Monthly Archives: December 2024

Tuesday Thoughts: Last Day Promise

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If you are reading this, congratulations! You’ve made it to the end of another year! It might not seem like a huge achievement, but believe me, it is. This year alone, I have lost at least four wonderful friends and activists – Selina, Peter, Leigh and Emmet. One loss can be difficult to digest, but losing four people has been hard going, in fairness. At first, when Selina passed, I felt trapped in a state of disbelief and paralysis. How could someone be here one day, and gone the next? II rattled me into a haze, but the passing of Leigh shook me right out again.

Life is short. Shorter than we think. My little girl, with whom I once spent the days playing Sylvanian Families and doing arts and crafts, will officially be a teenager in six short weeks’ time. I officially am in the fifth decade of my life. It may seem cliche, but there’s something about turning forty that makes you stop and reevaluate a number of things. What’s important, and what’s just not worth the worry. I need to remember that worry is wasted energy, and that the need to feel in control is a form of anxiety (according to the motivational speaker, Mel Robbins). Covid should have taught us that we can’t control the external world, all we can control is our reaction to it.

You may have noticed that I’ve started blogging a lot more. The truth is, for every blog you read on this site, there are usually another two attempts in a Word Document somewhere, which never see the light of day because I don’t think it’s good enough. And while I think that a writer should indeed practice their craft in private, labouring away at the little parts and tweaking them to their liking, more experienced writers have taught me that if it’s perfection that I’m striving towards, it’s unlikely that I’ll ever publish anything. With this in mind, I hope to spend much of 2025 learning how to be comfortable with rejection. This means starting to send pieces into actual publications instead of hiding them away on my laptop. Even as I type this, the very thought terrifies me. I tell myself that I’m not *that* kind of writer, the type that deserves any kind of validation. If I keep going as I am, I will always be safe, but I will never make progress. (This realisation was not made on its own; it’s the advice of many established writers: Stephen Fry, Vanessa Fox-O’Loughlin, Dave Butler to name a few.)

I know that I should be doing a year plan , but since I’m only still recovering from a period of mental ill-health, I think the best approach right now is a daily or weekly one. My resolution is to be kinder on myself, not harder, as the hard approach fills me with shame and doesn’t really get me anywhere. I think 300 words a day is a reasonable aim, and anything after that is a bonus. I would also love to drum up more editing work from somewhere. As crazy as it sounds, the reason I enjoy it is because it’s a completely different approach to writing, and editing other people’s work while trying to retain their individuality has made me a better writer. It’s also led me to edit my own work more, and to produce tighter pieces (well, not today – this is a tad waffly, isn’t it?)

And I’d love to finally finish a full first draft of my novel. I still believe that Rachel’s story is worth telling. It’s the story of a woman who is struggling, her identity stretched between being some sort of supercrip and being someone in dire need of help. Someone who, like all of us, needs to stop listening to that negative inner voice and to confront her demons. It all sounds very serious, but actually she’s a feisty character and those who have met her seem to like her. Hopefully you all will get to meet her too, in the near future!

Here’s to 2025! Looking forward to seeing you there x

A Tribute to Emmet Grogan

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I honestly don’t know where to start when writing about this extraordinary gentleman. Part of me doesn’t want to write anything at all, preferring instead to stay in a bubble of soft denial, but experience tells me that this approach will not serve me.

The irreplaceable Emmet Grogan has left this world, and it hurts like hell contemplating a future without him.

I met Emmet when I was seven years old. We were both doing a “summer camp” in Clochan House. At that age. I had no concept of myself as being any way different, and I was suspicious of his wheelchair. What struck me about him when I met him first was his confidence. He knew that he deserved to participate in the world around him, a belief no doubt reinforced by his loving parents, Tommy and Mary. He loved showing off his piano skills, leading many a singsong when we stayed in Clochan House.

I remember the first proper conversation we had. I was ten years old and we were in the Harriers cycling around the track, me on my red tricycle, he on his handcycle. We started chatting about school and how we hated being told what we could and couldn’t do. From that evening, we always sidestepped the awkwardness, and a friendship developed that I too often took for granted.

