Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull
of what you really love.

It will not lead you astray. 

                                                                                                                                                                                           Rumi

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I am a writer.

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I have been a teacher, and I have been a coach, but writing is where I have arrived—where everything I have lived seems to gather and make sense.

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I write about truth. About the quiet, persistent call to live in alignment with who you are. About what it takes to stop performing a life and begin inhabiting one.

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I was born and raised in working-class Ireland, where fitting in mattered more than standing out. Authenticity didn’t come easily to me. Like many, I learned early how to be agreeable, obedient, and to know my place. It took me years to recognize how deeply that conditioning ran—and even longer to undo it.

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Authenticity was not something I understood then. It was something I had to grow into, slowly and often painfully, over many years.

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I left Ireland at seventeen.

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I lived in London for two years, then Australia for six, and eventually made my home in America for forty-four years. Three years ago, I did something I never imagined I would do: I left America and returned to Ireland.

 

I am 71 years old.

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That return has not been simple. It has been a reckoning—with the place I came from, and with the version of myself I once was.

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Over a lifetime, we inherit ways of being—from family, culture, religion—that don’t always belong to us. And if we’re lucky, there comes a point when we can no longer live that way.

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I have come to believe that if you want to discover who you truly are, it requires a certain kind of disobedience. Sometimes it means leaving where you came from. Always, it means telling the truth.​

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I grew up in poverty, and I knew early on that I wanted a different life. I watched my parents work hard without joy. They didn’t chase dreams—they didn’t believe they were allowed to have them.

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I did.

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And that meant leaving—first my home, then my country, and eventually the life that had been mapped out for me.

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My Bravest Moments

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I’ve never thought of myself as a brave person. I’m anxious about illness. I dread doctors and dentists. I’m afraid of flying—even though I’ve traveled widely. I’ve spent much of my life trying to avoid what scares me.

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And yet, my bravest moments have had nothing to do with fearlessness.

They’ve come when I’ve said: Not this.

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But over time, I came to see that the real act of courage is not leaving once—it is continuing to leave. Leaving behind identities, expectations, roles, and relationships that no longer fit. Leaving the life that looks acceptable for the one that feels true.

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Those moments have come in quiet, decisive recognitions:

Not this. Not this life. Not this path. Not this version of myself.

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To wake up and know I don’t want this, and then act on it—that has been my real courage.

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What frightened me most was never change. It was the thought of being trapped in a life that didn’t fit me. A life that felt too small. A life of not this.

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If you are standing at the edge of your own life, wondering what is yours and what is not, begin with a simple question:

 

What does my soul actually want?

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Not what is expected. Not what is safe. Not what will be approved of.

What is true for you?

 

We are not built to stay the same. We are wired for change, for growth, for becoming. In the end, you don’t escape who you are. You either live it—or spend your life avoiding it.

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I’m currently writing my first memoir: ​

A Larger Life: Can You Go Home Without Becoming Small Again?

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