Freya Everly

I’m writing this post today on our vacation to Door County. This was a special spot for our family. Both Freya and Miles were born during COVID, and vaccines took a while to be approved for their age group (June 2022). That reality meant flying wasn’t a safe mode of travel for us for the first few years as a family of five. Our solution then was to find places within driving distance that could help us reset from the daily grind. We have vacationed with the kids in towns along Lake Michigan in both Michigan and Wisconsin, but my favorite spot has always been Door County. It’s a place where we made some very happy memories after COVID when we needed a break from the confines of our four walls. It’s also one of the last places I remember us all being really happy together before life got hard in 2024. This afternoon James and I are going to spread some of Freya’s ashes in a few spots where we made those happy memories. It feels simultaneously hard to spread her ashes and healing to put her back out into the living world. Until now she has been on our mantel—in a sacred space we’ve reformed as an altar where we can spend time with her, talk to her, and miss her.

There’s a poetic line that I’m sure is from a song, though I can’t remember the writer. In our time in the ashes it has stuck with me and I keep coming back to it: “memories made can wash away.” When you lose someone so dear to you, there’s a great fear that you’ll forget some of the incredible memories you made with them. It’s not an unfounded fear—we do forget things, even if they are important to us. I’ve been wanting to memorialize some of my Freya memories for a while now and keep them alive and present so I can look back on them when I need them to restore my soul on the very sad days.

What follows aren’t the biggest moments of Freya’s life. They’re the small things that made up the texture of loving her—the ordinary details that became extraordinary because they belonged to her. These are the memories I want to hold onto while they are still vivid, and the ones I hope Winnie and Miles can someday borrow when they want to know their sister a little better.

Memories Made

Freya’s eyes were such a beautiful bright shade of blue—they would always sparkle.

She had the cutest little kid glasses. She got her first prescription when she was a little older than three. Whether they were pink or purple, she looked good in any set. She also loved to steal oversized sunglasses and model them for all to see and laugh at how cute she looked. Her gorgeous blue eyes were showcased in her glasses in a way that is forever imprinted in my mind.

She was beautiful to look at. But what I miss even more is what it felt like to love her up close.

Her kisses were so sweet and always felt like a soothing balm. Freya was born on the first day of COVID lockdown in Chicago. It felt scary to give kisses in those early days, but impossible not to.  She would turn two before she could have the COVID vaccine, and we felt a breath of relief with boosted immunity—and kisses felt so special after we lived through that period. In 2024, when Freya was diagnosed with leukemia, we restarted the clock on fear—fear of viruses, exposure, and how every illness might affect her while she was immunocompromised. We shifted to kisses on the cheek, on the top of the head, and oh so many cuddles.

Speaking of kisses, no one gave cuddles quite like Freya. She loved them in every form. We often knew exactly how she was feeling by the kind of hug she gave. Was she tired? Spicy? Energized? Did she need comfort, or was this simply an “I love you” hug? It felt like speaking a language that didn’t need words.

Her tears. Not only did she endure so much on her own, Freya was also an empath. She felt the mood of others, and if her siblings were ever withholding something from us, she was often the first to reveal it and point us in the direction of discovery. She had a tender heart, but she was also wonderfully physical—full of little quirks that made her unmistakably Freya.

Her toes. I went through a phase where I took so many photos of her adorable toes. She was able to splay her big toes from the rest—a quirk that both Miles and I have as well.

We still try to spend time each week remembering the feel of her hair and how soft it felt. When her hair started to grow back after it fell out from chemo, she was such a good sport and would let us rub her head all the time. It never felt coarse; it was always soft and so soothing to touch.

She approached so much of life with quiet courage. One of my favorite things she would say was “did it!” She lit up whenever you praised her for doing something hard.

Her favorite foods. Now this one changed so much over her lifetime, but we still remember the various phases she went through. We have a video of the first time she ate frosting and her eyes lit up with joy. We have pictures of her sneaking pizza. We have videos of her sneaking cookies and running away, giggling. Chemo entirely changed her preferences. Hot dogs, watermelon, and goldfish crackers were what she could keep down and we all survived on variations of that meal in solidarity.

We all learned the words to “I wonder, what if, let’s try” by Elmo and would endure hours of that earworm. Today I smile every time I hear it.

There are dozens of other pieces of Freya that don’t fit neatly into stories. They’re little flashes that still appear without warning, and I hope they never stop.

Here’s what else I won’t forget:

Her independence.

How she said no.

Her taste in music.

Watching her smiles and laughs as we played with bubbles.

So many magical memories of her loving swings and slides.

Walks together with a stroller.

Her utter loathing of having to brush her teeth and go to the dentist.

Her love of playing catch.

She was a great cheerleader for her siblings while they played tball and softball in the summer.

She hated being wet in the rain, but she loved her baths.

If an object was in her way, Freya would grab it and chuck it to remove said obstacle.

During PT and OT sessions, she would have moments of defiance and cooperation, like most kids. But every time, they ended with cuddles and a deep sense of pride. I loved being present and seeing her work so hard—I was so so proud. When I wasn’t able to be there, I loved reading emails and getting calls from her team to see how she was meeting the challenges and occasionally attempting to get out of the work. Freya would even pretend to fall asleep to get out of assessments and evaluations—we still laugh thinking about that.

There are so many more memories, but these are the ones that flow through me this week. We keep these sacred and hold onto them all—whether they are “salt, sour or sweet.”

Even on the days that look good from the outside, I still feel shattered by her loss. Holding onto these memories feels like gathering some of those broken pieces—not to become who I was before, because I never will, but to stay connected to the happiest version of our family.

When my own words run out, I’ve often borrowed someone else’s. Andrea Gibson’s Love Letter from the Afterlife has carried me through countless days since Freya died. I return to it often because it says something I desperately want to believe—and on my best days, something I do believe: that love doesn’t end when a life does.

“Dying is the opposite of leaving… I am more here than I ever was before. I am more with you than I ever could have imagined. So close you look past me when wondering where I am.  It’s Ok.  I know that to be human is to be farsighted… Why did no one tell us that to die is to be reincarnated in those we love while they are still alive?  Ask me the altitude of heaven, and I will answer, “How tall are you?” …Forgive me, for not being able to weep with you. One day you will understand…I wish you could see the beauty your spirit is right now making of your pain, your deep-seated fears playing musical chairs, laughing about how real they are not… Dying is the opposite of leaving…I know it’s hard to believe, but I promise it’s the truth. I promise one day you will say it too– I can’t believe I ever thought I could lose you.“