In the quiet suburbs of Chicago, where the sun sets over the city in shades of amber and purple, a young woman sat at her desk, carefully folding her 3,652nd letter. Her fingers, thin but steady, creased the paper with practiced precision. For exactly 10 years, Freya Lel had written a letter to Michael Jordan every single day. Through chemotherapy sessions, through remissions and relapses, through victories and setbacks, she had never missed a day—not even when the doctors said she might not make it through the night. Each letter told a story—her story—a story of survival, hope, and unwavering faith in her hero.
Now at 26, Freya had spent more of her life fighting cancer than living without it. But her love for basketball, and especially for Michael Jordan, had never wavered. His image was everywhere around her—on the walls, the posters, and the memories of her childhood. She had dreamed of meeting him, not just as a fan, but as someone who had inspired her to keep going, even on the darkest days.
On this particular morning, Freya sat at her desk, sealing another envelope, her hands trembling slightly from the side effects of her latest round of treatment. The medical bills lay unopened on the table beside her, a harsh reminder of the fight she had been battling for years. Her mother, Imigen Lee, stood in the doorway, watching her daughter with quiet concern. She had seen Freya write every letter, drive to the post office countless times, and maintain an unwavering belief that one day, somehow, these letters would matter.
“Another one for Mr. Jordan?” Imigen asked softly, though she already knew the answer.
Freya smiled despite the exhaustion that lined her face. “Day 3,652,” she said, writing the date on the envelope with the same careful handwriting she had maintained for all these years. “You know what’s funny, Mom? I never run out of things to tell him.”
Her letters were never the same. She wrote about the good days when she could pretend to be normal, and the bad days when only the thought of writing kept her going. She wrote about chemotherapy treatments and the dreams she held onto, about watching old Bulls games during her hospital visits, and about how Jordan’s game had kept her spirit alive through some of her darkest hours. She wrote about practicing free throws in physical therapy and imagining meeting her hero, even if only for a moment.
Freya’s faith in her letters was unwavering. The local post office had become so familiar with her daily routine that the staff knew her by name. Camden Hollis, the elderly postmaster, had been collecting her letters since day one. He had seen Freya grow from a scared teenager into a resilient young woman. He had watched her hair fall out and grow back, witnessed her strength in the face of adversity.
“Another one from Michael Jordan?” Camden asked as Freya placed the letter on the counter, the same one she had written that morning.
Camden’s voice carried an odd note of emotion, but Freya didn’t notice. She was focused on the routine, on the small task of completing her letter before she could rest. “I’m sure he’ll read this one, too,” she said, unaware of the miraculous plan unfolding behind the scenes.
Freya’s father, Victor Sloan, had taken the day off work to be with her. He had watched over his daughter during the latest round of treatment, never missing a chance to show his support. He looked at Freya, as she methodically sorted her pills into containers for the day, noting the slight tremor in her hands. “We’re doing everything we can, sweetheart,” he said, though the worry in his eyes never fully left.
Freya’s best friend, Quinn Avery, arrived later that afternoon, carrying Freya’s favorite meal and a stack of old basketball games to watch. “Got another Jordan game for you,” Quinn said, her voice light but filled with something Freya couldn’t place. “This one’s from 1987 against the Celtics. He scored 49 points. Should be a good one.”
Freya’s face lit up, her strength returning for a moment at the thought of reliving one of Jordan’s greatest games. “How do you keep finding these?” she asked, as Quinn began setting up their usual routine—dinner by the window, basketball games on the TV.
Quinn smiled but didn’t answer right away. “There’s always another game to discover,” she said, her tone carrying a weight Freya couldn’t understand. “Always another moment of magic to witness.”
But Freya was too tired to analyze the hidden meaning in Quinn’s words. As she sat back in her chair, the room around her started to change. Freya didn’t notice it at first—the increased activity outside her window, the hushed conversations between her parents, the constant flow of visitors who were quietly turned away. It wasn’t until Freya’s doctor, Easton Hale, arrived early for his checkup that the excitement was palpable. He had been consulting with her parents in low tones for some time, and his gestures were more animated than usual.
But Freya, focused on her routine, didn’t notice anything unusual. It wasn’t until her mother called her downstairs that the truth finally began to reveal itself.
“Freya, time to wake up,” Imigen called softly from the doorway. “Dr. Hale is here for your checkup.”