Emmet became what I refer to as a “core friend”. He was among the first people I invited to my twenty-first, to our wedding, Ali’s christening and any other events we held. We didn’t speak every day, but he held such an important place in my and JP’s life.

We worked together for a year in Offaly CIL, and I was delighted to have a friend around to make the day go quicker. He designed the OCIL website and took great pride in his work. He was constantly asking for feedback, being eager to please and wanting to push himself professionally. He was a good laugh to work with, and I really missed him when he left.

As we grew older, I understood more about how pain affected him. Emmet had quite a severe form of Spina Bifida, and sometimes he was in so much pain, he couldn’t even speak. He’d had so many operations, and had been plagued by kidney infections for as long as I could remember. When I was sick, it was surmountable, but whenever Emm was sick, it really wiped him out. What struck me as we grew older together was how easily we could discuss these realities of our impairments. He never complained, but neither did he pretend his ailments didn’t exist; he wasn’t a supercrip, he was human. It was this humanity and authenticity that led me and so many others to gravitate towards him. But he wasn’t a misery guts either; he had a wicked sense of humour that was often unexpected. Understanding where he was coming from and trying to meet each other where we were at allowed us to share a friendship based on honesty, respect and love.

Emmet loved life. I slagged him many times over his love of going for coffees or a pint, either on his own or with friends. And why not? What he really loved (I hope) was catching up with friends. He also loved his annual family holiday to their mobile home in France every year, and usually came home either bronzed or as red as a tomato. 

Emmet loved his family, who meant everything to him, not only because of the assistance they offered, but because they truly encouraged him to be independent. They were his safe space, never stopping in their mission to ensure he had the highest possible quality of life. And I know how much he appreciated this. He was very much his own man, but his family always had his back. It’s very rare that such a balance is found when a family member has such a severe impairment. The line between empowerment and overprotection is a fine one, but his loving parents managed it perfectly. I know this because he only ever had good and positive things to say about them. And they had such a gorgeous relationship. Emmet was never a burden – he was a son, a brother, a cousin, an uncle. His family needed him just as much as he needed them.

I have cried so much in the last few days, yet I don’t think the reality has hit me. I’ve lost so many friends, but this is somebody who I never thought I’d have to contemplate living without. Rest easy Emmet. God knows you deserve it. X

Friday Freewrites: Back to School

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Alison is exhausted. Between the demands of secondary school and all her extracurricular activities (especially basketball), she is looking forward to having time to unwind and hang out with the many friends she’s made since the end of August. I am so proud of how enthusiastically she has embraced secondary school. She’s going to the Sacred Heart School in Tullamore, my own alma mater, and she wants to be involved in everything from badminton to book club.  It’s no mystery as to why I need to drag her out of bed every morning, typically with the cheesiest song I can find on Spotify playing on full blast on her Alexa. Yet, she hasn’t yet asked for a day off just because; she’s missed school because of a vomiting bug. She wants to be there. Mind you, she’s not buzzing about the homework but, as far as I can make out, she feels like an important part of the school community.

Alas, it took me a little longer to feel that way.

It’s developmentally normal for teenagers to question their parents’ decisions, and at thirteen, I could not work out why my parents would opt to send me to a two-storey Catholic School, when there was a modern, accessible school right next to it. I don’t remember being consulted, and so I already had reservations as I entered through the front door and ambled towards the Dining Hall. I had always attended mainstream education. Throughout primary school, I sat in the classroom with my peers, but truthfully, some of the teachers were softer on me than they should have been. No homework done? Aw, you were tired last night? Don’t worry your little head about it! When my mother found out, she was furious. She and my fourth class teacher joined forces to let me know that being lazy was going to get me nowhere. Honestly, I hated them both, but had they allowed me to drift, I would have had no choice but to drop out of secondary school. And let me tell you, I love them for it now. I shudder to think where I would be now, were it not for their persistence! (Probably sitting at home, pretending to be a writer of some sort. Oh no – wait…)

