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Sunday Ramblings: Jumping Back In
As I start writing this blog, it is 6pm on Sunday, 2 November, and it is dark outside. I hate this time of year. I honestly think I might have a touch of that SAD [Seasonal Affective Disorder], since I’ve been sluggish all weekend. Perhaps I’m just tired. It’s been two weeks since I got the pain injection into the shambles I call my hip. And while I’m not quite back walking full time yet, there have been some marked changes in my life. This afternoon, I took a painkiller for the first time in two weeks. Not because my hip was at me, but because I had a headache above my eyes, possibly from too much screentime. This afternoon, I cooked a delicious (if I say so myself!) steak dinner, complete with roasties and veg, and cleaned up afterwards. In fact, I’ve done a lot of cooking, with or without assistance, these last two weeks.
On Thursday, I went to a local disability meeting, with a group with whom I was heavily involved in prior to Covid. Everyone was shocked to see me. I think that they thought I was dead!
I’ve also managed at least half an hour on the exercise bike every day since last Sunday. I find that it’s taking me less time to cycle the same distance. And, if you’re reading this, this is the third blog I’ve written in the space of two weeks. I could get used to this level of productivity – it feels fantastic!
I need to hold onto this buzz I’m feeling, because I’m not able to go back in time. The truth is, whether I like it or not, I’ve lost so much time because of pain and exhaustion. When I finished the Disability Studies course in 2019, my plan was to do the “Train the Trainer” course, which (I think, but am open to correction on this) would enable me to give my own courses. Not only could I deliver Creative Writing Courses, but Disability Equality Training as well. Earn money, get a paycheck!
Or I’d like to do another oral history project, something like Conversations about Activism and Change. I typed out every word of those audio recordings, before editing them down. Damien Walshe and Des Kenny taught me useful lessons as I compiled and edited that collection, lessons that I’d love to apply elsewhere. Maybe I could do a collection of voices of up-and-coming activists? Without the heavy mantel of fatigue, my brain is swirling with ideas.
There are probably a number of reasons why I am reevaluating things at this moment. One is that I turned the big four-oh last year, and my original plan was to have my novel finished by then. Ironically, the first line of this, as yet, unfinished draft is “There are milestones one is meant to have reached by the time they turn forty.” This was me setting a deadline for myself, one that I’ve now missed. I would like to complete Rachel’s story, as I think many would relate to her internal (and external) struggles. She’s a hot mess, and often I want to strangle and hug her in equal measure!
Alison will turn fourteen in February. God willing, she will be going to college, an apprenticeship or a job when she’s finished the Leaving Cert, and as a stay-at-home mum, I suddenly find myself at a loose end. Where once I filled my days playing Lego, setting up Sylvanian houses or doing elaborate art projects, I now find all the time I once spent one-to-one with her spreading out in front of me like an overflowing lake. Don’t get me wrong – I’m still needed. For example, I was awake until one this morning applying tea-stains to her costume for the upcoming Addams Family Musical, as she is playing an ancestor. Apart from these moments, she’d much rather hang out with friends than her mum, which is a normal part of her push for independence. But I don’t really know what to do with myself.
I’m still available for proofreading work, but anecdotal evidence suggests that my opportunities in this area are fast diminishing in favour of AI. This is part of the reason why I didn’t feel motivated to complete that editing course that I started two years ago. If I think too deeply about it all, I start panicking. There’s nothing quite as sobering as scrolling through jobs.ie, and seeing that I am qualified for nothing relevant, nor have I the skills for local jobs. Waitressing, working on the shop floor, even factory work all seem beyond my realm of possibility. Of course, I apply anyway, because you never know. Dear reader, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a job club. I have, and it was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. I did this online career quiz and the top result was “Interpreter”. When the facilitator asked why I was laughing, I said “I can’t be an interpreter. I need one!” Awkwardness rippled around the room as my fellow jobseekers couldn’t decipher whether I was serious or messing.
So that’s where I am now, wondering what I should do next. All offers and suggestions welcome. In the meantime, I’ll be attacking my novel yet again while drinking the tears I’ve sobbed because of it.
Thursday Thoughts: A Tribute to Mrs “Bouquet”
When I turned ten or eleven, my friends started to ring me on occasion at the weekend, on the landline (one of those cream-coloured Eircom phones that had ten buttons on the right-hand side, where you could pre-program your most frequently dialled numbers, then ring them at a single touch of a button. Kids these days just wouldn’t understand that level of sophistication). As my friends rang the house, they would remark afterwards that my mother was “posh”, because she would answer the phone with a jovial “1-2-3-4-5, Una speaking.” They didn’t know any other parent who answered the phone in this way.
Nor did they know anyone who, in the early ‘nineties, made double-baked stuffed potato skins. Or fancy casseroles, beef ‘n’ beer stews, or used fondues or raclettes. I’m cringing as I recall how embarrassed I was that our parents seemed to be the “posh” ones. For God’s sake, we had a patio and a conservatory. This was pre-Celtic Tiger Ireland. We were probably considered the “Bouquets” of our area.
Even the fact that we were able to watch Keeping Up Appearances on BBC1, at a time when many of our friends only had two channels, RTE1 and Network 2, was a kind of snobbery in itself. When other Irish families were watching Glenroe, we sat laughing at Hyacinth Bucket’s (“it’s Bouquet”) misguided attempts at bettering herself, social climbing on a rickety ladder. Patricia Routledge was made for this role. I loved her clumsy displays of social awkwardness, her tireless efforts to invite those she perceived to be of a “higher social standing” to one of her candlelight suppers, and her embarrassment at being related to the plain Daisy and layabout Onslow. Of course, as I grew older, I learned that the Onslows and Daisys of the world, flawed as they were, were far more relatable than the pretentious Hyacinths.
Keeping Up Appearances became one of those things I will forever associate with my childhood and, more specifically, my mother. I remember the warmth I felt inside as I watched Mum watching it, dabbing the tears of laughter away with her hand. Of course, since the early to mid-nineties were simpler times, the whole Sheridan being gay thing went completely over my head (“oh but of course, you and Tarquin must have matching silk pyjamas”), but the bragging over Violet was something I picked up on straightaway (“my sister Violet, the one with the swimming pool, sauna, room for a pony”).
