It’s a moment no parent ever expects to face—the kind of sorrow that rips through your soul, leaving a pain so deep it feels impossible to bear. But here I am, writing an update that no one should ever have to write, an update no parent should ever give.
Our sweet Brinley, our beautiful girl, fought so hard. When she was diagnosed with pulmonary hypertension, we held onto every shred of hope. She was given a medication that we thought would be her saving grace, the one chance we had to bring her back to us. But the medication, the only shot left to save her life, didn’t work the way we’d hoped. The side effects were too much for her tiny body to handle. Her oxygen levels plummeted into the low 40s, and in those terrifying moments, we watched the numbers fall, feeling as though we were watching our future collapse before us. Helpless. Frozen. Praying for something, anything, to change.
Last night, we were forced to make the gut-wrenching decision to place Brinley back on ECMO, a machine that had once offered us hope but now was simply a thread we clung to. We were told we would know more in the morning. But morning came with devastating news: ECMO was no longer helping. It was only causing more harm. It was one of the most impossible decisions a parent could ever make—to remove the machine, to take away one less tube, one less piece of equipment keeping our baby alive. There was no preparation for this moment. No amount of strength that could carry us through.
In that moment, I felt a strange sense of relief knowing that Brinley was no longer enduring that pain, but I was also shattered beyond measure. Two conflicting truths lived in my heart—relief mixed with an incomprehensible heartbreak. I was forced to say goodbye to the baby I never imagined would be taken from us.
Before the ECMO was removed, Noah and I had the precious opportunity to hold her, knowing it might be the last time. We held her close, knowing that goodbye might come without words. The sedatives and paralytics allowed her to rest, and for a moment, we had peace. But in an instant, everything turned traumatic when her arterial line blew, and her blood covered my hands and arms. A moment meant to be sacred, tender, and full of love was instead tainted by a sudden, terrifying shock. A memory I will never shake, burned into my soul forever.
Despite all of this, Brinley continued to show us who she is—a sweet, gentle soul who loved being held by her daddy. Even in the midst of unimaginable pain, she remained calm, safe, and content in our arms. She was still our perfect girl, and that, in itself, is something we will cherish forever.
Now, we find ourselves in an agonizing state of uncertainty. We are slowly watching Brinley’s body react to the removal of life support. We’re holding onto hope, desperately clinging to the fragile possibility of bringing her “home”—a place outside the hospital walls where she could be surrounded by love, not machines. But for now, everything is day by day. Hour by hour. Breath by breath. It’s hard to imagine what will come next, but all we can do is pray, hope, and hold on to every moment.
And then there is Blakely—our almost four-year-old, our firstborn, the big sister who hasn’t been able to see Brinley due to hospital restrictions. She doesn’t understand why her sister disappeared or why everything around her changed so suddenly. One moment, she had her baby sister at home. The next, everything was different. How do you explain this to a child? How do you explain a loss you can’t fully understand yourself?
My heart aches for Blakely, who was born to be a sister. A sister who, in a cruel twist of fate, was robbed of that role without warning. Blakely will grow up with a hole in her heart shaped like the sister she was meant to have forever. As a parent, seeing my children suffer in different ways is a pain I never imagined I would have to endure.
We began this journey by raising money to ensure that we could do everything possible to fight for Brinley. We moved mountains to make sure she had every chance at survival. We exhausted every option, every treatment, and every hospital. We gave it everything we had, and we did everything right. But it still wasn’t enough. And now, we are raising money to bury our daughter.
I am asking for your prayers—please keep praying. Please say her name. Please wrap our family in your arms, and help us when we no longer know how to stand. We feel shattered, lost, and undone, but we are still here, loving our girls with every ounce of strength we have.
We are heartbroken beyond words, but we are filled with love for Brinley. She is our everything. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Forever. Please continue to keep our family in your thoughts and prayers as we navigate this unbearable pain and say goodbye to the precious daughter we never thought we would lose.
With all our love,
The Lyle Family 💔
