My husband and I talk often about how hard it is not to be in a hurry.
A hurry to reach “the next step.”
The one where Brielle walks again.
The one where her body gives her back the freedom to be a child.
The one where she is completely healed — dancing, running, laughing with her friends, going to school like any other little girl.
We yearn for that future with everything in us.
And yet, we’ve been told the chances of that happening are less than one percent.
Less than one.
Those words broke something inside us the first time we heard them.
They still echo in the quiet moments — in the long hospital nights, in the stillness between heartbeats, in the sound of the machines that keep her alive.
But somehow, through all of that, there is still hope.
Hope — the most beautiful, and yet the most confusing feeling to hold.
It’s the thing that keeps our hearts beating, and the very thing that sometimes feels like it’s breaking them.
Hope is the soft whisper that tells us, “She could be the one. She could defy the odds.”
And yet, it’s also the cruel reminder that maybe she won’t.
That maybe her story won’t end the way we’ve been praying it would.
Still, we hold onto it.
Because what else is there to hold onto?
When you’re living in the in-between — between what doctors say and what your heart refuses to stop believing — hope becomes both your anchor and your ache.
It’s excruciating and necessary all at once.
We’ve learned that life with Brielle can’t be lived as a sprint.
So we’ve stopped racing to the finish line.
We’ve started pausing at every “water station.”
We celebrate every small victory — every lab result that doesn’t get worse, every day without fever, every smile that breaks through her pain.
We pace ourselves, day by day, because we no longer know where this race will end.
Some days feel like progress.
Some days feel like we’ve gone backward.
But every single day, she’s here — and that, by itself, feels like a miracle.
This week, her blood counts are still holding.
Her vitals look good.
Her hands are still warm in ours.
Her cheeks are still soft beneath our kisses.
And she still talks about her favorite @officialminiverse projects, the ones she plans to work on next — tiny crafts that fill her big world with color and purpose.
You’d be amazed at how her face lights up when she talks about them.
Even when her body is weak, her imagination soars.
She’ll close her eyes, describing every tiny detail — the glitter, the paint, the little clay pieces she’ll shape into something beautiful.
And for a moment, the hospital walls disappear.
We are home again.
She is sitting cross-legged on the floor, her hands busy, her laughter filling the room.
For that moment, hope feels simple.
It feels like breathing again.
We’ve realized that hope doesn’t always mean believing in a cure.
Sometimes, it just means believing that there will be another day — one more sunrise, one more chance to hold her, to hear her voice, to see her smile.
We’ve learned to live gently inside that space.
The space between heartbreak and gratitude.
Between fear and faith.
Between what is and what we still dream might be.
It’s a delicate balance — this life built around machines, medications, and miracles that may never come.
But Brielle’s spirit teaches us how to keep going.
She doesn’t complain.
She doesn’t ask why.
She just lives — in the most beautiful, resilient way.
She laughs when she can.
She whispers “I love you” when the pain becomes too much.
She finds joy in the smallest things — the way her nurse braids her hair, the smell of a new marker, the sound of her brothers laughing in the hallway.
She teaches us that maybe healing doesn’t always look like walking again.
Maybe sometimes, healing is found in the way she keeps shining despite everything.
In the way she still dreams.
In the way she makes others smile, even on her hardest days.
We’ve met families like ours — mothers and fathers who live in this same fragile space, where every tomorrow feels uncertain.
We share glances in hospital corridors, knowing without words what the other is carrying.
There’s comfort in that quiet understanding.
There’s strength in community — in the way we all hold each other up when the weight becomes too much to bear alone.
Some nights, after she falls asleep, my husband and I sit in the dark and talk.
We talk about the life we thought we’d have.
About the future that looks nothing like the one we imagined.
And yet, somehow, we find peace in the smallest things — her breath steady in the monitor’s rhythm, the way her hand curls around our fingers even in sleep.
We talk about hope again — how it both saves and hurts us.
We remind each other that we’re still in the race, even if we don’t know the finish line.
And we choose, again and again, to believe in the possibility of beauty inside the brokenness.
Because every day we get with Brielle is a day we didn’t have to have.
Every laugh is a miracle.
Every sunrise feels like grace.
We don’t know how long this journey will last.
But as long as we’re on it, we’ll keep stopping at every water station, celebrating every checkpoint, and loving her through every step.
One day at a time.
One breath at a time.
One heartbeat at a time.
The Bravest Heart Had Four Legs.764
On August 28, a brave soul with four legs and a golden heart stepped between danger and his team—and took the blows meant for them.
K9 Apollo, a loyal police dog with the Rock Hill Police Department, was doing what he was trained to do: protect, apprehend, and serve. But what he did that day went far beyond training. It was instinct. It was loyalty. It was love.
Officers were pursuing a suspect armed with a knife. Tensions were high. Lives were at risk. And that’s when Apollo was deployed. He ran into the chaos without hesitation, targeting the suspect and holding him back so the officers could intervene safely. But in doing so, Apollo became the target.
The suspect lashed out, stabbing Apollo multiple times.
The scene turned from a chase to a rescue. Officers scrambled to reach their wounded partner. Blood stained Apollo’s fur, but he never released his grip. Not until his job was done. Not until the danger was over.
Then, he collapsed.
Apollo was rushed to an emergency vet clinic where he received immediate care. The damage was serious. But Apollo, just like the officers he protects, is a fighter. Stabilized and prepped for surgery, he lay quietly on the operating table—his breathing shallow but steady, surrounded by those who loved him like family.
News of the attack spread quickly. Across the city, the state, and even beyond, people began sending prayers, messages, and photos. Children wrote cards. Fellow K9 handlers checked in from different departments. The outpouring of love was overwhelming.
Because Apollo isn’t “just a dog.” He is a partner. A guardian. A member of a team that risks their lives every day for their community.
As of now, the vet team reports promising signs. Surgery is underway, and they expect a full recovery. There’s even hope that Apollo will return to duty one day—stronger than ever.
But whether he puts the badge back on or not, Apollo has already done more than enough. He stood between danger and the people he swore to protect. He bled for them. And he reminded us that heroes come in all forms—sometimes on four legs, with kind eyes and a fearless heart.
So tonight, as Apollo sleeps under careful watch, let’s send him all our strength, love, and healing. Let’s let him know his sacrifice didn’t go unnoticed. That his bravery is seen. That his life matters.
Get well soon, K9 Apollo.
The world is a safer place because of you.