I think part of the reason why Keeping Up Appearances is so popular is because everybody who watches it can relate to it. We all have a vision of what a perfect family should look like, and we tend to think that other people have their shit together when they do not. Patricia Routledge once said in an interview: “I think great comedy is based on pretension, pretending to be something that you’re not, and the exquisite danger of being found out.”
It is also a reminder that the more we try to maintain a fake outer façade, the more likely it is that façade will fall away. Sometimes, it’s easier to live in a fantasy than face reality; for example, Hyacinth’s father “Daddy”, who clearly has cognitive issues too large for any family to deal with alone, is reduced to an eccentric genius in Hyacinth’s mind, and perhaps this is a coping mechanism for her. Violet tells Hyacinth that she’s thinking of leaving her cross-dressing husband Bruce, and Hyacinth gasps in horror, exclaiming “What about the Mercedes?”
Patricia Routledge passed away on 3 October and with that, she took another small part of our childhood, and our mother with her. I know that this mightn’t make sense to you, dear reader, but it does to me; the end of an era, a bonding ritual with both of our parents that can’t ever be reclaimed. Every time I hear that jaunty theme music, I’m back lying on that mauve sitting room carpet (no dodgy hip back then), with my head in my hands, being brought into an adult world that I otherwise had no interest in, laughing at the futility of pretending to be someone you’re not.
I recently watched an interview with Routledge on YouTube, dated early ‘nineties, where she remarked that she “gets a bit frightened of [Hyacinth] herself.” Routledge disclosed that while she herself was nothing like Hyacinth, she thoroughly enjoyed playing her, and after all these years, it’s difficult to imagine anyone else in that role.
Thank you, Patricia, for the belly laughs and for reminding us all, that despite appearances, we are all flawed, and delightfully human.
Tuesday Thoughts: Hip Hip Hooray!
It was during the first Covid lockdown in 2020 when I, like everyone else in the country, decided that I would step up my fitness regime. I started using the treadmill every day, and I ordered the most beautiful looking mountain tricycle from trikes.ie. As time passed, I felt frustrated that I didn’t seem to be getting any fitter. The more I walked and cycled, the more pain I was experiencing in my right leg. Admittedly, I didn’t think much of it at the time. I just put it down to not having cycled properly in years, maybe being a bit rusty. Then in September 2020, I fell backwards while crushing some plastic bottles under my foot for the recycle bin.
For nearly five years, I thought that this was the moment that changed everything dramatically, for the worst. Now, it seems it may have happened long before this, and I didn’t realise it.
As a wobbly walker, I fall over so often that it’s rare that I remember it. My body sports cuts and bruises that I don’t recall acquiring, never mind how I got them. A few weeks after this fall, I realised that the pain wasn’t subsiding, and that it was going up and down my leg. Sometimes, my knee felt like it was giving way below me. Other times, it felt like a trapped nerve. That was the diagnosis the physiotherapist gave me in July 2021: that it was periformis syndrome. Being me, I googled it, and learned that it should ease within a few weeks, provided I adhered to a religious physio regime.
It didn’t ease. In fact, it got worse, and soon I was getting no more than two hours’ sleep a night. The doctor referred me to Tallaght, but the specialist there couldn’t identify the source of the problem. One doctor prodded me in the back, and because I jumped, agreed with the physio that it must be periformis syndrome and nothing could be done, unless…. It was at this stage that I heard the words “pain injection” for the first time. However, getting a steroid injection into your periformis is a risky procedure with no room for error. I didn’t care. This was the end of 2022. I was sent home and was told that they couldn’t find anything wrong.
In July 2021, I was offered the opportunity of a lifetime – I won a place on the Play It Forward Programme, an initiative headed by Skein Press, The Stinging Fly, the Arts Council, and, in my case, Independent Living Movement Ireland through a bequeathment from founding member of the original Center for Independent Living, Declan O’Keeffe. I’d never met Declan, but I felt that I owed him the decency of making the most of this opportunity. Meanwhile, the pain would not abate. I lay awake every night, trying to get comfortable and wondering where I’d gone wrong, both with my body and with my career. I had a fantastic mentor, the talented David Butler, but I just couldn’t manage to put in the work required to complete my novel. Ideally, the end product of the Play It Forward programme for me would have been a bestselling debut, but obviously this wasn’t the case.
Every day, I scolded myself for wasting such a wonderful opportunity. I didn’t make the most of it, and it is only now that I accept that this was because I couldn’t, not because of laziness. I considered emailing everyone involved in my bursary award and apoIogising for squandering their money, but I knew that emotion was clouding my judgement. Instead, I went to the doctor and told her that I was having non-stop pain and depressive thoughts. The doctor explained that sometimes mental illnesses can manifest in physical ways. I wanted to scream.
This was January 2024. I had been in a depression spiral since September 2023. I was exhausted and paralysed by a pervasive sense of failure. I didn’t recognise myself. I withdrew from disability activism. I got some proofreading and editing jobs during this time, but not enough to earn a living. I stopped texting and calling friends, though some particular friends refused to be pushed away. The week before my daughter’s confirmation, I went to my doctor and told her that I was having dark thoughts and that I didn’t think I could carry on. She prescribed Sertraline, which I never took.
I never took it because I knew that it was the pain that was messing with my head. It was ruining my life. All I seemed to do was complain, and I was so sick of it. As I grew more tired, I felt more useless, like I was a burden on those who loved me. I was too tired during the day to write, or to find work, or do anything other than scroll or watch nonsense on YouTube. Taskmaster became my comfort blanket. This is coming from someone who once would rather read or listen to radio or do anything other than sit and watch a TV programme.
In February 2024, still on a crusade for answers, I went to Neurology in Naas hospital, where the doctor there again gave me hope that I could get a pain injection into the periformis and made a referral to have it done. I should point out that, at this stage, I’d only had a back x-ray, which showed up no abnormalities. We were planning on going to Australia in July 2024, and I wanted desperately to be able to enjoy it pain free. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be, as I’ve written before. On 7 June 2024, we travelled to Tallaght and I was all ready for my injection, only to be told (a) that they couldn’t find my sciatic nerve, or any sign of damage, on the scan and (b) that they thought my pain was likely the result of a “contusion”.
i.e. That they thought it was impact pain from the fall, that I’d had four years previous.
Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.
I really thought I was going mad. We went to Australia, and I relied heavily on painkillers and my TENS machine to get me through the trip. I couldn’t even walk around my sister’s bungalow; I needed the manual chair. I was so tired and frustrated. When we came home, I slid back into the Netflix binges, completely exhausted. Was this my life now, at the age of forty? No job, no prospects, a life overshadowed by tiredness and pain? What was the point of getting (two) university qualifications, and all those writing courses I’d done since 2014, if I couldn’t use them to build a career?
In January 2025, I rejoined Writer’s Ink, an online writers group spearheaded by bestselling author Sam Blake (Vanessa Fox O’Loughlin) and coaching guru Maria McHale, and I revisited my novel, once again fantasising about how the world needs to hear Rachel’s story. At first, things went well. I did a prompt exercise every day and before long I was discussing my would-be novel with literary agent, Simon Trewin, who seemed impressed. However, by April, I was exhausted again, struggling to get to the end of the day. Another frustrated visit to the doctor, another set of blood tests that showed everything was normal.
“Come back in,” the doctor said. “We need to get to the bottom of this.”
She was taking me seriously, possibly sick of my constant complaining. She brought up my files, and we went through the absolute shitshow that has been the last five years, going through the letters from the consultants, the lack of findings. Suddenly, she frowned at the screen.
“You’ve had a back x-ray. Have they ever x-rayed your hip?”
My hip? No.
“Okay, let’s do that next.”
I duly attended the “urgent” x-ray appointment, feeling I was wasting my time. A couple of days later, my doctor’s number flashed across the screen.
“It’s your hip.” She was excited. “Significant arthritis. It’s very shallow, by all accounts. I’d say you’re looking at a replacement.”
This was the 22nd April of this year. Nearly five years of looking for answers. And although it didn’t feel like it at the time, it was possibly the best birthday present I’d ever been given. I wasn’t going mad. I wasn’t a hypochondriac. I was suffering – and I use this word deliberately – from arthritis. Five years on, I finally had an answer.
Since that phone call, my life has changed so much. I now go easier on myself, knowing that I will have good days and bad. Not only am I paying more attention to my body, I know what exercises I have to do, how to look after myself properly. In June, once the reality of what lies ahead sunk in, I went back to the doctor to discuss my long-term options.
I need to be a good mum and wife. I need to get back to work. What way should we approach this?
She arranged an urgent appointment with an orthopaedic surgeon. When the appointment came in, my husband and I were stunned.
“Surgery,” he said. “That’s where we are now, and what you’ve fought for.”
I dismissed his words with a wave of my hand. “It won’t come to that.”
My dear reader, as it turns out, it may well come to that. On 4th September 2025, I foolishly attended the appointment alone, reasoning that I would be perceived more capable and confident if I asked the questions. And I was right, but the news landed like a lead brick. After half an hour’s discussion with the surgeon, during which he went through my symptoms and x-ray in detail, he handed me a leaflet – What You Should Know About Hip Replacements.
He said that although wear and tear might be a factor, my hip has possibly always been shallow and that many people (not just wobblies) have it and only discover that they have it when it plays up in their forties. He said that he has replaced the hips of at least four CPers. Best of all, he said that he would attempt a pain injection into my hip. Not just to give me relief, but also as confirmation that the hip was the cause of my pain, before cutting me open.
“Oh God,” I said. “Don’t dangle the dream. I’ve been here before.” I explained my journey so far, but he was confident he’d be able to do it.
He was right.
On Friday 17th October, with the help of an amazing medical team, I finally received a pain injection into my hip. It was relatively straightforward: I lay still enough, and the procedure took ten minutes. I burst into tears, because I felt so proud of myself for not giving up and persisting in finding the answers. I won’t know for sure until the end of the week if it has worked, but I do feel some relief already. I’ve had four good nights’ sleep – apparently, I didn’t hear Rupert barking the other night, which feels wrong – I always am the one to hear him and let him out. Last night, I was doing a crossword puzzle in bed, and I sat with my knees up and the book resting on them. John Paul remarked that I haven’t sat like that in years. Today is Tuesday, and I feel exhausted, five years of sleepless nights catching up on me. But I’m not in pain. It feels like being on holiday from my own body.
I know I shouldn’t get too excited. After all, it’s still early days and this injection mightn’t work long-term. And if I do need a replacement, recovery will be long and arduous. But for the first time in a long time, I feel hopeful that I can get back to myself and to who I was before all of this started.
I suppose I’m sharing this for two reasons. First, to apologise to the many people I’ve lost track of in the last five years, and to offer an explanation – not an excuse. Second, to give anyone who finds themselves in the same position some hope. I believe you. Please don’t stop looking for answers. I offer you love and light xx
Tuesday Thoughts – Budget 2025: A Reflection
October is a reflective time for me. It’s bookended by my father-in-law’s anniversary on the first day of the month, and my granny Maye’s anniversary on Halloween night. Sandwiched in between is Martin Naughton’s anniversary. Regular readers of this blog should be familiar with Martin by now; he is considered the Father of the Independent Living Movement in Ireland. Next Monday, 13 October will mark his ninth year “away from home”, and he is still sorely missed, both in the capacity of being the forefront figure of the movement, and as a comrade and friend.
Martin came to mind this morning as I read the paper this morning on Budget Day. I have vague memories from my youthful twenties of Budget Day being an event that people got excited about. Now, it’s a day filled with dread, the ghosts of the 2008 recession continuing to haunt us. In 2012, then Health Minister James Reilly announced a sweeping cut in funds of €10m to the Personal Assistant Service. It was salvaged by the actions of a group called the Leaders Alliance, headed by Eugene Callan and included many disabled activists, too many of whom have also since passed away, who slept outside the Dail for three nights in protest. Leigh Gath told the media: “We’re often seen as the most vulnerable targets, but after today and however much longer we have to stay here, maybe that will change.”
