My world fell apart the day my brilliant, high-achieving daughter ended her life at 21. After her death, I learned something devastating

The last conversation I had with my 21-year-old daughter Freyja before she committed suicide was an argument. That terrible fact will haunt me until my last day.

She had been distant and rude to me and I didn’t know why, so one morning I went to the cafe where she worked. At first she was cheerful and excited to see me – as if my old Freyja was back. Then she became cold and dissatisfied with my presence. I just couldn’t understand it.

Things hadn’t been great between us, but I just wanted to tell her how much I missed her and loved her very much. I asked if she wanted a cup of coffee or lunch, but she waved me away. It was as if something had changed in her.

I said, ‘Okay, call me when you’re done.’ What else can a father do? I never received another call or text from her after that, and I didn’t push her because I wanted to give her space.

In the years since, I’ve berated myself many times – you should have pushed, you should have paid more attention – but deep in my heart I know there was nothing I could have done with the knowledge I had at the time.e.

You see, despite being smart, bubbly and brilliant, my Freyja had her demons.

For years, her mother and I didn’t have to worry about anything. At the age of 15, she had three jobs, including two cafes and a Bakers Delight. She was a beloved student and was the house spirit captain at the school. She was an all-round athlete and social butterfly.

When she left high school she became distant and in 2019 there was a real sense of disconnect between us. I felt like I was losing her and I didn’t know why..

There were no warning signs that she was suicidal. Maybe she just hid it well, or maybe I didn’t see them because she was living with my ex-wife at the time..

After her death, I learned that she had tried to take her own life a few years earlier. I had no idea. If I had had that knowledge, perhaps I would have been more vigilant. I might have helped her.

But one thing that clearly stood out to me was that she went through a phase where she sent loved ones away. We’d always been close: We’d gone to music festivals, traveled together, and trained for two years to compete in an Ironman triathlon.

It is difficult to summarize Freyja’s short life in words. Perhaps the first thing that stood out was her talent for sales. In primary school she sold stickers to the staff for 40 cents each and earned $70. At the age of 16, she self-funded a ski trip from our home in Australia to Japan. She knew how to make money.

After graduating from high school, she started studying business administration, but she didn’t like it and thought about switching to fitness. Her mother and I never got to see how she fared on this new path because she died before completing it.

Losing a child is never something you get over. As a father, I have done a lot of soul searching. Should I have been there or done more for her? Should I have asked her more questions? But now, with the help of medication, I don’t believe I could have done anything to change things.

Since her death, I’ve come to realize that this was probably planned for a long time. Her friends noticed her saying things like: “I’m here for a good time, not for a long time.”

I remember that terrible night we got the phone call. It was October 9, 2019. After saying goodnight at 8 p.m., Freyja went into her room and locked the door, swallowed twenty endone pills and drank three-quarters of a bottle of tequila.

But before she did, she called her boyfriend to tell him not to come over that night like he usually would. She also texted a few people, including her best friend, saying, “I’m sorry, I love you.”

Receiving that text would obviously have set off alarm bells. Her best friend rushed over, banged on the front door and ran to Freyja’s room. It was locked. They called her boyfriend. He stormed off like a madman and smashed the door.

They found Freyja unconscious on the bed.

Her heart had stopped beating 15 minutes earlier. An ambulance was immediately called and they managed to get her heart beating again.

My ex-wife called our son, who was living with me at the time. He rushed to my bedroom, woke me up and said, ‘Daddy, Freyja tried to commit suicide. The ambulance is here. They revived her and I’m going there now if you want to come.’

‘Of course I want to come!’ I replied. We jumped in the car and ran to the hospital.

When I saw my daughter on a ventilator, I was crushed. I felt a tsunami of sadness and started crying my eyes out. I slowly walked to her bed and touched her hand.

Our family came together to support each other, hoping and praying that she would be okay. We were still optimistic that she would make it.

I told them about her training for the Ironman triathlon, how tough she was and how I was confident that if anyone could make it, it was my daughter.

That weekend we kept watch at her bedside day and night.

One of those nights, I cried quietly next to her as the heart monitor beeped. Our relationship wasn’t great when she chose to end her life and I was wracked with guilt and regret. I remember thinking, ‘I need a sign, Freyja. So I know we still had that bond I cherished when you were younger.”

I went downstairs where I saw a group of Freyja’s friends. One of them, who I knew, came up to me, gave me a hug and said, “You know she really loved you, right?”

They all agreed. “Yes, Mr. Lee, she loved you so much.” I broke down. I had prayed for reassurance that she loved me, that I had been a good father, that somehow I hadn’t been the reason for all of this.

Deep down, I think Freyja knew this would crush me. Maybe that’s why she pushed me away before she died.

A day later I was sitting in the waiting room and two doctors came to see me. I already knew what they were going to say: Freyja was gone.

They asked us if she wanted to be an organ donor and we said absolutely. She would like the opportunity to help others; it was the type of person she was.

We found out later that she often said that to friends. “If I ever go, I want my organs to go to everyone.”

After Freyja left us, I went downhill. I didn’t know how to deal with the pain. I was drunk almost every night. It was the only way I could bear the unbearable burden of grief.

One way I have learned to cope with my grief is by embracing spirituality. I was never a spiritual person before. Now me I believe my daughter’s spirit lives on through butterflies.

It started two weeks after Freyja died. I went for a bike ride and noticed a butterfly flying right next to me. He hung around for a while, following me as I drove.

Inside me I knew it was Freyja’s spirit.

From then on, whenever I felt the need to connect with Freyja, there seemed to be butterflies around. I know it sounds crazy. The old me would say I’ve gone crazy.

I recently went to visit my mother in New Zealand. She was cleaning out boxes of our old stuff. To test my theory that she was watching over me, I asked Freyja to give me another sign. I opened a box and the first I saw a drawing that Freyja had drawn when she was five years old. The drawing showed her standing in the sky like an angel with butterflies flying all around her, while our family was on the ground below.

It wasn’t until I turned to psychedelic medicine that my healing truly began. At first I wasn’t interested because I thought it wouldn’t work.

Then I went on a five-day retreat that changed my life. I arrived depressed, angry and sad and then left almost as if I was my normal self again. I thought it could shape my life in the future.

Moreover, I have given up alcohol. The clarity of sobriety changed everything for me and today I am five years sober.

I underwent three sessions of psychedelic therapy. Not only did it help heal my grief, but I also became more at peace with the idea of ​​death. I know I will die one day, but I’m not afraid of it. Then I will be reunited with Freyja, and I’m looking forward to it.

If you need support or someone to talk to in a personal crisis, call the Samaritans on 0116123.

• As told to Carina Stathis