That said, I spent the first four months of secondary wondering if I was really built for a mainstream education. This was 1997, and Special Needs Assistants (SNAs) were not commonplace. I’d used an electric typewriter for eight years in primary school, but I’d left it behind; they’re heavy beasts, not easily transported, and they are loud! Whenever I typed, it sounded like a mini machine gun. I had an old computer at home, a Sirius – a basic beast with a green screen that had the most basic word processor you could ever imagine – but nothing at school. I remember sitting in class, being afraid to ask teachers for a copy of their notes and praying that I would be able to decipher my own scribbles whenever I got home. I was constantly in trouble for having no legible notes or being late for class. It was a frustrating experience, because I knew I was capable, but I had no way of proving it. That gangly thirteen-year-old could never have imagined applying to study English in Trinity College a short six years later.

The school seemed determined to single me out. At one stage, I wondered if I should wear a cone-shaped hat on my head, just to make sure everyone knew that there was a wobbly alien wandering the halls. Being the only person in a year with over a hundred preteen girls with a visible impairment felt scary. On one hand, I was proud of the effort that I was making to blend in, but the imposter syndrome was on overdrive. I remember that the principal at the time, the lovely Mrs McManamly, organised an occupational therapist to come and do a seating assessment, I was measured up for an orthopaedic chair. With my arms folded, I declared that they were wasting their time as I wasn’t going to use it, so that there was no point in getting one.

Oh no, Mrs Mc winked at me. We’re not just ordering one. We’re ordering one for every class.

Was she serious? Imagine the teasing I’d get while I sat on my specially purchased pink throne, one in every classroom! Anyway, it didn’t make good financial sense for the school. If they were prepared to do that, what would they be expecting from me in return, straight As? When was I going to have fun?

The first (and only, as I begged them not to purchase any more) pink orthopaedic chair came and stayed in Room 22 for six years, the room I used most. Even at that young age, I quickly recognised the difference in my pain levels. Around the same time, in January 1998, following an embarrassing meeting in the CRC with my mother and form teacher (who would ultimately turn out to be one of my favourites, but back then, I was still terrified of her!), I received a basic laptop for school and a Windows ’95 PC, with a special joystick, keyboard and HP Printer for home. I could take my work home on a disc (which, unlike the ones I used with the old Sirius at home, weren’t actually floppy). This was a game changer, not just academically; my classmates were intrigued by the mini laptop, and we started typing notes to each other under the guise of working on assignments. Occasionally, the teacher would cop on to what we were doing, with the embarrassing consequence of having to read out what we’d typed to the rest of the class. No punishment mattered, because we’d laugh about it on the way to the next class. That is how this would-be loner made friends in school.

By the time I was in second year, Dad’s fried/work colleague David had sourced a Windows laptop, which I guarded with my life. At this stage, my classmates were well-versed in carrying my laptop and schoolbag to the next class. While I was grateful for their help, it occurred to me that I didn’t want to be grateful, because it meant that there’d always be a power imbalance between us. Little did I know that good old Mrs Mc had thought of a solution to that, too: an academic assistant, someone to take my laptop and schoolbag from class to class, as well as taking notes and filing them. Now, a big pink chair was one thing, but surely having an actual person following me around all day was going to be a huge obstacle to maintaining any real friendships? She’d probably force me to study all the time and tell the teacher whenever I was passing notes. How wrong I was!

By the time I started third year, I finally found my stride. Caitriona (and from TY onwards, Anne) took me from class to class and took notes. Sometimes they’d sit beside me, usually in classes where I needed their help, while in other classes they would sit at the back and take notes, and both instances allowed me to interact as an equal. Given that neither lady had any formal training, the support that they both gave was top-notch. They never ratted me out when I forgot to do my homework, playing along as we rifled through folders knowing that there were no printouts in them. Their support was invaluable, but I called the shots; I was solely responsible for my own assignments and grades. Later, Caitriona would invigilate my Junior Cert, and Anne my Leaving Cert, offering me some comfort during stressful times.