Irish disability history was made that on 5 September 2012, when the government announced that they were rowing back on the inhumane and savage cuts, but the threat still lingers over disability services, Personal Assistance in particular.
Back in 2025, I read in the Irish Independent this morning that “disability services will be a central part of the budget.” It goes on to state that “this will be used for more staff, more residential places, more adult day places and make some contribution towards assessment of needs.” This is great news for many families who are under strain, but I’m sceptical as to whether there’s any great demand for adult day places or residential places among disabled people themselves.
I accept that there are some disabled people who enjoy the camaraderie of attending day services, who love meeting their peers and who love going on day trips to places away from their families. I appreciate that for many accessing respite services that it allows them a level of freedom that they may not enjoy at home. However, it is crucial that disabled people themselves are holding the reigns of control over their own lives, that they themselves are demanding and designing the services that will enable them to get the most from their lives.
In my experience, and from talking to other people, the Personal Assistant Service is the one service that offers personal freedom and choice. It allows people to study, work, and to participate in society as contributors and consumers. In its purest form, it lends people more choice and control over their own lives – to do whatever the hell they want, whenever they want. Honestly, it’s been over ten years since I felt this way about my Personal Assistant Service, and I know I’m not alone in this.
Since the cutbacks were supposedly reversed in 2012 – nearly thirteen years ago – advocates for independent living and disability (human) rights have had the frustrating job of having to educate the government, service providers and disabled persons themselves about the philosophy of independent living and the importance of adopting a human rights approach. That means enjoying a standard of life that our non-disabled peers might take for granted: living in our own homes, perhaps with a partner or a family; engaging in meaningful employment or educational opportunities; availing of social outlets or even going travelling. It seems that every time disabled people win the right to do these things, another cutback or legislative loophole pulls the rug from under our feet.
Luckily, however, we are, in theory, in a better position to push for an acceptable standard of living than we were in September 2012. The UN Convention on the Rights of People with Disabilities (UNCRPD) was ratified in 2018, and the monitoring/advisory body was established by the Irish Human Rights and Equality Commission (IHREC) by the end of that year. Around the same time, Independent Living Movement Ireland (ILMI) launched its #PASNow campaign, urging county councils to vote in favour of legislating the Personal Assistant Service, thus enshrining the right to Independent Living in Irish Law. Most recently, the publication of the National Human Rights Strategy for Disabled People 2025-2030 marks a vital shift in the State’s obligation to treat the barriers to inclusion that disabled people face as serious violations of their human rights.
Legislating for Personal Assistance Services in Ireland is a matter of urgency. Currently, PA hours are distributed, primarily by the HSE, in accordance with perceived need. It is not enough for anyone to be assisted out of bed, often at a time that does not suit the individual, and to be put back into bed at the end of a day. Humans need to feel a sense of purpose, a desire to fulfil their potential, and disabled people are no different. When a disabled person is denied access to the services they want as well as need (because, to paraphrase the great Martin Naughton, we should be able to do what we want as well as what we need),that person is at risk of isolation, of developing mental health problems, of never truly being recognised as an equal in Irish society.
Des Kenny said in Conversations about Activism and Change that while changes for the better are happening, overall, our progression towards equality is painfully slow. I know we have to look at the bigger picture, but I cannot help but feel frustrated that many who have fought battles in the name of achieving equity for disabled people have since passed, far too soon. The National Human Rights Strategy was a monumental achievement for disabled people. Now, our government much work to ensure that the strategy is implemented in our everyday lives. We are worth the investment, in every sense of the word.
As I said, October is a reflective time for me. I’ve now been blogging about disability rights for over eleven years. Am I still going to be writing the same things in another ten years’ time? God, I really hope not.
Tuesday Thoughts: A Reflection of “In Their Names In Our Time” Eight Years On
The date 23rd September 2017 will always be etched in my memory as the day that disabled people in Ireland came together to push back against the injustice that we’d collectively endured as a collective since the onset of the recession. On that chilly September day, over two hundred people came together in the Mansion House, a year after the centenary marking the Easter Rising in 1916, to celebrate the lives of seven late disability activists who had made notable contributions to the advancement of Independent Living and equal rights for disabled people in Ireland. Their names were Martin Naughton, Joe T. Mooney, Ursula Hegarty, Florence Dougall, Michael Corbett, Dermot Walsh and Donal Toolan. Although these people were singled out, there were many activists from across the country whose contributions were recognised in conversations held between attendees on the day; far too many to list here.
When Martin died on 13th October 2016, a collective of disabled people came together to create a space to celebrate his work and legacy. What became obvious in the planning process of the event was that we needed to reinvigorate people and the Independent Living Movement as a whole. In the barren landscape of post-recession Ireland, where vital services had been attacked and whittled down to almost nothing by the very people who promised to protect them, disabled people were hungry for change, and were adamant that they had a duty to honour these seven activists’ legacy by fighting for it.
On 23rd October 2016, as I sat in Carmichael House, where the first Center for Independent Living had been established twenty-four years beforehand, I pondered on how I could contribute to the continuation of this important disability movement. It had been a year since I’d last been employed by Offaly Centre for Independent Living, and I’d departed from the job with a sparse skill set; apart from a successful Fashion show which sported the diversity within our local community, I’d only ever organised a smattering of coffee mornings and movie afternoons. I wanted to be a writer, and so I volunteered to establish a blog to collect memories and stories about the early days of the movement. Doing so gave me the confidence to help with the admin of the event. For the first time in a long time, I felt valued and useful, and it was an amazing feeling.
I was invested in this project. My peers were trusting me and were generous with their advice. I started talking to and texting people I’d never spoken to before, especially John Doyle and Shelly Gaynor. John fed me titbits of Independent Living history, things I didn’t know before, because there was no record of an Irish disability movement. Shelly was a grounding force. She was the voice of reason and could easily distinguish between the achievable and the impossible. And Eileen Daly became a firm friend, trying to arrange meetings to accommodate my participation. Ultimately, however, I ended up recruiting a babysitter for Alison as the organisation of the event became like a full-time job.