Freya opened her eyes slowly, fighting against the familiar fatigue that seemed to weigh down her every movement. “This early?” she murmured, glancing at the clock. “He usually comes in the afternoon.”
“Schedule changed today,” her mother replied, her hands lingering on Freya’s shoulders in a way that felt different. “And Quinn’s downstairs with breakfast. She says she found another Jordan game.”
Freya smiled, as she always did when Jordan was mentioned. She didn’t notice the change in her mother’s smile or the subtle excitement in the air.
Downstairs, Quinn was setting up the breakfast tray, but something was off about the morning. The house felt different, like a secret had been kept just out of her reach. Freya didn’t notice the strange looks between her parents or the excited whispers. What she didn’t know was that her decade of faith was about to be rewarded in the most extraordinary way.
As she settled into her chair by the window, ready to continue writing her daily letter, the doorbell rang. She turned to see her father, Victor, standing at the entrance, his face a mixture of nervousness and joy. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, “there’s someone here to see you.”
Freya’s heart skipped a beat. She turned to see Michael Jordan himself standing in the doorway. For a moment, she couldn’t move. The world around her slowed. The man she had written to every day for ten years was finally here—right in front of her.
“I got your letters,” Michael said, his voice steady, warm. “All 3,652 of them.”
Freya’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief. Her breath caught in her throat, and tears immediately sprang to her eyes. Jordan knelt beside her chair, holding her latest letter in his hands. He read it aloud, the words she had written only the night before about dreaming of soaring, despite the pain.
“You showed me what true strength is,” Michael said, his voice catching. “You’ve inspired me more than you know.”
Freya could hardly believe it. Her hero, the man who had defied odds on the court, was now here, telling her that her strength had inspired him. Then, as if the moment couldn’t get any more surreal, Jordan reached into his bag and pulled out a framed jersey from the 1998 Finals. “This is for you,” he said, holding it out to her. “This was the game you wrote about during your treatment. I want you to have it because you understand better than most what it means to take the last shot when everything’s on the line.”
The room was silent except for Freya’s soft sobs. But this was not just about a jersey. It was about recognition. It was about the years of unwavering faith, the daily letters, and the belief that somehow, despite everything, a dream could come true.
As the day wore on, Jordan gave Freya not just a piece of basketball history but a promise—he would continue to support her in every way. The room was filled with stories, laughter, and tears as Michael Jordan became more than just an icon to Freya. He became her partner in her fight, the one who had always been there in spirit, now standing beside her in person, helping her believe in the power of perseverance.
This was more than a surprise—it was the answer to every letter, every struggle, and every dream she had ever written about. And in that moment, Freya understood that sometimes, the greatest victories aren’t won on the court but in the heart.
Love Letter Written by Teenaged Michael Jordan Found, Posted on the Internet
The folks at the blog Letters of Note have gotten hold of a charming, and grammatically flawed, love letter written by an 18-year old Michael Jordan to a young lady named Laquette.
In the handwritten (in cursive!) note, penned as Jordan sat in high school chemistry class, the future NBA legend apologizes for a misstep and concedes, “I made you look pretty rotten after the last night.” His Airness also addresses a romantic issue that many basketball players deal with when he admits he is “finally getting use [sic] to going with a girl much smaller than I.”
You can check out Letters of Note’s full transcript of the love letter below:
Michael Jordan
My Dearest Laquette
How are you and your family doing, fine I hope. I am in my Adv. Chemistry class writing you a letter, so that tell you how much I care for you. I decide to write you because I felt that I made you look pretty rotten after the last night. I want to tell you that I am sorry, and hope that you except my apologie. I know that you feelings was hurt whenever I loss my necklace or had it stolen.
I was really happy when you gave me my honest coin money that I won off the bet. I want to thank you for letting me hold your annual. I show it to everyone at school. Everyone think you are a very pretty young lady and I had to agree because it is very true. Please don’t let this go to your head. (smile) I sorry to say that I can’t go to the game on my birthday because my father is taking the whole basketball team out to eat on my birthday. Please don’t be mad because I am trying get down there a week from Feb. 14. If I do get the chance to come please have some activity for us to do together.
I want you to know that my feeling for you has not change yet. ← (joke) I am finally getting use to going with a girl much smaller than I. I hope you my hint. Well I have spent my time very wisely by write to you. I hope you write back soon. Well I must go, the period is almost over. See you next time around, which I hope comes soon.
With my Best Love
Michael J. Jordan