Once I overcame the embarrassment of needing this assistance, I started to accept myself, and the Sacred Heart played a huge role in my becoming comfortable with my disabled identity. I blagged my way into Transition Year by promising to write a play, and during the summer of 2000, I found to my surprise that I could write a play, because the teachers believed I could. Not only did I write (and later edit) a play, I convinced the teachers to allow me to stage it, and I also helped to produce it. Now, I thought this would make me unpopular in my year and that I would be ostracised for having this privileged position, but surprisingly it had the opposite effect, and I made some loyal friends who stood by me during those tough Leaving Cert years. Because of this, fifth and sixth year were easier, because I no longer felt alone or a burden: I was Simply Sarah.

I shied away from PE, but I threw myself into everything else.  I sharpened my culinary skills. I tried guitar lessons. I went surfing and canoeing in Achill, thanks to Mrs Healy’s support, the same teacher who encouraged me to write “Waiting for Anna”. I did my work experience in the old Tullamore Tribune office on Church Street, which was up a flight of narrow stairs, and forged a working relationship with editor Ger Scully who, even now, always publishes my work if it is good enough. For the first time, I started to contemplate a future that involved real qualifications and a meaningful job, maybe even a career.

Although I found the Leaving Cert years tough going, I still enjoyed school. By now, I felt like I was truly part of a community. Mornings began with Sr Frances in the office, who I loved winding up; the more she advised me to take it easy, the harder I worked, just to annoy her. She often printed out homework from the evening before and filed it (I’d leave my laptop in her office in the evenings after “Afterschool Study” from 4-6 each evening). Whenever I refused her help, she’d call me “stubborn as a mule”, to which I’d bray with laughter. 

What I loved most about school is that the teachers didn’t treat me with kid gloves, and I was punished for forgetting homework, or not knowing my definitions, just like everyone else. I remember the fuzzy feeling of being able to complain with my peers about Ms So-and-So’s bad mood or how much homework we got. Because I was regarded as a swot, my classmates would often request my notes or assignments, and we became experts at committing (tiny) acts of plagiarism. They repaid me in their own notes and by making me laugh, usually during English class, much to the frustration of Ms McKenna. Had I not been such a keen English student, I have no doubt that I would have been expelled!

It’s hard to see when you’re in a fog of adolescent hormones, but I will be forever grateful that I went to the SHS. The career guidance teacher, Mrs Lynch, was instrumental in my decision to go to Trinity and consequently live independently in Dublin, a move that I hadn’t even contemplated to be possible. She also nominated me for a Bank of Ireland Millennium Scholarship which enabled me to live on-campus in Trinity for four years without financial worries, while I read English Studies (well, read when the notion took me). Later, Ms McKenna became an informal source of guidance, and I was so grateful for her time and friendship.

No-one knows what future holds, but I hope Alison’s journey through secondary school will be just as enlightening and fulfilling. Ultimately, though, she has to follow her own path, and I can’t wait to see where this new journey takes her. Hope she has as much fun as I did.

Sunday Reflection: In Preparation for 2025

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In almost every way, I’m afraid 2024 has been a bit of a letdown. Like a lot of writers, I sat down a few days ago to do an evaluation of my year and disappointingly, in terms of productivity, this has been the year that I’ve done the least writing since I started writing ten years ago. I feel like I let myself down – a whole twelve months without much to show for it. My year began with a trip to the doctor’s office in mid-January, crippled with the most paralysing bout of depression I have ever experienced. She asked me some uncomfortable questions, which made me realise how bad things had gotten, and filled me with indescribable shame. 

I withdrew from everything. I stopped texting friends. Stopped trying to achieve any hint of literary genius. My editing course, which I started a year ago, remains only halfway completed in a cloud somewhere on the net, which is so unlike me – I’ve always flown through my writing related courses. And poor Rachel has been wantonly abandoned in favour of mindless Netflix binges (namely, Taskmaster binges), which is definitely out of character for me – I don’t watch telly really; I didn’t even watch much of it when we were in lockdown, opting instead to try writing flash pieces and to work on the compilation of Conversations about Activism and Change. I’ve lost my confidence, not that I was abundant in it to begin with. 