There was a lot of talk around the event, positive and negative. Mistakes were made, many of which I’d take back in a heartbeat, and certainly would not repeat. Organising an event of this magnitude was a giant learning curve. That’s the essence of Independent Living, and learned from each other. Alliances and lasting friendships were formed. Ultimately, disabled activists from across the country rowed in behind us, knowing that although the process wasn’t perfect, we were trying our best. We were reluctant to make promises about how the event would go. I felt we were under an enormous amount of pressure. Everyone was looking for the same thing: a feeling of solidarity and camaraderie; yet each of us were also bring personal hopes and expectations to the table.
Finally, the day itself came. I remember waking up with a pain in my stomach. I remember doing my best to greet everyone I knew and introduce myself to anyone I didn’t. As a writer, I’m used to working alone, but meeting two hundred people in one day was another level of overwhelm. In an act of bravery or stupidity, I’d offered to write and perform a monologue highlighting the dangers of internalised oppression; we cannot allow our own self-limiting beliefs to hold us back. I’d never performed on stage before, and the subject of the monologue I’d written with Peter Kearns – a disabled mother led to believe that she was incapable of caring for her own baby – was still painful and raw, five years later. Thankfully, my acting debut was well-received, though minutes later, Peter Kearns found me puking in the toilets. (“Does it get easier?” I asked him. “God, no,” he laughed as he beheld my ashen face.)
The event was picked up by RTE News, which was great publicity, but the purpose of the event was more nuanced than was reported. We came together as a collective to mourn and remember, but also to regroup. We needed that event to remind ourselves of our own strengths. That we did not deserve the inhumane treatment that was doled out to us in the name of saving government money. A reminder that no matter how much is in the government pot, we are entitled to our rights and services that enable us to be independent must be secured and underpinned by a rights-based approach.
Eight years have passed now, and changes have been made. Independent Living Movement Ireland (ILMI) is now officially recognised as a Disabled Persons’ Organisation (a DPO), representing the views of disabled people across the country. ILMI are supporting the establishment of local DPOs, encouraging people to fight for their rights and vocalise their concerns.
In addition, ILMI is leading the way in pushing back against language that victimises or infantilises disabled people. And just last week saw the publication of the National Human Rights Strategy for Disabled People 2025-2030, a historic moment as this has been the first strategy to consult with disabled people and DPOs throughout its compilation. This gives me hope that perhaps, one day, disabled people might gather in the Mansion House to celebrate rights, freedom of choice, and being truly treated as independent citizens of Ireland, just as those gone before us fought for.
I will forever be proud of taking part in this event, and will always use it as a benchmark for what is possible, because really, anything is, when we work together.
Eight Things I’ve Learned About Chronic Pain
Religious followers of this blog will know that I’ve experienced chronic pain in my sciatic area for the last five years. I noticed it after a particularly nasty fall in the back garden in 2020 but only became concerned when, six months after the fall, the pain hadn’t subsided. Since then, it’s been a rollercoaster of medical appointments, of being told it was sciatica, muscle spasms, periformis syndrome and many other things. And, of course, one medic had the gall to suggest I was imagining it, that it couldn’t possibly be as bad as I was saying (apparently, I like lying in bed every night, doing stretches at half three in the morning for the craic.)
My birthday was in April, and to celebrate I was gifted an unexpected diagnosis. After years of plaguing her, my doctor, who believed me from day one, ordered a hip x-ray. Now, I wasn’t expecting anything to come of it, but three days later, she phoned me to say that there was significant wear and tear in my right hip, and that the results could pinpoint exactly what’s causing the pain. At first, I was stunned, and a little annoyed with myself. Had I done this to myself? Since then, I’ve spoken to so many people who have arthritis too, and the majority of them struggle to articulate just how debilitating this pain can be.
Having Cerebral Palsy is not a big deal, because I’ve never not had it. However, as I get older, I find that I have aches and niggles I’ve never had before. Adapting to having CP comes naturally, as there’s never been a time when I didn’t have it, but chronic pain, although it’s kind of connected to the CP, has been a bit more of a learning curve. Here’s what I’ve learned about having this new CP (although a Google search told me some of the same things, I’m more into learning the hard way).
- Chronic Pain is not your fault:
Admittedly, I naturally walk with my leg turned in, but despite appearances, I do try to walk as straight as I can. It took me a long time to acknowledge and recognise that chronic pain is not a punishment, and that being hard on myself was not going to change it. Sometimes you can do everything right and still end up in pain. This leads me to my second point… - Physical pain can lead to crappy mental health:
Being in pain is exhausting. I’ve finally succumbed to taking pain medication at night so that I can sleep, but on days where I’m in pain and tired from a poor night’s sleep, the world becomes a dark place. Even the simplest tasks become laborious and time-consuming. Your brain lies to you, telling you that you are useless, a burden. This can lead to feelings of failure and inadequacy. Therefore – - Pain management must come first in your priorities:
It doesn’t matter how busy you think you are. If you skip the physio, neglect to slap on the TENS machine or push through without the medication, chances are you won’t be able to do what you need to do anyway. In order to be your best self, you need to take control over your pain management. Eat well, drink your water, and rest when you need to. - Pacing is not a dirty word:
I continually fight this one. After all, we live in a society where “being busy” is seen as a badge of honour. I tend to get overexcited when I have a pain-free day, and I run around the house like a lunatic, scrubbing bathrooms and hoovering only to be left in agony for days after. I think what you’re supposed to do is prioritise tasks and do them at your own pace, with plenty of rest in between. I’ll keep working on it! - Pain can be lonely:
Most of us don’t want to be seen to constantly complain. As a result, I often find myself withdrawing from activities and meetings that I once enjoyed. I don’t like telling the same story, over and over. Sometimes, I don’t have the energy to be social, and I end up watching Netflix in binges when I could be meeting people out of the house, and this only heightens my inner shame and sense of failure. However, it’s also important to remember – - You are not alone:
When I eventually found the courage to talk about the impact that being in pain was having on my physical and mental health, I was surprised to hear that so many of my friends were also wrestling with pain, and as long as I don’t fall into a pit of self-pity, I can support and be supported by those who love me most. Many people experience chronic pain, with diagnoses like fibromyalgia. Sometimes people are not believed, but this experience does not make your pain any less real. Thousands of people are in the same boat – take some comfort in this. - A bad day does not mean a bad life:
I’m having a bad day today; I cannot shake the tiredness and this is slowing me down. It’s frustrating, especially since, in my mind at least, I have nothing to be tired about; no job to go to (hoping that will change soon), no toddlers, and not nearly as much writing being done as I’d like. However, I must admit that I have good days too, especially those spent with family and friends, and that overall, I’ve achieved a lot. Parenting a teenager is not for the faint hearted! - Wheelchairs and walking aids have no moral value:
Over the years, I’ve heard people saying that they want to be able to walk without aids. My thing is that I’d like to walk more with my rollator, as I did before my hip started giving me trouble. Some days I manage, and some days I can barely stand. My pain and energy levels vary. What doesn’t vary are my duties as wife, mother, and writer. I do get some invaluable help, but overall, meals still need cooked, laundry done, dogs walked. My wheelchair enables me to carry out these duties. I am not lazy; in fact, I am trying to stay as independent as possible.
