Oliva Crimmins: A smile stronger than the diagnosis

By Anthony Collins

LPR Editor                            

    On a swing, in a rodeo arena, or facing a diagnosis no child should know, 5-year-old Olivia Crimmins meets the world the same way: smiling.

     Olivia Crimmins, of Leander, TX, has a way of making people feel welcome before they even realize it has happened.

     She does it with a smile that arrives first, wide, unguarded, and bright enough to soften strangers. At five years old, Olivia loves Disney princesses and donuts. She delights in making people laugh. She carries herself with confidence that feels older than her years, the kind that fills a room not by being loud, but by being present.

    She is the daughter of Andy and Kristin Crimmins. And today, she is living with a diagnosis no child should ever have to carry.

     Those closest to Olivia describe her as endlessly curious, sharp, and eager to learn. She proudly reads aloud, pausing just long enough to make sure you are listening. She surprises adults with Spanish phrases she has picked up, grinning when they don’t expect it. At night, she watches firefighter reality shows, not for the sirens or the flames, but because she admires the way firefighters help people.

    When asked what she wants to be when she grows up, Olivia doesn’t hesitate.

    “A firefighter.”

    She loves being outside most of all, on a swing, in the sunshine, with her little brother Gabriel, never far from her side. Before everything changed, she spent hours swimming in her grandparents’ pool, fiercely independent and determined to do things her own way. “Scoot back!” she would shout, insisting on enough room to jump in on her own terms.

     Independent. Fearless. Certain.

     That part of her has never left.

     It began quietly.

  A small tremor in Olivia’s hand, easy to miss, easy to dismiss. But Andy and Kristin felt something wasn’t right. They trusted their instincts and kept asking questions. Pediatricians. Specialists. Neurologists. One appointment led to another, until finally, an MRI was ordered.

On Jan. 27, 2025, their world stopped.

    “We were at the hospital waiting when the neurologist called and told us not to leave,” Andy said. “They had found something. It was the worst day of our lives.”

  Olivia was sedated for an emergency brain biopsy. Her parents waited, counting minutes that stretched into hours. When the doctors returned, the words landed with a finality no family ever forgets. A malignant brain tumor.

     The official diagnosis followed: bi-thalamic diffuse midline glioma with leptomeningeal disease, a rare, aggressive cancer so uncommon that only a small number of cases have been documented worldwide. Doctors explained the prognosis carefully, gently. Nine to 24 months.

   The thalamus is a small structure deep in the center of the brain, responsible for routing nearly all sensory and movement signals. When both sides are affected, the damage can touch nearly every part of a child’s life at once, including movement, speech, vision, and cognition.

   Diffuse midline glioma (DMG) is already devastating. The addition of leptomeningeal disease, when cancer spreads into the fluid and membranes surrounding the brain and spinal cord, makes it even more severe. It is a rare tumor paired with a rare complication, one that most physicians may never encounter in their careers. There is no cure.

      Treatment is palliative. Radiation may slow the tumor’s growth. Surgeries may relieve pressure. Research continues. Hope exists, but it is fragile, measured in moments rather than years.

     And yet. Olivia still smiles first. She’s still a little girl

    Her spirit has not dimmed. Her joy still arrives unannounced. She still asks questions. Still laughs. Still dreams.

    This story is personal for me, not only as an editor, but as a photographer for Diamond Cross Company.

    Last August, Diamond Cross Rodeo Company honored Olivia and her family during the Cedar Park Rodeo, helping raise awareness for childhood cancer. From that night forward, Olivia and her family became part of our rodeo family.

    A month later, Diamond Cross owner Wesley McManus and I visited Olivia at her home. When we walked through the door, she greeted us with a hug and turned to her parents with a grin.

   “The cowboys are here.”

   She asked about her favorite bull named Sparky D. She sang “Let It Go” from Frozen. She was, in every way that mattered, just a five-year-old little girl. She told Wesley she wanted to do mutton bustin’. She said it with certainty, as if it were already decided.

   Weeks later, at a benefit bull riding event in Giddings, Texas, held to support victims of the July 4 floods, Olivia arrived with her family and close friends. She spent the afternoon behind the chutes, meeting cowboys, soaking in the sounds of the arena, telling anyone who would listen that she was mutton bustin’ that day.

 Her legs could only support her for short stretches. Sometimes she was carried. Sometimes she held a hand. But nothing stopped her from being there.

   When her turn came, she stood in line beside her mother, Kristin, excitement shining through her. As the chute gate opened, two bullfighters carefully held her to make sure she stayed safe. She rode, and she smiled. It was a small moment, and it was everything.

 In honor of her strength and spirit, Diamond Cross Rodeo Company has named the 2026 season “Olivia’s 2026 Rodeo Tour of Champions.” The season will focus on raising awareness of childhood cancer, so that Olivia’s story continues to be told long after the dust settles and the gates close.

    For those of us who have witnessed her courage firsthand, Olivia is not just an honoree.

    She is family. She is our little cowgirl. And she is still here, smiling and fighting.

    To learn more about DMG and to support ongoing research efforts through a donation, please visit www.chadtough.org