they lived in her body.

They took her hair, piece by piece, until I watched my baby girl face the mirror in a way no child ever should have to. They took 15% of her body weight, leaving me trying to pour everything I could into her while her body fought against it. They led us to an NG tube, something I never imagined would become part of our everyday life, learning how to feed my child through something that felt so unnatural, yet so necessary to keep her here.

This wasn’t just treatment. This was survival.

Because Brynlee..she didn’t just go through this. She fought.

She fought on the days her little body was tired. She fought when she didn’t understand why this was happening to her. She fought through things most grown adults wouldn’t be able to handle, and she did it with a strength that still leaves me in awe.

And she wasn’t the only one.

Chandler and Kaiser..her big brothers who had to grow up in ways they never should have. The boys who learned how to be strong in the quiet, who watched their sister go through things they couldn’t fix, but never once stopped loving her through it. They carried more than anyone will ever fully see.

And me..

I fought in a different way. I fought to be heard. I fought to keep it together in front of her while breaking in places no one could see. I fought to be the safe place she needed, even when everything around us felt so uncertain.

This wasn’t just her battle. This was ours.

Every single one of us.

And somehow, through all of it, here we are.

One year later.

And she is in remission.

That word feels just as heavy as the one we were given that day, but in a completely different way. It’s softer. It’s filled with hope. It’s something I say carefully, like I’m holding it in my hands and I don’t want to drop it.

This year also became something bigger than just our story.

“Brave Like Brynlee.”

What started as a way to share her fight became a place where people showed up in ways I will never be able to fully explain. People who prayed, who followed, who carried us when we didn’t have anything left to give. This page became proof that even in the darkest moments, there is still so much light.

I wish I could go back and hold the version of me from April 9th last year. I wish I could tell her that the road ahead is going to break her in ways she never imagined, but it’s also going to show her just how strong her daughter is. Just how strong her boys are. Just how strong she is.

I would tell her that one day, she will be able to say this out loud..

We made it here.

Not without scars.
Not without fear that still lingers in the quiet moments.
Not without memories that will never fully leave us.

But we made it.

One year of fighting.
One year of surviving.
One year of being Brave Like Brynlee.

And if there’s one thing this journey has taught me, it’s this..

She was never just fighting to survive.

She was showing all of us how to live.

04/07/2026

I took this picture two days before everything changed, and if you didn’t know what was coming, you’d probably just see a tired little girl laying there wrapped up in her blanket. But I remember that night so clearly, because something in me knew this wasn’t normal, no matter how many times I was told it was.

She had been throwing up over and over, unable to keep anything down, so exhausted she could barely stay awake. She wasn’t just tired, she was slipping into this constant state of sleep that I couldn’t pull her out of, and even when she was resting, she wasn’t at peace. She would cry in her sleep, a soft, broken cry that didn’t fully wake her up, and I would sit there watching her, trying to understand what kind of pain makes a child cry like that without even opening their eyes.

That night, I took her back to the ER again, carrying the same fear I had been carrying for days, hoping this time someone would finally see what I was seeing. And again, I was told it was nothing more than strep, sent home with answers that didn’t match the child I was watching fade right in front of me.

What I didn’t know then, what no one was catching, was that pressure was building inside my daughter’s brain. That every moment she was laying there, every time she cried in her sleep, every time she couldn’t stay awake, her body was fighting something far more serious than anyone was willing to admit.

When I look at this picture now, I don’t just see her being sick. I see how close we were to losing her.

One week.

That’s all that stood between this moment and a completely different ending. One more week of being told it was “nothing,” one more week of not being heard, and I don’t even want to finish that sentence because it still takes the air out of my chest to think about it.

This is why I speak the way I do now. This is why I will never sit quietly when something doesn’t feel right. Because I lived the reality of what happens when a mother’s voice is brushed off, when instincts are dismissed, when symptoms are explained away instead of truly seen.

Mothers know when something is wrong. Not because we’re doctors, but because we know our children in a way no chart or quick visit ever could. And sometimes the signs aren’t loud and obvious, sometimes they look like this. Quiet. Exhausted. Subtle enough for the world to overlook, but serious enough to take everything.

I carry this picture with me differently now. Not just as a memory, but as a reminder of how important it is to keep pushing, to keep asking, to keep fighting even when you’re made to feel like you’re overreacting.

Because my daughter was heard just in time.

And every child deserves that same chance.