Phew! If you made it this far, thank you. I only hope that it helps someone who needs it, whether you’re experiencing chronic pain yourself, or a loved one is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to stretch and pray for a good night’s sleep afterwards.
The H Bomb
Trigger warning: This blog uses the word handicap which may be triggering for some readers.
Having a thirteen-year-old daughter is tricky. She’s constantly pushing for more independence, and her friends are the most important things in her world right now. So, whenever she agrees to spend time with me, I grab it with both hands. Last week, I planned an impromptu trip to Dublin, just for a wander. We were at the Jump Juice counter in the Ilac Centre on Henry Street, and I’d just ordered when, in the corner of my eye, I noticed Alison storming away without me.
“Hey! Where you going?” I grabbed her arm and she swung back around to me.
“That lady called you a smelly handicap.”
“Eh? How do you know that?”
“I heard her. She said ‘oh, I wouldn’t go near that smelly handicap.’ So I thought I’d follow her and punch her lights out.”
A large part of me brimmed with pride. Alison is embarrassed by me, because I am her mum, and cool teenagers are not supposed to admit that they have parents, and certainly not “special” parents. Yet, she was willing to throw herself in front of me to protect me from attack. Little did she know she’d picked up a sword to join so many of us in an ongoing battle to be recognised as equals – God, to merely exist.
I first heard the word “handicap” before I started primary school. Mum spent hours nattering on the phone to her golfing buddies, going on about pars and handicaps. She’d naively hoped that I’d always be oblivious to the negative connotations – the shadow of “cripples” begging during the Middle Ages, “hand in cap”, their survival dependent on the generosity of others. She could have warned me that people would call me names, or that they wouldn’t accept me, but I might not have believed her. I never got any special treatment at home; my favourite expression from my childhood is “No disability will ever excuse you from emptying the dishwasher.” My parents always expected me to do my best at everything I did. But the other side of that was that they taught me that I did not deserve to be treated less favourably. It was not okay to be othered, and to tolerate it was to show people that I deserved this treatment. They encouraged me to speak up for myself.
Granted, having been born a chatterbox, I’m not sure how much encouragement I needed. In first year of secondary school, I was advised that I would not be allowed to partake in PE, or the practical elements of Home Economics. After attempting the basketball drills, I conceded with the PE teachers, Ms Ganly and Ms Healy, that I was probably better off sitting the classes out, but I really wanted to do Home Economics. What I saw was the probability of having to do meal prep in the future; there was little doubt in my mind that I would someday live independently. What my teachers saw, I imagine, was a wobbly girl with shaky hands dancing around boiling pots and sharp knives. In fifth year, I told the teacher, with all the confidence I could muster, that I would be doing Home Economics and partaking in the cooking elements. By this stage, I was already cooking lasagne and pasta dishes at home every week anyway. Impressed (or frightened) by my insistence, she agreed. Soon this smelly handicap was bringing home dinner from school for the family every Thursday evening. The Chinese stir fry was a particular favourite, and now it’s one of Alison’s favourite dinners, too!
But hearing the words “smelly handicap,” thirty-six years after hearing it for the first time, made me feel sad. Like many of my disabled family, I have always fought to dismantle the man-made, societal barriers that block me from accessing my true potential. Yet hearing the word “handicap” the other day brought to mind early Junior Infant days when I, having just learned how to walk, used to meander towards the toilets, and the kids in the older classes would dig each other in the ribs and walk beside me, as if they were trying to trip themselves up. Now, I had no concept of walking any differently, so thankfully the other kids were around to tell me. My friend Peter pointed out to me that, like me, he did not know he had Cerebral Palsy until it was pointed out to him. In fact, he told me, Cerebral Palsy (CP) was initially named “Little’s Disease,” so-called after the doctor who “discovered” it for the first time. However, Peter pointed out, CP has always existed, alongside many other conditions and impairments, and this fact remains constant throughout the ages. What has evolved (a little) is how we label and consequently perceive and treat disabled people.
For me, hearing the word “handicap” throws me back to a time when I believed there was something wrong with me, and that I had to justify my place in the world. I spent my teen years believing I was not good enough, despite the academic results showing me otherwise. Going to Trinity and seeing how many resources they put in place to enable me to live independently, offered me a valuable perspective I’d never considered before. Learning that I was not a burden lifted a weight of responsibility from me that I hadn’t known that I’d been carrying.
However, whether we like it or not, our experience of life colours our outlook. And even though, from an outsider’s viewpoint at least, I’ve achieved great things – a university degree, a job, marriage, our child – all of these blessings were underpinned by an inner belief that I didn’t deserve them, that I was just an imposter, waiting to be unmasked.
I’ve written about internalised oppression before, and my stance remains unchanged: I think it is one of the toughest barriers to true equality for disabled people. All our lives, we are constantly told, by a society that purports to know better, what we can and cannot do. We are told that we are a burden. We watch as those who tend to our needs, family members who we crave a relationship with on an equal basis, become burnt out. The dynamic shifts; we cannot possibly ever be equal in that position. People pity family carers, yet the governments still fails to understand that when our human rights are granted, pressure on those who love us also eases.
