Reese Bryan was an 8-year-old bundle of fearless energy, the kind of little girl who lit up every gym floor with her infectious smile, sassy attitude, and perfect backflips. A standout all-star cheerleader on Omaha’s Elite Cheer Team and a talented softball player, she lived life at full volume—laughing loudly, hugging fiercely, and dreaming big about competitions, cartwheels, and everything in between. Everyone who knew her said the same thing: she was everyone’s best friend. But on January 29, 2024, that vibrant light dimmed in the most heartbreaking way imaginable. After being required to tumble and flip despite clear warning signs of a serious neurological issue, Reese collapsed at practice with stroke-like symptoms. She was rushed to the hospital, fought for three weeks, and died on February 23, 2024, at just 8 years old. An autopsy eight months later revealed the devastating truth: a small, highly treatable pilocytic astrocytoma brain tumor had bled massively inside her skull, a tragedy her family now claims could—and should—have been prevented.

Her parents, Amanda and Tracy Bryan, are still shattered two years later. “She was our heartbeat,” Tracy said through tears in a recent interview. “There’s not a day I don’t think about her. I wish she was still with us because she should be.” Amanda echoes the pain with raw determination: “We want justice for Reese so bad.” In January 2026, the Bryans filed a civil lawsuit against Reese’s pediatrician, Dr. Lars Vanderbur of Children’s Physicians, and against Elite Cheer Team, its co-owner Lance Stoltenberg, and her coach Vanessa Dayne Hooker. The complaint accuses the doctor of medical malpractice for failing to order basic imaging despite textbook neurological red flags, and the cheer gym of gross negligence for forcing a clearly unwell child to perform high-impact tumbling, then allegedly concealing her collapse and delaying emergency help. What was meant to be a celebration of childhood athleticism became, in the family’s eyes, a perfect storm of missed opportunities that stole their daughter’s future.

Reese Colleen Bryan was born into a loving Omaha family that cherished her fearless spirit. At Montclair Elementary, teachers and classmates remembered her for her athleticism and that unforgettable laugh that could fill an entire hallway. She joined Elite Cheer as a tiny tumbler and quickly rose through the ranks, mastering skills far beyond her years. Backflips, handsprings, full-outs—she attacked every routine with joy and precision. “She really was extraordinary,” Amanda said. “An all-star cheerleader and really good for her age of eight, not only that, but as a softball player too.” Her energy was contagious, her kindness legendary. Friends described her as the girl who made everyone feel included, the one with the big dreams and the even bigger heart. The obituary written by those who loved her captured it perfectly: “Reese was a one-of-a-kind talented sweet girl! She lived life to the fullest with an infectious smile, a little bit of sassiness and was fearless.”

That fearlessness defined her until the very end. In mid-January 2024, subtle changes began. Reese came home from school complaining of dizziness. Amanda, like any attentive mom, asked the usual questions: “Are you hungry? Did you eat all your snack?” The symptoms lingered and worsened over a couple of days. Still, the family hoped it was nothing serious. That weekend, Reese traveled with her Elite Cheer teammates to a competition in Kansas City. She seemed well enough to compete—until she wasn’t. On January 20, 2024, Reese collapsed mid-event. She couldn’t stand or walk. Her eyes weren’t tracking light properly. Paramedics on site noted horizontal nystagmus (rapid involuntary eye movements) and ptosis (drooping of her right eyelid). They suspected a possible concussion but did not call an ambulance because she hadn’t vomited. The family was texted, Amanda rushed to her daughter, and they drove back to Omaha the next day.

Back home, concern mounted. On January 21, they took Reese to urgent care. She tested positive for strep throat and was prescribed antibiotics. “But we knew within three or four days that wasn’t it,” Amanda recalled. Symptoms persisted: dizziness, imbalance, general unwellness. On January 22, they saw Dr. Lars Vanderbur, Reese’s longtime pediatrician. The family laid out everything—the collapse in Kansas City, the ongoing dizziness, the balance issues. According to the lawsuit, Dr. Vanderbur diagnosed “post-infection fatigue,” considered ordering imaging scans but ultimately decided against it. No MRI. No CT scan. No referral to a neurologist. No warning to avoid strenuous physical activity. “She was never ordered an MRI, CAT scan, nothing,” Amanda said in frustration. Reese was sent home with the instruction to rest, but no restrictions on her beloved cheer practice.

Nine days after the Kansas City collapse, on January 29, 2024, Reese returned to Elite Cheer in Omaha for what would be her final practice. The lawsuit claims the gym’s staff knew about her recent neurological episode and the paramedics’ advice that vomiting would trigger the need for immediate emergency transport. Yet she was required to perform backflips, back handsprings, and full tumbling routines—high-impact moves that involve spinning, flipping, and jarring the head and neck. Shortly into practice, Reese began vomiting. Then everything escalated rapidly. She couldn’t stand. She couldn’t walk. She couldn’t hear properly. The left side of her face drooped. She slurred her words. She shook uncontrollably. She felt cold to the touch—classic signs of a neurological emergency, possibly a stroke or worsening brain pressure.

What happened next, according to the detailed complaint, has left the Bryan family outraged. Instead of calling 911 immediately, coaches allegedly texted Amanda, who was pulling into the parking lot at that moment. Reese was left alone, isolated behind the mats. Teammates were instructed not to approach her. “Despite all these symptoms, [Reese] was left alone, isolated and concealed behind mats,” the lawsuit states. “As the minutes passed by [she] suffered ongoing and growingly irreversible neurological insult as a result of her brain bleeding.” Amanda walked in to a scene no parent should ever witness: her little girl unresponsive and clearly in crisis. “Had you seen what I walked into? Anyone in their right mind would have looked at this child and knew she needed help and she needed it now,” she said. She rushed Reese to the hospital, where doctors fought desperately for three weeks. Surgeries were performed. Hope flickered. But on February 23, 2024, Reese passed away. The official cause: a massive brain bleed.

