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

Brave Like Brynlee, Manchester, MI (2026)

06/10/2026

I never thought I would have to write something like this.

Someone has created a fake TikTok account pretending to be my daughter. The account is using Brynlee’s story, telling people that she is dying, and accepting money from strangers under false pretenses.

First and foremost, Brynlee is NOT dying.

As most of you know, Brynlee fought medulloblastoma, one of the most aggressive childhood brain tumors. She endured brain surgery, radiation, chemotherapy, months in the hospital, a feeding tube, a port, and more than any child should ever have to face. Today, she is in remission and continuing to heal.

To see someone exploit her story, her photos, and the worst chapter of our lives for money is beyond disgusting. Childhood cancer is not a scam. It is not a way to make a quick dollar. It is not a costume someone gets to put on behind a fake profile.

The account has blocked me, which makes it even harder to stop them, so I am asking for your help.

Please report the TikTok account:

Please do not send them money. Please do not share their content. Please report the account for impersonation and fraud.

As a mother, I have spent the last two years fighting to save my daughter’s life. I should not have to spend my time fighting people who are trying to profit from her pain too.

Thank you to everyone who helps us get this account taken down.

06/08/2026

Sometimes I look at Brynlee and forget she’s only 5.

Today she started speech therapy at a new place. Speech therapy itself isn’t new to her. She’s been doing it since she was 2 years old. At this point, walking into another office, meeting another therapist, and sitting through another evaluation is just part of her normal.

As her mom, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.

This was a lot more testing today, on top of all the testing she’s already had this past month for school and her IEP. She still receives speech services through her IEP, but this is some extra support that also works with hearing concerns. I won’t have definite answers about her hearing until after her MRI on the 25th, so right now we’re just taking the next step in front of us and hoping it helps.

What gets me is how she handles it all.

Lately she’s been exhausted. Her sleep schedule has been completely backwards. She’s been falling asleep around midnight, waking up between 2 and 3 in the morning, and then somehow staying awake all day. I don’t know how she does it because I’m tired just watching her.

And yet every time I take her somewhere for another appointment, another evaluation, another test, she just walks in and does what needs to be done.

No complaining.

No asking why.

No feeling sorry for herself.

Just Brynlee.

Sometimes I think about how much has been asked of her in such a short little life. Brain cancer. Surgeries. Therapies. Scans. School evaluations. More appointments than any child should ever have to sit through.

But if you met her, you’d never know it.

You’d just see a little girl who keeps showing up.

A little girl who keeps smiling.

A little girl who keeps proving that resilience isn’t something you learn from a book.

It’s something you live.

And somehow, every single day, she reminds me what strength really looks like. 🩷

06/07/2026

National Survivors Day.

Last year, I didn’t know if this day would belong to my daughter.

That’s the truth.

Not the polished version. Not the inspirational version. The truth.

When your child is diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumor, survival stops being a word you hear in commercials or awareness campaigns. It becomes the thing you quietly beg for. The thing you pray for at 2 a.m. when nobody else is awake. The thing you become afraid to say out loud because somehow saying it makes it feel like it could be taken away.

I remember sitting in hospital rooms watching doctors come and go, listening to conversations no parent is ever prepared to have, and realizing that the future I had always imagined for my daughter was no longer something I could take for granted. For the first time in my life, I understood what it felt like to truly be afraid of tomorrow.

Not afraid for me.

Afraid for her.

Afraid that the little girl who loved princesses and stuffed animals and all the ordinary things little girls are supposed to love was carrying something that could take her away from me.

People hear the word survivor and think about beating cancer.

I don’t.

When I hear survivor, I think about all the moments that almost never happened.

I think about every laugh that came after the diagnosis.

Every memory made after the surgery.

Every bedtime story.

Every holiday.

Every birthday.

Every ordinary day that I once would have overlooked and now hold onto with both hands because I know exactly how much they are worth.

National Survivor Day isn’t emotional for me because cancer happened.

It’s emotional because Brynlee survived it.

Because somehow, through all of the fear, all of the uncertainty, all of the days that felt impossible to survive, she is still here.

She is still laughing.

She is still dreaming.

She is still growing.

She is still writing a future that there was a time I was terrified I would never get to see.

And if you’ve never sat across from a doctor and wondered whether your child would get that future, it’s hard to explain what that means.

