Elowyn Ivy Pollard’s Journey: Courage, Joy, and the World She Built in Two Short Years.1983
The world dimmed a little on July 29th, 2024, when Elowyn Ivy Pollard, only five years old, took her final breath.
It happened exactly two years after she was diagnosed with
For 24 long months, Elowyn fought a battle no child should ever have to face.
And yet, through every tear, every needle, every sleepless night — she lived like sunlight itself: fierce, fearless, and full of joy.
Elowyn wasn’t like anyone else.
She was unapologetically herself — bold, funny, wild, and free.
She wasn’t afraid to take up space in the world; she built her own.
She called it “Winnie’s World.”
In Winnie’s World, everything was possible.
It was a place built from her imagination — filled with colorful cities made of toys, shimmering lakes of glitter, and tiny kingdoms where everyone was happy.
She arranged each piece with care, remembering every detail, every name, every story she’d created.
If you were lucky enough, she’d invite you in — and for a moment, you’d see the world through her eyes: magical, boundless, and beautifully alive.
Elowyn loved the water.
She could swim for hours, pretending she was a mermaid, splashing with joy, her laughter echoing like a melody.
Her mother, April Nicole, used to say that the water felt like home to her.
It was where she could be free, unburdened — even if just for a little while.
She loved to dance, too.
And not just any dance — she had wild, unrestrained moves that made everyone laugh and join in.
At family gatherings, it was always Elowyn who started the dance floor.
Music played, lights shimmered, and there she was — twirling in her glittery tutu, her bare feet hitting the floor with life itself.
She loved all things Halloween.
Monsters, pumpkins, ghosts — she found joy in the spooky and strange.
Her favorite game was “Monster,” where she’d chase everyone around the house, growling and laughing until she collapsed from giggles.
She loved Buzz Lightyear, Elsa and Anna, and Jack Skellington — her little world was equal parts magic and mischief.
Elowyn’s parents often said she didn’t need the world to entertain her — she built her own adventure out of everything around her.
A leaf became a fairy boat.
A spoon became a microphone.
A rainy day became a stage.
She was very particular about love.
She didn’t love everyone — but when she did, she loved deeply.
To be in Elowyn’s circle was to be seen, to be chosen, to be special.
She didn’t care about fitting in, following rules, or doing what everyone else was doing.
She did what she wanted, when she wanted, and lived exactly as she pleased.
And, famously, she hated wearing clothes.
Her parents laughed that she spent “about 80% of her life naked.”
She loved the feeling of freedom — the way the air felt against her skin, the sense of being wild and untamed.
But when she did dress up, she made it a full event.
She adored glitter — the more, the better.
She painted her nails, wore sparkly makeup, and insisted everyone around her should too.
“Life’s better when it shines,” she used to say.
She wasn’t just playful — she was wise in a way only children who’ve seen too much can be.
Elowyn understood love deeply.
She knew she was adored.
Her parents told her every single day — and she believed it.
She carried that love like armor, walking through fear with a smile that could melt even the coldest heart.
April once said, “She was our shooting star — bright, unstoppable, and too beautiful to stay forever.”
And that’s exactly what she was.
Even in her hardest days, when the pain was too much and the doctors whispered quiet prayers, Elowyn would look up and say, “It’s okay, Mommy. I’m still happy.”
Her laughter never faded.
Her spirit never broke.
On that final Monday, the world felt still.
The air was soft, the light golden, and the room filled with the sound of quiet breathing and whispered love.
Her parents held her — one on each side — and told her it was okay to rest.
At 7:57 p.m., surrounded by everything that mattered, she took her last breath.
April wrote later:
“Our beautiful Elowyn Ivy left this world on Monday, July 29, 2024 — exactly two years after being diagnosed with DIPG.
We are devastated and trying to find our way without her.
Our girl deserved so much more than this.
She was forced to fight the impossible, and she held on as long as she could.
Daddy and Mommy are so, so proud of you — our shooting star.
It was an honor to be your parents.”
In those words, there is both heartbreak and pride — the kind that only parents who have loved and lost can know.
Elowyn’s story didn’t end that night.
