They named her Freya. The Norse goddess of war. And they didn’t do it for the poetry. They did it, perhaps unconsciously, because they knew exactly what was coming.

Freya is the youngest of three, and her two older brothers are the type who think affection means a headlock. One plays rugby like he’s auditioning for a Marvel film. The other’s a tough boxer, though most of his training seems to involve getting punched by his little sister in the kitchen. These boys do not go easy on her—and she doesn’t need them to.

They love her ferociously, and like all brothers who love their sister, they show it by wrestling her into the carpet, calling her names, and flinching when she punches back harder than expected. There is no diplomacy. Only loyalty and low-grade violence. If you’ve seen them all outside the gym and no one is punching anyone, check their pulse. Something’s wrong.

And yet, for all the mock-fighting and mid-match taunts, the truth is this: her brothers adore her. She’s their little sister, but also their sparring partner, co-conspirator, and pint-sized personal trainer. They call her names—affectionately. They joke. They tease. And if anyone else ever tried it, they’d end up on the floor.

She gives as good as she gets, and then some. She once stepped on a broom, the handle sprang up and smacked her in the head. Her parents rushed to her side, worried—only to find her laughing. And for the next three weeks, her name was “Boingg” the sound of the stick hitting her little head. Not in ridicule maybe a little. But I suspect in reverence. She took the hit. She made the joke. That’s Freya.

She’s just turned ten. But she’s been at Chesterfield ABC for three years now, which is to say: she’s been training for a fight that hasn’t even started yet. And she loves it. She doesn’t want to be anywhere else. She doesn’t pretend. She also trains with Jade Ashmore once a week, whom she adores and, frankly, studies like a textbook. You can see it in her stance. The precision. The focus. She doesn’t just want to be like Jade. She wants to beat like Jade. It’s all part of the plan.

And that plan is simple: to turn up to the 2025/26 season like a force of nature.

Her wit is dry. Her remarks, often muttered and deadly. At first, she’s quiet. And then she hits you with a one-liner so dry it should come with a fire warning. And while you’re laughing, she’ll land the punchline—and maybe a left hook.

Her fitness is extraordinary. Her hunger is obvious. But what sets Freya apart—what makes her hers—is that unteachable mix of heart, toughness, and comedy. She’s serious without being grim. Fierce without being mean. She takes the hits and gets back up with a grin, and sometimes a nickname.

So from this humble platform, with great affection and mild fear, let me say: happy 10th birthday, Freya. You are quick, clever, relentlessly funny, impossibly spirited—and you’re only just getting started.

Boxing doesn’t know what’s coming. But we do.