But I do know this.

Today, when I look at my daughter, I don’t see a diagnosis. I don’t see a brain tumor. I don’t see the worst thing that ever happened to us.

I see a survivor.

And there will never be a day that word doesn’t bring me to tears.🩷

06/05/2026

Today was Brynlee’s last day of Young 5’s.

When this school year started, I honestly didn’t know what the end of it would look like. Cancer had already taken so much from her. It took months of her childhood, time with friends, classroom experiences, routines, milestones, and the simple ability to just be a little girl without the weight of hospital visits, scans, surgeries, and treatment hanging over her.

She missed so much school this year. More than any child ever should.

There were days I wondered how she would catch up. Days I worried about what returning to school would look like for her. Days I wondered if cancer had taken too much.

But today, I watched my little girl finish Young 5’s.

Not only did she finish, she finished in remission.

The same little girl who spent part of this school year fighting for her life is now thriving. The same little girl who had to relearn so much after brain surgery is walking the halls, making friends, learning, laughing, and finding her place again.

And this fall, she will start kindergarten alongside everyone else. She’ll be back in school in person, something that felt so far away during the hardest days of treatment. There were moments when I couldn’t see past the next MRI, the next appointment, or the next hurdle. Now we’re talking about kindergarten, and that feels nothing short of incredible.

I will never be able to thank Luther C. Klager Elementary, her teachers, therapists, support staff, school team, and principal enough for everything they have done for Brynlee this year. Thank you for loving her, encouraging her, accommodating her needs, celebrating her victories, and helping her feel safe as she found her way back to school. You didn’t just teach her. You helped her heal.

This school year looked nothing like I imagined it would.

It was filled with fear, uncertainty, setbacks, and heartbreak.

But it was also filled with grace, kindness, patience, and people who showed up for my daughter over and over again.

Today isn’t just the last day of Young 5’s.

It’s proof of how far Brynlee has come.

From a hospital bed to remission.
From surviving to thriving.
From wondering if she’d ever have a normal school year to getting ready for kindergarten.

And I couldn’t be more proud of her. 🩷🎓✨

06/05/2026

This picture got me.

Yesterday was the very first time Brynlee got to go out to recess with everyone in her grade. Not just a quick visit. Not a separate activity. Not from the sidelines. She got to be out there with the other kids, laughing, walking, and being part of something that should have always been hers.

Some of these children haven’t seen her since before she was diagnosed. Before brain surgery. Before radiation. Before cancer changed all of our lives.

And yet, they welcomed her with so much love.

The girls in this photo, along with a few sweet friends who aren’t pictured, are the children in Brynlee’s class this year. They have made those 30 minutes at school easier than I can ever explain. They are gentle with her. Patient with her. Protective of her. They walk at her speed without being asked. They give her space when she needs it. They hold her hand when she wants it. They watch out for her in ways that most adults don’t even think about.

Even the questions they ask me about Brynlee are thoughtful. Caring. They genuinely want to understand her and what she’s been through.

This school year has been anything but normal. There has been so much that Brynlee has missed, so much that looked different than it should have. But these children have never made her feel different. They’ve made coming back feel safe.

Standing there watching them all walk together, I had to fight back tears.

Because when you watch your child survive cancer, you worry about everything. You worry if they’ll fit in. If they’ll be accepted. If other kids will understand. If they’ll be treated differently.

Then you witness something like this.

You see a group of little girls slow down so one friend can keep up.

And suddenly you’re reminded that there is still so much goodness in this world.

These sweet kids may never fully understand how much their kindness has meant to Brynlee this year, but I hope their parents know they are raising some truly incredible human beings. 🩷

06/03/2026

June is Cancer Survivor Month, and I don’t think there are enough words in the world to explain what that means when it’s your child.

A year ago, I was living in a reality where every phone call, every scan, every appointment felt like it could change everything. My entire world revolved around keeping my daughter alive. Nothing else mattered. Not the laundry, not the dishes, not the bills, not the things people complain about every day. Just her.

Now I watch Brynlee run through the house, argue with her brothers, make messes, leave toys everywhere, and ask me a hundred questions before I’ve even had my coffee. And sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that these are the moments I begged for.

Not the big milestones. Not the celebrations. This.

