The Smallest Warrior with the Biggest Heart.1977
January 13th, 2022 – July 4th, 2024
Forever 2 | ATRT
The morning she left, the world seemed to pause.
The air felt heavy, the sky unbearably still.
And somewhere between the silence and the sobs, a mother whispered her child’s name — “Olivia.”
She was only two.
Just two years of laughter, songs, and tiny footsteps echoing through the house.
But in those two short years, she filled a lifetime with love.
Olí was born in January 2022 — a bright, gentle soul with eyes that sparkled like the morning sun.
She loved Finding Nemo, always giggling when Dory forgot something again.
She adored her cousins, her little voice filling the air with songs and laughter.
She loved to dance, to twirl, to live.
Then, in February 2023, everything changed.
A diagnosis — ATRT, an aggressive brain tumor — a word that shattered the quiet joy of family life.
Hospitals replaced playgrounds.
Needles replaced paintbrushes.
But her laughter? It never left.
Through every hospital stay, every long night, she smiled.
She sang.
She reached for her mother’s hand, as if to say, “Don’t cry, Mommy, I’m still here.”
Her spirit was small, but fierce — too bright for the shadows around her.
Her parents, standing between faith and heartbreak, held on to hope with trembling hands.
They prayed for healing, for miracles, for one more sunrise with their little girl.
And in those fragile months, love became their language — quiet, constant, unbreakable.
But on July 4th, 2024, Olí’s little heart grew tired.
She closed her eyes, surrounded by love, and drifted beyond pain — beyond fear — into peace.
The house fell silent, except for the echo of the songs she once sang.
A year later, her mother stood before her resting place.
The grass had grown, the seasons had changed, but the ache — it remained.
“Exactly one year ago,” she wrote, “we laid your body to rest here, my Olivia.”
She remembers every detail.
The closing of the tiny white coffin.
The unbearable sound of finality — the sound of love being sealed inside wood and silence.
“I felt the world end that day,” she wrote. “It was the love of my life inside that box.” 💔
Time has passed, but grief does not move on.
It only learns to live differently.
“I still feel like it was just yesterday that I saw you,” she writes.
“There was so much love left to give you, my Olí.
I never imagined I’d have so little time.”
People tell her she’s strong.
But she shakes her head.
“Being called strong doesn’t make me proud,” she says. “It hurts.
Because I didn’t choose to be strong.
I didn’t choose to live without my baby.
I had no choice.”
Every memory feels like a thread she can’t untie.
Every photo, a door she’s afraid to open.
“I didn’t know how to say goodbye,” she confesses.
“And even if I could, it would still hurt just as much.”
Days blur together — some full of tears, some full of silence.
She admits she still doesn’t know how to survive without her little girl.
“I don’t know how to honor her life,” she says softly.
“I don’t know how to tell my story when it feels like someone tore the pages out of my book — right when I was in the happiest chapter.”
Motherhood was everything she ever dreamed of.
And losing it — losing her — felt like losing herself.
“I don’t even know what stage of grief I’m in,” she whispers.
“Some days I think I’ve accepted it.
But then night falls, and it all feels unreal again.”
When she looks in the mirror, she sees traces of her child — in her own eyes, her smile, her heartbeat.
“My Oli will always be in me,” she says.
“Our firstborn.
The one who made us parents.
My long‑awaited dream.” ❤️🩹
Her farewell still weighs heavy — like a knot in her throat, like a hollow ache in her stomach.
It’s a kind of pain that doesn’t end; it just changes shape.
“I love you today, tomorrow, and always,” she writes.
“Until I see you again, I will never stop missing you, my strong, brave, beautiful little princess.” 🩵👼🏻✨
And though the world keeps moving, her heart remains still — forever waiting for that reunion beyond the clouds, where lullabies never fade and love has no end.
After Weeks of Pain, Cylus Finds the Strength to Play and Dream of Standing.1818
Cylus’s journey has been filled with challenges that no child should ever have to endure.
Day after day, his body has been tested, his spirit stretched, and his family’s heart pulled in every direction between hope and fear.
But this week, something remarkable has begun to shift.
For the first time in a long time, there are glimpses of progress that feel like light breaking through after a long storm.
Almost all of the radiation has cleared from his body.
That, in itself, is a victory worth celebrating.
Radiation had weighed heavily on him, and to know that his body is beginning to recover feels like a fresh breath of hope.
Today, the doctors prepared him for a new step forward.
He received Ativan, a medication to help calm and steady him, as they prepared to remove his Foley catheter.
This catheter, which had kept him restricted and limited, had also been a symbol of how fragile things had become.
And now, the possibility of moving without it opened a door to freedom that had been closed for weeks.
Since the difficult incident yesterday morning, Cylus has remained stable.
Stability is not something his family takes for granted anymore.
Every stable hour is a gift.
The doctors placed him on TPN nutrition — a way to give his body proteins, electrolytes, and magnesium through his veins, bypassing the stomach that has struggled for so long.
This, too, is a step in rebuilding his strength, preparing him for the slow transition back to feeds.
And then, in the middle of all the wires and machines, something beautiful happened.
Cylus asked to play.
For the first time in more than a week, he reached for his Legos.
His small hands moved with focus and joy as he built semi-trucks, one after another.
Colorful pieces clicked together, shaping something wonderful out of the ordinary.
And in that moment, the hospital room felt less like a place of sickness and more like a playground.
The joy of play is not small.
It is a window into the child he still is, despite everything.
But the most extraordinary thing happened after.
Cylus asked to stand.
A request so simple for most children, but monumental for him.
He had not been able to stand for three long weeks.
Three weeks since the new lesions appeared.
Three weeks since the pain became too much, leaving him bound to a wheelchair.
Three weeks since his world shrank to a bed and monitors.
Standing had become a dream that felt far away.
But now, with the Foley catheter about to be removed and his pain easing, that dream returned.
Even during routine cares, when nurses and his family needed to move him, his complaints of severe leg pain had begun to soften.
The same pain that once stole his mobility seemed to be loosening its grip.
And with that easing came possibility.
The possibility that he might stand.
The possibility that he might walk again.
The possibility that his body is responding to the treatment.
His doctors had said that if the MIBG therapy was working, one of the first signs would be the return of some mobility.
And here it was — Cylus not only dreaming of standing but daring to try.
It was more than just a medical milestone.
It was a sign of courage.
It was proof of his fighting spirit.
It was hope made visible.
His family’s hearts swelled with cautious excitement.
They knew there was still a long road ahead.
There are still treatments, still obstacles, still days that will be harder than anyone would wish.
They will not be going home just yet.
But they are one step closer.
One giant, beautiful step closer.
And for a family who measures progress in breaths, in hours, in moments of peace, this step is monumental.
The dream of mobility — of standing, of walking, of playing more freely — no longer feels impossible.
It feels near.
It feels within reach.
For Cylus, it is not only about the fight against disease.
It is about reclaiming pieces of his childhood that illness tried to take away.
It is about feeling the weight of his own body on his legs again.
It is about imagining himself moving across a room without wheels beneath him.
It is about hope finding its way into muscle and bone.
His family holds tightly to this moment, knowing how quickly things can change.
But today, they allow themselves joy.
They allow themselves to celebrate.
They allow themselves to dream of what might come next.
Because for a boy as brave as Cylus, even the smallest signs carry the weight of miracles.
And maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of something new.