While I became overly comfortable in my cocoon of fog and self-hatred, a whole year of promise and opportunity passed by. Listen, you must admit that it’s not difficult to become disheartened by the state of the world around us.  I would strongly advise against binge-watching Reeling in the Years for the years 2010-2019, especially if you still have any hope for the future of humanity. Plus, the last few Covid-riddled years have not been easy on anyone, and I’m sure I’m not alone in becoming comfortable in my own company. It was too much time to think, to reflect on all the wrong turns I took, little bothreens that led to dead ends, the many mistakes I’ve made along the way.  

Staying in your head for too long isn’t good for anyone, especially since it’s now universally acknowledged that our toughest critics are the people who look back at us in the mirror. Also, through listening to various podcasts, Mel Robbins being one of my favourites, I’ve come to recognise that my own thoughts about myself are not necessarily true, and that we are hardwired to be risk-averse, because our brains are designed to protect us, a thought regularly echoed by one of my writing mentors, Maria McHale. This way of living, apparently, is not conducive to the creation of art. Indulging in art is risky, because it necessitates opening your soul and using the most personal of experiences to create something that other humans can relate to. 

I cannot waste another year frozen in time, watching any prospect of a writing career sliding down the toilet, and so I am renewing my commitment to keep writing, no matter how demotivated I feel, or how shit I think my words are. Apparently, not everything a writer produces will be dripping with brilliance – who knew? When I started out ten years ago, I thought that churning out novels would be effortless, once I got the hang of it, of course. Enid Blyton could bash out two “jolly good” novels a year, so surely I, too, was capable of it too? Turns out, it’s not that straightforward. Enid Blyton didn’t have to wrestle with the distractions of the Internet – possibly the worst enemy of the would-be prolific writer.  

Also, just because teenagers are more physically independent doesn’t mean that you are redundant, whether you are the taxi-driver or the clothes-washer. And my daughter has no interest in divulging anything that’s going on in her life, until it’s nigh on ten o’clock at night and my eyes are getting heavy – then absolutely everything comes out (and I must admit, I secretly love it!) Being a parent will always come first, but right now I’m relearning what my role is. On one hand, I have more time to write (and more time means less excuses –  theoretically I should be able to blog every day); on the other hand, I spend my time ensuring that all sports gear is washed and dried ready for impromptu matches, and keeping an eye on those cursed WhatsApp group chats. I have so much respect for people with more than one kid, who need to be in two places at once. 

I wanted to post this, firstly as a promise to myself to get more words on the page, regardless of how lousy I think they are, and secondly, as an attempt at solidarity to anyone who’s coming to the end of an equally unproductive year, especially if you, too, have had your plans scuppered by mental ill-health. I see you, and I want you to know that we are worth more than our productivity, that achievement is relative, and even making tiny steps beats doing nothing at all.  

Finally, a warm thank you to those who refused to leave my side this year – you know who you are – especially my rocks,  my husband and daughter. I am so lucky and I love you all x 

Tiny Thursday Thought: Elves not quite Shelved

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It is the 5th of December, and Archie, Sparkles and Ellie, Alison’s elves, have not arrived yet, the lazy sods. Gang, I have searched all the usual places, but I cannot put my hand on the troublesome trio. But I thought, it’s not a huge deal. After all, Alison is twelve now. She’s nearing the end of her first term in secondary school. She’s gone to two teenage discos, has experienced her first crush. Too old for elves, right? She caught me putting them in the blender a few years ago, with Lotso sitting on top, so the game was up; she knows it’s me. But as I write this very piece, I’ve just answered the door to a package ordered in a hurry, containing replacement elves. Honestly, the things we parents do for our (preteen) kids!

Just last night, when I was having the usual bedtime chats, Alison surprised me by asking whether the elves were coming back. Because she’s old enough, I told her the truth: that the original ones are missing, and that I ordered new ones to come and stay. To my surprise, she handed me her two foot ornamental gonk, winked at me, and said, “I wonder if this lad will turn magical and do something when we’re asleep tonight.” This morning, she found him sitting up in the bath, a handtowel wrapped around his waist. Surprise, surprise: I’m not too inventive at nearly eleven at night. Now, she didn’t exactly squeal in excitement, but there was definitely a hint of a smile on her face. Even though she’s now in secondary school, with a schoolbag heavier than an army tank, she’s still just my little girl looking for magic.