No parent should ever vocalise a wish to die before their children do. This has been an issue for decades, and the discussion is always the same. In order for the lives of disabled people to improve in a meaningful way, the government must commit to taking a rights-based approach. The government must change how disability is framed in our society. This won’t come naturally to a government that left an eleven year gap between signing up for the United Nations Convention on the Rights of People with Disabilities (UNCRPD) and its ratification. There’s always a great deal of conversation around the provision of disability services, but the government rarely address groups of disabled people themselves (or Disabled Persons Organisations, also known as DPOs) in making these provisions.
And I cannot help but wonder if it’s this lingering culture of seeing us as “other,” as those “smelly handicaps”, that prevents us from being seen as equals. Othering us makes it easier to deny our rights, to keep us separate from the mainstream. If you have not experienced this “othering”, you cannot imagine the effort it takes to try and come across as “normal”. How we sometimes try to hide the “unsavoury” realities of our impairments in the hope it leads to acceptance. How frightening it can be to ask for assistance, personal or technological, for fear that such a request may lead us to be seen as incapable. Kudos where it’s due: many aspects of our towns and cities are becoming more accessible to people with all kinds of impairments. Disability awareness training seems to be more commonplace.
However, until our human rights are truly recognised and met, the legacy of the “smelly handicap” will always be hiding around the corner, ready to take us by surprise.
Wednesday Wonderings: Five Years Ago Today, the World Shut Down
Today marks five years since the first Covid-19 lockdown in Ireland was announced by An Taoiseach, Mr Leo Varadkar, on 12 March 2020. Five years on, I’ve been reflecting on the surreal events that unfolded afterwards. Although everything is now back to normal, and many things are “as they were” before restrictions were announced, part of me cannot help but wonder whether as a society, we have collectively dealt with the psychological, emotional and economical impact of that uncertain period, which was followed swiftly by events that continue to unfold in Ukraine and Russia.
It was my good friend Shelly and late friend Leigh who first alerted me into thinking that this emerging virus in China was something to be worried about. I read back some of our group chats from late January/February 2020, and shake my head as I am reminded how the three of us tried to pre-empt what would happen next. I predicted that they might have to shut the schools for a few weeks, while efforts would be made to contain the virus. No-one could imagine the chaos that unfolded during the following weeks and months.
On the morning of 12 March 2020, while everyone around me was stocking up on tinned goods or toilet roll, I remember walking around Dunnes Stores looking for a nice Easter Egg for Alison. I remember that I bought a few groceries as well, but I didn’t know what to buy. I just bought two bags of pasta and some noodles, along with four bars of soap (the pumped bottles were already sold out), while looking at people’s heaped trollies around me. The Easter egg was my priority. I could sense that Alison was going to lose so much in the coming weeks; she didn’t need to lose the Easter bunny as well.
Afterwards, I came home, feeling sick to my stomach. Despite being an avid reader of dystopian fiction, I didn’t know how I was going to deal with this uncertainty, nor how I was going to guide my eight-year-old daughter through it. That day, in an effort to distract myself more than being worried about my child’s education, I printed off a large number of worksheets from an educational website, thinking that if the world was about to be thrown into chaos and unpredictability, that it would be best to try and create some semblance of routine for the sprog.
That afternoon, when Alison came home from school, she’d just been informed that school was to be closed for two weeks, but even at the age of eight, she was clever enough to know that it would likely be longer. She asked so many questions, and for the first time in our lives, we had no answers. We sat watching the news as Leo Varadkar announced the lockdowns. John Paul had just started a career break, and I remember the relief that he would not be working and exposing himself to the virus. I became institutionalised very quickly, accepting isolation as the way things had to be. Like millions of us, I threw myself into work and homeschooling in to keep busy, trying to suppress my nervousness at the uncertainty around me. (What are the psychological effects of this now, I wonder?)
The world was thrown into autopilot, and slight lunacy. It became an offence to meet up with others, to take a drive into the mountains or to the beach, or to travel further than a 2km range from your home. Only one person could go shopping from a family at any given time. We had to mask up and keep our distance from those we loved, not only for two weeks, but for the guts of eighteen months. Hugging a friend was seen to be first degree murder. The message was, do you want your granny to die, all because you couldn’t resist giving your loved one a quick cuddle in the supermarket? What long-term effect is this messaging still having on people, especially children?
In July 2020, Alison attended a socially-distanced drama summer camp in the local youth centre. I was apprehensive, but more concerned about my only child becoming too isolated from other children. After the second day, her drama facilitator messaged me to say that my eight-year-old daughter had told her that she had predicted the coronavirus pandemic, that she’d had a dream the week before restrictions announced that told her that something bad was going to happen in the world, and because she hadn’t told anyone she believed, essentially, that she was to blame for the entire pandemic. My heart turned to ribbons as I thought of the psychological burden that my little girl was carrying This is the unspoken impact of the OTT messaging behind the pandemic. We, her parents, were stunned as we explained, repeatedly, the scientific reasoning behind it. It took a long time to convince her, and even now, I see the damage that carrying that awful “secret” did to her.
Nobody in their right minds would ever want to return to those dark days of lockdown, although I will admit that it took me a long time to regain the confidence to put myself back out there and claim my life back. I became institutionalised in the safety of my home, going from somebody who went to Dublin at least twice a month, just because, to someone who didn’t go anywhere, until last year.
We’ve had a rough few years that we simply have not been allowed to collectively recover from: COVID, the Ukraine-Russian conflict, economic instability, and now fecken Trump, so as we reflect on five years since the lockdowns were announced, we must remember that we have been through a great deal of collective trauma, and to give ourselves a break. And to congratulate ourselves, too, for doing our best in such unprecedented circumstances.
Review: Dara O’Briain’s “Recreation” and the StayCity Aparthotel
It’s been a week since John Paul’s birthday, and what better way to celebrate than enjoying his Christmas present? Yes, reader, you’ve read correctly: for Christmas, I got JP tickets to see his all-time favourite comedian, Dara O’Briain, in Vicar Street. It’s been JP’s ambition to see the man himself live since those poverty-filled weekends of 2008, when we couldn’t afford to go out and we sat in watching Dara O’Briain’s comedy DVD on repeat. Almost a fortnight ago, on Friday 28 February, we crossed that from our bucket lists, marking both our first time to see the comedian live, and my first time in Vicar Street.