04/06/2026

I hope everyone had a beautiful Easter. Ours felt different this year..in the quiet, overwhelming kind of way that only comes when you’ve lived through something you weren’t sure you’d make it out of.

The kids had such a good day. The kind of day you wish you could bottle up and keep forever. Laughing, running around, just being kids again without a shadow hanging over every moment. And I found myself just watching them more than anything, taking it all in, because I know exactly how fragile these moments can be.

This time last year, Easter didn’t look anything like this. We were in the hospital, just at the beginning of a journey that turned our entire world upside down. I remember leaving her room to go get their Easter stuff, walking those aisles completely heartbroken, grabbing way more than I should have, not because I wanted to spoil them, but because I was terrified. Terrified that it might be her last Easter. That thought sat in my chest the entire time, and no parent should ever have to carry something like that.

And now here we are.

She’s in remission.

Saying that still doesn’t feel real sometimes. Because if you would’ve asked me back then, in those hospital days filled with fear and unknowns, I don’t think I could’ve even pictured this version of our life. I wasn’t thinking about healing or normal days or Easter mornings at home, I was just trying to get through the next hour.

But we made it here.

This Easter wasn’t just about baskets or candy or pictures. It was about breath. About time. About a second chance I will never take for granted. It was about looking at my little girl and knowing she’s still here, still fighting, still smiling, after everything.

I am so grateful to be here this year. In a way that only comes from almost losing it all.

And I’ll never celebrate a single holiday the same again.

04/05/2026

April is Childhood Cancer Sibling Awareness Month, and tonight I keep finding myself thinking about the boys..not just where they are now, but everything they’ve quietly carried to get here.

I can still picture those early days so clearly. The kind of days where everything changed, but nothing around us looked different yet. We were still at home, still in the same house, but nothing felt the same. And they felt it too.

Chandler and Kaiser went from being just big brothers to something so much more overnight.

They were there for the long days. The waiting. The tension you could feel in the room even when no one was saying anything out loud. They watched their little sister go through things they didn’t understand, things no child should have to make sense of. And I remember looking at them sometimes, wondering how they were processing any of it..because kids aren’t supposed to carry that kind of weight.

There were moments I know they’ll never forget. Moments I wish I could take from them if I could. The kind that stick in your mind, even when life moves forward.

And at the same time, life didn’t stop asking things from them.

They still had to go to school. Still expected to focus, to behave, to keep up with everything like their world wasn’t shifting behind the scenes. They had to split their time, their attention, their emotions. Learning how to be okay even when things didn’t feel okay.

And somehow, they figured out how to love her through all of it in the most natural way.

Not in some big, loud, attention grabbing way, but in the quiet ways that matter the most. Sitting with her. Checking on her. Including her. Protecting her without even thinking twice about it. Loving her like nothing about her had changed, even when everything around us had.

That’s the kind of strength people don’t always see.

This journey didn’t just grow them up, it reshaped them. It asked more of them than it ever should have. It took pieces of their childhood and replaced them with understanding way too early.

But it also showed me who they are at their core.

They are steady. They are protective. They are deeply, deeply loving boys who stepped into something hard and never once walked away from their sister.

And Brynlee..she will never fully know just how much her brothers have carried alongside her. But I do.

I see it.

I see them.

And I will never stop being proud of the way they’ve walked through this. Right beside her, every single step of the way.

04/03/2026

I’m sitting here trying to put this feeling into words, and it almost doesn’t feel real to say it out loud..but she did it. My girl had her procedure today and it went so good. And just like that, her port is gone. Her tube is gone. The things that once felt like they would be part of our everyday life forever are just..not anymore.

There’s a kind of quiet that comes with that. A deep breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding for so long. It feels amazing, it really does..but if I’m being honest, there’s still that little voice in the back of my mind that makes me pause. Like I’m scared to fully settle into this moment, scared I might be getting my hopes too high. Not in a way that takes away from today, just in a way that reminds me of everything it took to get here.

Right now she’s a little crabby, and I don’t blame her one bit. Today was a lot. But I know my girl..give it a few hours and she’ll be back to herself, like she always is.

And I have to say this because it matters so much to me..child life is truly something special. They didn’t just show up today, they made this moment feel big in the best way. They put together a whole gift for her, for this milestone, like they understood exactly what this day means to a little girl and her mom. That kind of care sticks with you.

I keep thinking about every single person who has followed her story, who has prayed, who has checked in, who has loved her from near and far..you are part of this. You always have been. None of these moments exist in a vacuum, they’re held up by so many people who chose to care.