For eight long months, the family lived in agonizing uncertainty. Then, in October 2024, the autopsy results arrived. Reese had a small pilocytic astrocytoma—a low-grade, typically benign but still cancerous brain tumor that had begun bleeding. Pilocytic astrocytomas are the most common childhood brain tumors, often slow-growing and highly treatable with surgery and sometimes radiation or chemotherapy. When caught early, survival rates exceed 90 percent, especially for low-grade tumors like Reese’s. “She had a small brain tumor and it was bleeding and it was cancerous, but it was very, the type of cancer it was and the grade of it was really, really low,” Amanda explained. “That’s the hard part to swallow. She should be here without a doubt.”

The lawsuit, filed nearly two years after her death, paints a picture of preventable tragedy. Against Dr. Vanderbur and Children’s Physicians, the Bryans allege medical negligence: failing to recognize classic red-flag symptoms of a brain tumor (persistent dizziness, balance issues, nystagmus, ptosis, post-collapse decline) and refusing to order the imaging that could have saved her life. Standard pediatric guidelines from organizations like the American Academy of Pediatrics strongly recommend neuroimaging for children with new-onset neurological symptoms, especially after a collapse. The complaint states the tumor “was highly treatable if properly diagnosed.” The delay allegedly allowed it to bleed, causing fatal intracranial pressure.

Against Elite Cheer, the allegations are equally damning. The gym allegedly knew Reese had an “existing neurological condition” from the Kansas City incident. Coaches and staff are accused of forcing her to tumble anyway, then abandoning her during her medical emergency. “Elite and its owners, its employees and agents knew from recent past experiences that Reese vomiting during cheer or tumbling constitutes a need to have her transported on an emergency basis to a hospital,” the filing reads. By concealing her behind mats and delaying emergency response, the lawsuit claims they allowed “progressively worse neurological damage as she lay alone, eyes shut … and unable to move on Elite Cheer’s mat.”

Elite Cheer has responded with sympathy but no further comment due to the ongoing litigation: “Elite Cheer was deeply saddened by Reese’s passing, and their thoughts and prayers remain with the Bryan family. Due to ongoing legal proceedings, Elite Cheer is unable to comment further. Out of respect for the Bryan family and their expressed wish for privacy, Elite Cheer refrains from additional comment.” Children’s Physicians issued a similar statement: “Children’s Physicians does not comment on pending litigation. Our top priority is delivering safe, high-quality care, which we strive to provide for every child we treat. Our thoughts are with this family.” Neither side has filed formal answers yet; a jury trial has been requested.

The case has reignited painful conversations about youth sports safety, pediatric medical vigilance, and the pressures placed on young athletes. Cheerleading, especially all-star competitive cheer, involves intense physical demands—tumbling, stunting, and repetitive head and neck motions that can exacerbate underlying conditions. Childhood brain tumors, while rare (about 4,000 new cases annually in the U.S.), are the second most common cancer in kids after leukemia. Symptoms like persistent headaches, vomiting, dizziness, balance problems, vision changes, or sudden collapse should never be dismissed as “just a virus” or “post-infection fatigue.” Experts emphasize that early MRI can be lifesaving. Reese’s story, her family hopes, will force gyms, coaches, and doctors to err on the side of caution.

In the two years since losing Reese, the Bryans have kept her memory alive in quiet, everyday ways. The Christmas tree stayed up long after the holidays because Reese wanted to redecorate it for Valentine’s Day and Easter. Her room remains untouched. Friends set up a GoFundMe to help with funeral expenses back in 2024, and the outpouring of love from the Omaha community—Montclair Elementary, fellow cheer families, local sports teams—reminded them they weren’t alone. Tributes poured in describing Reese’s “infectious laugh” and athletic grace. One elementary remembrance noted her as a student who “lived life to the fullest.”

Yet the grief remains raw. “It’s been two years of just hell that you don’t ever feel the same,” Tracy said. The lawsuit is not about money, the family insists; it’s about answers, accountability, and preventing another family from enduring the same nightmare. “The last thing we would ever want is for some other family to go through that,” Tracy added.

Reese’s story is a devastating reminder of how fragile life can be—and how quickly a child’s boundless joy can be silenced by missed warning signs. An energetic 8-year-old who should have been flipping into her teenage years, cheering at high school games, and chasing every dream, instead became a symbol of what happens when symptoms are overlooked and caution is cast aside. Pilocytic astrocytoma, when diagnosed promptly, often allows children to live full, healthy lives. Reese never got that chance.

As the lawsuit moves forward, the Bryan family clings to Reese’s fearless spirit. They want her legacy to be one of awareness: listen to children when they say they don’t feel right. Demand scans for neurological symptoms. Prioritize safety over performance in youth sports. And never, ever leave a child suffering alone behind the mats.

Reese Bryan may have left this world far too soon, but her story—her smile, her sass, her unbreakable light—continues to demand attention. In Omaha gyms, in pediatric offices, and in courtrooms, her name now echoes as a call for change. She was only 8. She deserved more flips, more laughs, more life. Her parents are fighting to make sure no other little girl loses that chance the way Reese did.