There are moments in life that no parent is ever prepared to face—moments that fracture the soul so completely that breathing itself feels like an act of survival. Moments when time seems to slow, yet every second cuts deeper than the last. This is one of those moments. And yet here I am, writing words no parent should ever have to write, sharing an update no family should ever have to give.

Our sweet Brinley.
Our beautiful girl.
She fought with every ounce of strength her tiny body had.

From the moment she entered this world, she was surrounded by love, hope, and fierce determination. When we learned she had pulmonary hypertension, fear became a constant companion—but hope never left us. We clung to it desperately. We trusted in the medication she was given, believing with everything in us that it would be the answer, the turning point, the miracle that would bring our daughter back to us. It felt like our last chance, and we held onto it with trembling hands.

But that hope began to unravel.

The medication that was meant to save her became too much for her fragile body to endure. The side effects were overwhelming. Her oxygen levels dropped—plummeting into the low 40s. We watched the numbers fall on the monitor, helpless and frozen, as if our entire future was collapsing right in front of our eyes. We prayed. We begged. We pleaded for something—anything—to change.

That night, faced with no other options, we made the gut-wrenching decision to place Brinley back on ECMO. A machine that had once symbolized hope had now become a final thread we clung to in desperation. We were told we would know more in the morning. We barely slept, suspended in fear, counting breaths, counting minutes, counting heartbeats.

Morning came—but not with the miracle we had prayed for.

Instead, we were met with devastating truth. ECMO was no longer helping Brinley. It was only causing her more harm. The very machine we had hoped would save her was now prolonging her suffering. What followed was the most impossible decision a parent can ever face: to remove it. To willingly let go of one more piece of equipment keeping your child alive.

There is no way to prepare for that moment.
No words. No strength. No guide.

In that moment, two unbearable truths lived inside me at the same time. There was a strange sense of relief knowing Brinley would no longer be in pain—and at the same time, a heartbreak so deep it shattered everything I am. Relief and devastation intertwined in a way I never knew was possible. I was being forced to say goodbye to a future I had imagined a thousand times—to a daughter I never believed I would lose.

Before ECMO was removed, Noah and I were given the precious gift of holding Brinley, knowing it could be the last time. We held her tightly, memorizing the weight of her, the feel of her skin, the sound of her breathing. The sedatives and paralytics allowed her to rest, and for a brief moment, there was peace. In that stillness, she was ours—safe, loved, and surrounded by everything she had ever known.

Then, in an instant, everything changed.

Her arterial line blew, and blood covered my hands and arms. A moment meant to be sacred and tender was overtaken by shock and trauma. That image is etched into my soul forever. It is a memory I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

And yet—even then—Brinley showed us who she truly was.

She remained calm. Gentle. Peaceful. She loved being held by her daddy, and even in the middle of unimaginable pain and chaos, she was content in our arms. She was still our perfect girl. That truth is something no circumstance can ever take from us.

Now, we exist in a space of painful waiting.

We are slowly watching Brinley’s body respond to the removal of life support. Every moment feels fragile. Every breath feels sacred. We are holding onto the faint hope that we may be able to bring her “home”—a place outside hospital walls, where she could be surrounded by love instead of machines. But for now, life is measured in hours, in breaths, in heartbeats.

Day by day.
Hour by hour.
Breath by breath.

And then there is Blakely.

Our almost four-year-old. Our firstborn. Our big sister. Because of hospital restrictions, she hasn’t been able to see Brinley. She doesn’t understand why her baby sister suddenly disappeared or why everything in her world changed overnight. One moment, she had a sister at home. The next, nothing was the same.

How do you explain this to a child?
How do you explain a loss you can barely comprehend yourself?

Blakely was born to be a sister. And in a cruel twist of fate, she was robbed of that role without warning. She will grow up with a quiet absence—a space in her heart shaped like the sister she was meant to have forever. Watching my children experience pain in such different ways is a grief I never imagined I would have to carry.

We began this journey determined to fight for Brinley with everything we had. We raised money so no option would be left unexplored. We traveled. We consulted specialists. We tried every treatment. Every hospital. Every possibility. We moved mountains for our daughter.

We did everything right.
We gave everything we had.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

Now, instead of raising money to save our child, we are raising money to bury her. Writing those words feels unreal. I am asking for your prayers—please keep praying. Please say her name. Please hold our family in your thoughts when we no longer know how to stand on our own.

We are shattered.
We are lost.
We are undone.

But we are still here—loving our girls with every ounce of strength left inside us.

We are heartbroken beyond words, yet overflowing with love for Brinley. She is our everything. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Forever. She will always be our daughter. Always our baby. Always our love.

Please continue to keep our family in your prayers as we navigate this unbearable pain and prepare to say goodbye to the precious daughter we never thought we would lose.