And as I sit here, watching her finally rest after such a big day, I can feel it..this isn’t just an ending. It feels like the beginning of something bigger. Something I’ve been quietly holding onto, something that’s been growing in my heart for a while now..and I think it’s time to start bringing it to life.

But for today, I’m just going to sit in this moment.

No port.
No tube.

Just my girl. 🩷

04/03/2026

The last picture with her tube. 🩷

If you can, please say a prayer for my girl today. That her procedure goes as smoothly as possible, that she’s calm, covered, and comes through it all safe.

Just holding onto this moment a little tighter today.

04/02/2026

Today was one of those days that leaves you sitting in your thoughts long after it’s over.

Brynlee had her hearing assessment, and I walked in hoping for simple answers..something clear, something easy to understand. But instead, I walked out with more questions than I had going in. They told me her high frequency hearing is a little more damaged, and now the middle hearing in her left ear is starting to look like it’s gone down too. But at the same time, they couldn’t give me a full, clear picture because she has hard wax built up that could be affecting the results. So now I’m home, trying to do what I can on my end, knowing we’ll have to go back through this again.

In a month, we’ll be seeing an ENT and repeating another hearing assessment. And that’s the part that sits heavy. It’s the waiting. The not knowing. The wondering if what we’re seeing now is temporary, or if it’s something more permanent that we’re going to have to learn how to navigate. It’s confusing and it’s concerning all at once, and I don’t think people understand how loud that kind of unknown can feel when it’s your child.

But then..in the middle of all of that, there’s this.

Tomorrow, my baby gets her port and her tube taken out.

And I don’t even know how to hold both of those feelings at the same time. The fear of what we don’t have answers for yet..and the overwhelming gratitude that we’ve made it far enough to even be here. Because this time last year, we were begging for answers. Now we’re being told we get to take pieces of her fight away.

I’m nervous, I won’t lie. Giving medicine by mouth feels like such a small thing to most people, but for us it’s new, it’s different, and it’s another step into a version of life we’re still learning how to live. Everything feels a little uncertain right now.

But still..I look at her, and I know how far she’s come.

And no matter what tomorrow brings, no matter what next month’s tests say, I will never stop being grateful that we are here..in this moment..with her.

Right where I once prayed to be.

04/01/2026

Spring break has been quiet over here in a way I used to pray for.

No rushing out the door, no long days of sitting in waiting rooms, no trying to keep her entertained in places no kid should have to spend so much time in. Just slow mornings, later bedtimes, and a little girl finally getting to just be a little girl again. I catch myself watching her more than usual, taking in the way she laughs, the way she moves, the way she exists so freely now..because there was a time I didn’t know if we would ever get back to something that even felt close to this.

From the outside, it probably looks like everything is back to normal. Like we got through it and now we just move on.

But life after cancer doesn’t work like that.

It doesn’t just end when treatment ends. It follows you into the “after” in ways people don’t see. In the appointments that are still lined up on the calendar, in the tests that still carry weight, in the quiet moments where your mind goes places you wish it didn’t.

This Thursday she goes in for another hearing test, and this one is supposed to give us real answers. It’s the one that will tell us if she’s going to need hearing aids. And I won’t lie, that part is hard for me. Not because she can’t handle it, because she can handle anything, but because I hate that this journey still finds ways to take more from her even now.

At the same time, she’s been doing so good. Her appetite has slowed down a little since coming off her medication, and yeah I notice every little change, I always will, but she’s still eating. She’s still growing. She’s still here, living her life, and that matters more than anything else.

That’s the part people don’t always understand. Childhood cancer doesn’t just end, it changes. It becomes follow ups, side effects, “just to be safe” appointments, and learning how to live in between gratitude and fear without letting either one take over.

And somehow, through all of that, she is still just..her.

Happy. Strong. So sure of herself. Still finding joy in the smallest things, still waking up ready to take on whatever the day brings without even realizing how much she’s already overcome.

So while we head into another appointment this week, while we sit in another unknown, I’m holding onto what’s right in front of me. A little girl on spring break, laughing, playing, living, and reminding me every single day what resilience actually looks like.

This is life after cancer.

Not perfect, not easy, but still so full of moments I once begged God for.

Brave Like Brynlee

04/13/2026

04/12/2026

04/09/2026

04/07/2026

04/06/2026

04/05/2026

04/03/2026

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04/01/2026

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