The ordinary Tuesday nights. The laughter coming from the next room. The sound of her telling me about something completely unimportant because she is five years old and that’s exactly what five year olds are supposed to do.

Cancer has a way of making you fall in love with the little things because you learn how much they were never promised.

This month is for survivors, and when I look at Brynlee, that’s exactly what I see. Not because cancer is part of her story, but because after everything that tried to take her childhood away, she’s still here living it.

And that will never stop feeling like a miracle to me.🩷

05/31/2026

Last night, we had the honor of attending the Golden Gala hosted by Love, Team Tessa, and it was truly an incredible evening.

Everything about the night was beautiful, from the atmosphere to the people, to the stories that filled the room. But what touched my heart the most was seeing the impact one little girl continues to have on so many lives.

There is something so powerful about witnessing a legacy built from love, strength, and hope. To see how Tessa’s story continues to bring people together, support families, and make a difference in the childhood cancer community was simply amazing.

Thank you to Love, Team Tessa for creating such a meaningful and unforgettable night. We are so grateful we were able to be a part of it. 🩷

05/27/2026

Meet Brynlee one of our Little Victors from our 2026 calendar. “Brynlee was diagnosed with medulloblastoma (group 3) in April of 2025. She has gone through 30 rounds of radiation and rang the bell in June! She’s currently going through maintenance chemotherapy and is going on her fourth cycle with 42 rounds and counting. She is the bravest, funniest, most polite, amazing little girl there is.” Hail, Brynlee!

05/26/2026

One more month. 🥹✨

In just a few short weeks, Brynlee will be heading to Disney World for her Make A Wish trip, and I don’t even know if words can explain how excited she is. Every single day it’s princess talk over here. Which dresses she wants to wear, who she hopes to meet first, what rides she wants to try, and if Cinderella’s castle is “really THAT big.” 🩷

There was a time when our world felt like hospitals, surgeries, scans, medications, and fear. A time when joy felt so far away. So getting to watch her dream about princesses instead of procedures feels healing in a way I can’t explain.

She has fought so hard for this happiness. For these memories. For this childhood.

And now my little warrior gets to go be a princess for a while. ✨🏰💕

05/25/2026

Sometimes I sit and think about the fact that I am going to spend the rest of my life explaining cancer to my child.

Brynlee was only 4 years old when she was diagnosed.
She was still at the age where the world was supposed to feel magical and safe. She did not truly understand what was happening to her while it was happening. She did not understand why she suddenly lived at hospitals. Why doctors and machines became part of everyday life. Why medicine made her sick. Why her hair fell out. Why Mommy looked terrified all the time even when I tried so hard to hide it.

And now that she’s growing up, I realize there will never be a point where this journey is just “over” for us.

Because one day I will have to fully explain to her what cancer actually was.
I will have to explain why she still has MRI’s.
Why she still has doctors.
Why certain symptoms matter.
Why I panic over headaches.
Why I ask certain questions.
Why there are parts of her childhood I can barely speak about without feeling my chest cave in.

And somehow I have to teach my little girl the signs she needs to tell me about without placing the weight of my fear onto her shoulders.

That is the part nobody prepares you for.

Nobody prepares you for the heartbreak of trying to keep your child informed enough to protect themselves while also trying desperately to preserve their innocence.

Because to her, cancer is the monster she beat.
That’s how she sees it.

And honestly, sometimes hearing something so heavy come from such a tiny, beautiful little soul completely wrecks me.

There are moments I feel thankful she was only 4 because she did not have to walk into school terrified of being bullied for losing her hair. She did not have to sit in classrooms feeling different from everyone else in the way older children often do. She did not have to fully carry the social cruelty that cancer can bring into a child’s life.

But even typing that feels heartbreaking, because what kind of world do we live in where a parent feels relief over their child being too young to fully understand their own cancer battle?

No age makes this fair.
No age makes this hurt less.

Cancer still stole pieces of her childhood.
It still changed her life forever.
It still changed mine forever.

And yet somehow, through all of this, she continues to be full of light. Full of joy. Full of strength that should never have been asked of her in the first place.

I look at her sometimes and wonder how someone so little carried something so impossibly heavy and still came out smiling.

Brave Like Brynlee

06/10/2026

06/08/2026

06/07/2026

06/05/2026

06/05/2026

06/03/2026

05/31/2026

05/27/2026

05/26/2026

05/25/2026

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