Like many parents of my generation, I got sucked into the Elf on the Shelf thing against my will. My friend introduced Archie to our home (if you’re reading this, thanks a bunch Kate!) when Alison was four. She’d already been introduced to an elf called Archie in playschool, a sort of mini-police officer dressed in red, that reported back to Santa on a daily basis. To be honest, the whole thing freaked me out a bit, not to mention the toy’s creepy little face. The whole idea behind it is to report behaviour to Santa. Oh, and apparently if you touch it, the elf loses its magic.

Neither of these things I have ever said to Alison. It was something she learned at playschool, and explained to me as I looked in wonder, pretending not to know where Archie had come from. Controversially, I decided that if Archie was going to be a fixture in our lives for at least the proceeding eight years, then I didn’t want him to be a tattle-tale to Santa. Alison was an only child, and she deserved to have an ally. Mum and Dad were always on her back; she didn’t need a creepy little doll watching her every move as well. She needed a confidant, someone she could have a laugh with.

As the years have flown by, the elves have been on so many adventures, from wallet robberies, to playing concerts to packed-out audiences and of course, Alison’s favourite – the winter wonderland, which is all our Christmas ornaments laid out on the coffee table and dusted with flour (always an absolute nightmare to clean up). I’m a writer, and this is one of the few times it’s paid off: Archie, Sparkles and Ellie write individual notes to Alison; each note has its own distinctive voice, and as she got older, Alison started to write back. I would argue that there is no greater writing exercise than trying to get into the quirky minds of imaginary elves, at eleven at night. And if she’d written to the fairies too, well, let’s say they were some of the few times I’d wished I was a coffee lover. I’m simultaneously proud and ashamed of the BS I’ve churned out over the years. Then, of course, you have to keep track of said BS, because although you can’t remember whether you said that Snowflake’s hair was red or blonde, Alison remembers. (Yet I can’t include these notes in a professional writing portfolio. The injustice!)

By the time Alison was nine or ten, I was starting to run out of ideas for the elves. Think about it – six years times twenty-five days meant 125 different elf antics, all in the confines of my house! Two years ago, in desperation, I turned to Facebook and followed the Elf Idea pages, hoping for new antics. Some of the ideas are so elaborate I wonder if these people have jobs. Nonetheless, I’m all for making Christmas magic – to a point, of course.

This morning, however, as I was scrolling through Facebook instead of doing my morning pages (an exercise, a bit like this blog, where you write pure crap in the hope of eventually hitting gold), I came across a post from a parent who wanted the elf to punish the child for not doing well in a school test! If that wasn’t fecked up enough, other parents offered suggestions! Now, of course on bad days, I’ve pointed out to Alison that Archie, Sparkles and Ellie are reporting back to Santa, but my husband and I decided that we were the parents, *we* needed to take sole responsibility for disciplining Ali if and when necessary. I did threaten her once or twice, but on those rare occasions the elves have written saying that although Alison was naughty, they knew that she was a good child, a human child who makes mistakes. A lesson that, over the years, the elves have been more successful at teaching her than we ever could have been. A reminder to a little girl who is sometimes too hard on herself, that she, too, can make mistakes and still be loved.

This may be a bit controversial, but the idea of a wiry doll dressed in red holding a kid to account for their behaviour doesn’t sit well with me. Santa is one thing, but he’s not a physical presence in your house, and isn’t that the beauty of it? Can any of us, child or adult, be good and “well-behaved” every hour of the day? I think not. So why has expecting this behaviour from children, especially at a time of the year when they’re exhausted from routines and early mornings, not to mention friendships and the chaos of afterschool sports and matches, become the norm?

Talking to a disappointed Alison last night made us both so emotional. Because the truth is she needs those elves. It’s a form of communication between us about things that might be difficult to express. A reminder that we all need a bit of silliness in our lives, that we deserve to be loved in our best and worst times. And if that’s what those silly red dolls represent to my daughter, then I’d better go and google enough antics for the next twenty years, obviously while staying away from those stupid Facebook groups.

My little girl might not be so little anymore, but she’s reminded me that the little things are still the big things. And I’m so excited to see the look on her face when she comes home today.