It continues in the people she touched — in her laughter, in her defiance, in her ability to make the ordinary feel extraordinary.
Her family planned a Celebration of Life — not a funeral, but a day to dance, to sing, and to remember her light.
They invited everyone to honor her the way she would have wanted: with color, with joy, with music.
“Crank up the music,” her family wrote, “and dance. Look at the stars. Eat a key lime yogurt. To infinity and beyond, Elowyn.”
Because that was how she lived — loudly, beautifully, and without apology.
Even the stars seem to shine a little brighter now, as if carrying a bit of her glow.
And somewhere, in a world beyond ours, there’s a little girl with messy hair, bare feet, and a laugh that could wake the heavens — dancing freely under skies that sparkle forever.
Elowyn Ivy Pollard — forever five.
Forever loved.
Forever our shooting star. 🌠
Atlas Begins Dinutuximab: A New Battle Filled with Both Hope and Pain.1561
Today marks another chapter in Atlas’s journey, one that feels both terrifying and hopeful all at once.
Dinutuximab has officially started.
It’s not just a simple treatment—it’s a research drug, a medicine with the potential to save lives but also one that carries a long list of adverse side effects.
As I sit by his bed, watching the machines hum and beep, I can’t help but feel a mix of gratitude and fear.
Atlas now has to be constantly monitored for his vitals.
Every heartbeat, every breath, every small change is recorded, because with a drug like this, anything can happen.
He has been on gabapentin for a few days now.
The hope is that it will lessen the nerve pain, because the pain this drug can cause is brutal, like fire running through delicate wires.
Alongside that, he has tons of medications coursing through his little body—pain meds, nausea meds, antihistamines.
And in the corner of the room sits an anaphylaxis kit, always ready, just in case.
This is what life looks like for us now.
Dinutuximab is different from cisplatin, and for that I am thankful.
At least this time, we don’t have to brace for three straight weeks of vomiting.
Still, we know what’s coming.
His levels will most likely drop after this week.
That means blood transfusions are almost certain, another hurdle in an endless line of hurdles.
And when we go home, the fight doesn’t stop.
I’ll have to administer shots daily for seven days.
It’s another learning curve for me, another step into a world I never wanted to know but have been forced to master.
And for Atlas, it’s just one more battle in a war that should never belong to a child.
As if that weren’t enough, his big sister is at home throwing up.
My heart sinks at the thought of exposure, of Atlas catching whatever bug she has.
Because sickness during chemo or immunotherapy isn’t just “getting sick.”
It’s dangerous.
It’s frightening.
It’s the kind of thing that makes me want to lock the world out, to quarantine us all forever, just to keep him safe.
I know I can’t, but the fear lives deep inside me anyway.
Atlas is sleepy now.
The nurses gave him Benadryl in case of allergic reaction, and it’s pulled him into a foggy rest.
I watch him as he drifts, his eyelashes fluttering, his breathing soft and steady.
Even in sleep, he looks so small, so fragile, yet somehow so strong.
I think about all that his little body has already endured.
So many treatments.
So many needles.
So many nights in hospital rooms, where the sound of monitors replaces lullabies.
He has been asked to endure more in his short years than many adults face in a lifetime.
And still, he fights.
He smiles when he can.
He holds my hand when the pain is too much.
He pushes through in ways that leave me in awe.
There are moments when I wonder how much more he can take.
But then I look at him—my Atlas—and I realize that strength has no measure when it comes to love, survival, and the will to keep moving forward.
This treatment is another mountain.
It will bring pain, it will bring exhaustion, it will bring tears.
But it might also bring healing.
It might bring us closer to the day when Atlas doesn’t have to live his life tethered to machines and medicine.
It might bring us closer to the day when he can simply be a boy—running, laughing, living.
So tonight, as I sit here in this quiet hospital room, I hold on to hope.
Hope that the side effects are minimal.
Hope that his body stays strong enough to endure.
Hope that this drug does what it was designed to do.
And above all, hope that my son will one day look back on this chapter not with pain, but with pride, knowing he was a warrior before he could even understand the word.
We carry that hope because it’s the only way forward.
And we lean on your prayers, your love, your encouragement—because they are the light that helps us walk through this storm.
