Everett Frank Memorial Just Live Scholarship

Everett Frank lived his sixteen years with exceptional kindness, resilience, and wholeheartedness. I know this not just because others say it, but because I had a front row seat to it. Everett was my boyfriend, but more than that, he was my best friend. We grew up together. When he was diagnosed with cancer, the life we had always imagined shifted overnight. The obstacle wasn’t just his illness, it was learning how to keep showing up in the middle of fear, uncertainty, and eventually, loss. Cancer is relentless. It rearranges routines, priorities, and sometimes hope. But Everett never let it rearrange who he was. While battling a disease that makes most people retreat from the world, he leaned into it. He played multiple sports. He maintained a 4.0 GPA throughout high school. He showed up for teammates, classmates, and teachers with the same steady smile he had his entire life. He never allowed cancer to define the way he treated others. Watching him choose resilience every single day changed me. There were moments when I wanted to fall apart; in hospital rooms, after long treatments, during nights when the future felt impossibly small. But, loving Everett meant choosing to be strong when it would have been easier to be angry or withdrawn. I chose to sit beside him through treatments. I chose to listen when he was tired but didn’t want pity. I chose to laugh with him when we could have cried. I chose to support his dreams as if we had endless time. Kindness became a decision, not just a feeling. When Everett passed away, I faced a different kind of challenge; learning how to live without him while carrying everything he taught me. Grief can either close you off or deepen you. For a while, it felt easier to stand behind it, to let it be the explanation for everything. But Everett never stood behind his circumstances. He lived fully within them. So I made a choice to live beside my grief instead of behind it. Living beside grief means allowing it to shape me without shrinking me. It means pursuing excellence in my own life because he fought so hard for his. It means showing up for others with patience and compassion because I know how fragile time is. It means continuing forward, even on days that feel impossibly heavy. Everett’s life taught me that resilience is not loud. It is steady. It is choosing to care deeply even when it hurts. It is pursuing goals wholeheartedly, even when the outcome is uncertain. The obstacle I faced was losing the person who knew me best. The resilience I demonstrated was choosing to keep becoming the person he believed I could be. His impact on my life is permanent, not because of the pain of losing him, but because of the strength he showed while he was here. Everett never gave up. And because of him, neither will I.

Listening to the story of Everett Frank’s short but beautiful life hit me in a way I didn’t expect. The way he chose joy. The way he kept showing up. The way he lived fully, even when life was unimaginably hard. His courage didn’t disappear when he did. It lingers. It challenges me. I’m the oldest of three, with younger twin siblings who are always watching, even when they pretend they aren’t. I’ve always felt responsible for setting the tone. I play a competitive sport year-round, stay involved in my community, and push myself to be someone others can rely on. But in September of 2022, my world shifted in a way I wasn’t prepared for. After a hard divorce, my dad, who has always been my best friend, brought someone new into our lives. I remember standing there trying to act normal while my chest felt tight. I wasn’t angry. I was scared. Terrified of losing him. He had always been my safe place, the one I laughed with, vented to, and trusted with everything. Suddenly there were new rules, new routines, and a new dynamic I didn’t understand. I didn’t know where I fit anymore. I started pulling away. I stayed busy with practice, homework, and friends. On the outside, I looked fine. Inside, I felt replaced. I felt like I was grieving something that wasn’t technically gone. My dad and I drifted, and that distance hurt more than I ever admitted. For a long time, I convinced myself that being strong meant not talking about it. If I didn’t say it, maybe it wasn’t real. But the silence became heavier than the conflict ever could. One day I realized I missed my dad more than I feared the conversation. I also realized my siblings were watching how I handled this. If I shut down, they might think that’s how you deal with pain. If I stayed bitter, that would shape our home. I didn’t want that to be the example I set. So I chose to do something that scared me more than any game ever has. I asked to talk. I told my dad I felt like I was losing him. My voice shook. I cried, which I hadn’t allowed myself to do in front of him in a long time. I told him I didn’t know where I fit. It wasn’t dramatic. It was honest. Then I made another hard choice. I decided to try with Johnna. Not because it was easy. But because holding onto resentment was exhausting. I started small. Sitting at the table longer. Asking questions. Offering help. Choosing conversation over silence, even when it felt uncomfortable. It didn’t change overnight. But slowly, something shifted. My dad started opening up more too. We rebuilt our relationship with honesty instead of assumptions. My siblings saw that it’s okay to speak up and still be kind. Our home felt lighter. This experience taught me that resilience isn’t loud. It isn’t always physical. Sometimes it’s emotional. Sometimes it’s swallowing your pride and choosing connection. Sometimes it’s deciding to live fully in a situation you didn’t choose. Everett lived by “Be a friend, do hard things, just live.” I’ve tried to live that in my own way. I chose to be a friend inside my own family. I chose to do the hard thing and speak up. And I chose to live in the middle of change instead of hiding from it. Being strong doesn’t mean you never break. It means you rebuild with love.