About Everheld

Our story

Everheld began in the hardest years of my life.

Between 2018 and 2021, I lost most of the people who made me who I am. My father, first, in early 2018 — a heart attack that seemed mild until it wasn’t. My grandmother, Margaret, that same spring. My mother, who had lived with a cancer diagnosis since 2014, in January 2021. Somewhere in the middle of it, my dog Jake, after three years fighting the same disease that took her.

And Steve. We were together twenty-two years. His addiction ended our relationship in 2018, but it never really ended us — I stayed in his life, nearly every day, and watched him slip away in slow motion. He had moved to Mexico by then. In the summer of 2021, he took his own life.

I used to call it, grimly, my five years of death. It nearly took me, too.

What brought me back was not advice to move on. I heard a great deal of that — time heals, they would want you to be happy, it gets easier. None of it gave me anywhere to actually put the people I had lost. What brought me back, with the help of a therapist I will never be able to thank enough, was the opposite: learning that I could carry them. That my mother, my father, Margaret, Jake, and even the complicated, aching love I still hold for Steve could all stay with me. Not as wounds to close. As people to keep.

Carrying them did not close me off from what came next. I found my way back to life, and to love — I am with Chris now. I say that because people fear that keeping the dead close means staying stuck. It does not. Remembrance and a full, present life are not in competition. Mine holds both.

I went looking for something built for all of this, and it did not exist. Everything wanted me to complete my grief, celebrate a life, mark a milestone, move along. Nothing was simply a quiet place to hold the people I love and the complicated truth of loving them — and nothing let me hold them alongside the others who loved them too.

So I built it.

Everheld is that place. It will never ask you to move on. There are no streaks, nothing to finish, no one telling you that you are doing amazing. It is somewhere to keep a name, a memory, a hard date, a person — human or not, simple or complicated. Some of what you keep here will be complicated. It still belongs.

And you do not have to hold it alone. The same person is remembered differently by everyone who loved them, so Everheld lets you invite those people in to share memories and grieve together — a fuller picture than any one of us keeps alone. And when you need people who simply understand, there is a safe, quiet place to give and receive support from others carrying their own losses.

Because here is what I learned in those years: when grief is given somewhere to go, it becomes remembrance. And remembrance is not the end of someone — it is how a legacy stays alive, and how it gets passed on. My mother, my father, Margaret, Jake, Steve — they are not finished. They live in what I keep, and in what I hand forward.

I made Everheld because I needed it. I am sharing it because I know I am not the only one still carrying someone — and because the people we carry deserve to be passed on.

— Todd

What Everheld is not

Everheld is not therapy. It is not a clinical tool and it does not provide crisis support. If you are in distress or need immediate help, please reach out to a crisis service or mental health professional. Everheld is a companion for the longer, quieter work of grief — not a substitute for human care.

It is not a social network, a content platform, or a place where your memories are seen by anyone you have not explicitly invited. Your space is yours.

Built with care

Everheld is an independent project. It is built slowly, deliberately, and with close attention to the weight of what people bring to it. We are grateful you are here.

Free to begin. No card required.