It’s Freya’s Day, Bitch: Channeling the Goddess Who Actually Deserves a Whole Week

Let’s set something straight real quick: Friday isn’t named after your boss’s casual blazer or some cute alliteration in a sales email. It’s not “Finance Friday” or “Fitness Friday” or even “Freaky Friday” (though Freya wouldn’t totally hate that one).
No.
Friday is Freya’s Day—and I’m convinced most of us are doing it completely wrong.

Because Freya? She was not the type to coast into the weekend in sad leggings, sipping lukewarm coffee and texting a walking red flag out of boredom. She wouldn’t be doom-scrolling her way through existential dread. She’d be dancing barefoot on the bones of her exes and seducing fate itself.

In Norse mythology, Freya reigns as the goddess of love, sex, war, beauty, death, and sorcery—a job description so stacked it makes modern “girlbossing” look like child’s play. She’s equal parts siren and general, sorceress and sovereign. And if that sounds like a contradiction? Good. Freya is here to remind you that you are allowed to be many things. Messy, magical, moody, magnificent—all at once.

So who is she, really?
Freya’s the kind of divine force who rides a chariot pulled by giant cats and wears a falcon-feather cloak that lets her fly between worlds. She’s also the first to master seiðr, an ancient Norse magic so powerful even Odin had to learn it from her. (Yes, the Allfather had to humble himself and ask a woman for mystical training. We are so here for it.)

She presides over Fólkvangr, her own elite version of the afterlife, where half of the honored dead go—not just to Valhalla, thank you very much. That’s right. Freya doesn’t just get the lovers. She gets the warriors, too.

And yet, despite all her glory, she's often reduced to “that sexy goddess from Thor comics” or slapped on some cottagecore aesthetic without any of the edge. Freya is not soft-focus femininity. She’s glamour with grit. She cries golden tears, not because she's fragile, but because her grief is alchemical. She turns sorrow into treasure, longing into power. Show me a therapist who can do that.

So what would Freya actually do—if she were living this very Friday in your body, with your schedule, and your questionable group chat?

She wouldn’t ask permission. She wouldn’t wait for the “right moment.” She’d take the damn moment, light it on fire, and walk through it in stilettos or well-worn Docs (dealer’s choice). Freya wouldn’t hide her pleasure to seem more “palatable.” She’d command a room with her presence and leave the insecure trembling in her wake.

She’d tell you to stop apologizing for wanting what you want. She’d remind you that your intuition is not just valid—it’s divine. And she'd laugh—actually laugh—if you told her you were shrinking yourself for the comfort of people who can barely look you in the eye.

If you want to honor Freya today—and you should, because she’s everything—don’t just light a candle and call it a vibe. Channel her. Become her. Even if just for one delicious, rebellious, unapologetic day.

Wear something that makes you feel like a spell. Whisper your desires into your coffee like you're enchanting it. Make pleasure your ritual, power your perfume, and boundaries the velvet rope around your divine energy. Cry if you need to. Laugh too loud. Take up space. Let your magic leak out everywhere.

Freya never asked to be liked. She demanded to be remembered. So go ahead—make this Friday the kind of day the old gods would toast to. One where your heart is open, your will is sharp, and your vibe is just a little too much for small minds.

Because Freya wouldn’t just celebrate the weekend.
She’d conquer it.