Now, I’d never been to Vicar Street before, but was delighted to find a limited number of accessible tickets online (If you’re a wheelchair user, I suggest booking early to avoid disappointment). We travelled from Tullamore to Dublin via train, and I prebooked a wheelchair accessible taxi in advance on the FreeNow app, an act that felt like a game of Russian roulette. I will say that although I booked the taxi on the Tuesday, four days beforehand, my driver and vehicle was only confirmed a few minutes before arrival, and as the driver hadn’t specified where to meet, we had a fun impromptu game of Find the Taxi Driver. Nonetheless, he was very helpful and I marvelled at how easy the process was. Booking an accessible taxi in an urban (not city) area can be impossible, even with all the advance notice in the world. And if you use the FreeNow app, the fare can be deducted from your debit/credit card, meaning no fumbling with wallets as you are getting out of the taxi.
When I initially booked the StayCity Aparthotel, I was wary despite the high ratings left by previous guests. The StayCity is located around the corner from Vicar Street, which is crucial if, like me, you happen to be directionally challenged. I was expecting a basic hostel setup, and in many ways, it is basic; there are no frills. However, it was exactly what we needed. The accessible apartment was spacious yet cosy, with a wooden floor in the bedroom-cum-kitchenette and non-slip tiles in the roomy ensuite. The bed was at a comfortable height for a wheelchair user to transfer onto, unlike some other hotel beds that I’ve found to be too high. The bathroom was well equipped with plenty of handrails (blue for contrast of colour), two emergency cords (one beside the toilet, the other in the shower), and a good-sized sink with a long mirror and space for the wheelchair underneath.
Having freshened up, it was time for the gig itself. Vicar Street is known as the perfect venue for comedy shows. We entered Vicar Street via the back entrance, where the staff were helpful and courteous. The bar area, which is right in front of the theatre entrance, is laid back and intimate also. While I loved this aspect of it, it fell on JP to order drinks as the bar is quite high. The room itself was slightly bigger than I expected, but tables are quite close together, creating that feel of togetherness and comraderie among the crowd. I should at this point mention that, as far as I could make out, there are only four tables in the entire room suitable for wheelchair users, and each table is located in a corner of the room. This would have an impact on how many wheelchair users could attend any one gig. However, the atmosphere was cosy, with everyone giddy to see the show.
Finally, when Dara took to the stage, suffice to say he didn’t disappoint. He is a fascinating mix of experienced seanchaí, dramatic actor and that neighbour you’ve said “good morning” to as long as you can remember. He’s quick-witted and razor-sharp, baiting and successfully reeling in front-row audience members into his quirky anecdotes. However, Dara’s set is far from a series of gimmicky stories. Like any great writer/entertainer, he bares his naked soul to the audience as he relates, in an honest and touching way, the whirlwind journey behind his search for his birth parents. We, the audience, experienced that journey with him, the dizzying highs and the crushing blows. Dara allowed us into his heart in the same way that everyone watching that night welcomed him into ours.
In a turbulent world riddled with uncertainty, comedy is more important than ever before. I wanted to share this piece with you, as a wheelchair user who’d always assumed that attending a Vicar Street gig would be too awkward. I would highly recommend staying in the StayCity Aparthotel and reserving the accessible room (we paid €140 for bed and breakfast, where we would have been stung for €200+ elsewhere). The combination of decent, affordable accommodation, with its location near Vicar Street, made for an enjoyable, relaxing evening.
Remembering the Father and Mother of the Independent Living Movement
Judy Heumann and Ed Roberts are both recognised as prominent figures in the international Independent Living Movement. It is remarkable to think that two complete strangers from opposite ends of the United States would come together to spearhead what would evolve into an International Disability Rights Movement. This month, as we mark the anniversaries of their passings (Judy – 4 March 2022; Ed – 14 March 1995), I find myself reflecting on how the actions of these two individuals led to the formation of an army (in modern terms, a collective), that fought for equal rights for disabled people worldwide.
When I first started working with Offaly Centre for Independent Living in 2008, my first assignment was to research and understand the origins of the Independent Living Movement. I knew about Personal Assistance, but nothing about the existence of a civil rights movement for disabled people. I also knew about Rosa Parks’ refusal to give up her seat on the bus, but I’d never heard about the feisty New Yorker, Judy Heumann, who led a demonstration shutting down the streets of New York, before orchestrating what would become known as the “504 sit-in”. Nor had I heard of a young Californian called Ed Roberts who conquered his self-pity and established the first Center for Independent Living, after setting up an informal team of assistants that helped him live independently while he studied at the University of California in Berkeley.
Ed and Judy (I refer to them by their first names as I think of them as comrades or allies, not faraway idols) are often referred to as the Father and Mother of the Independent Living Movement. Both had polio, but Ed had acquired polio later in life, at the age of fourteen, and so he perceived himself differently to how Judy did – his journey to self – acceptance saw him transform from “helpless cripple” into a “star”, whereas Judy says in her autobiography, Being Heumann, that she always believed that she had a right to exist on an equal basis with others. Ed was also more significantly impaired than Judy, and one of the obstacles to his attending university was finding somewhere that could accommodate the 800lb lung he slept in at night. Ed was the first wheelchair user to attend the University of California and eventually, he was offered a wing of Cowell Hospital, the on-campus hospital, which he accepted with the caveat that he could treat it as a dorm, not a medical facility, with the same freedoms that non-disabled students enjoyed.
The establishment of the first Center for Independent Living in 1972, led by Ed and a group of disabled University of California students who dubbed themselves the Rolling Quads, marked the beginning of a battle for disabled people to have their civil rights recognised. By sharing their experiences and witnessing the nitty-gritty of each other’s lives, they formed a strong bond among themselves based on a mutual desire to enjoy a better quality of life, as equal citizens in America. Progress proved slow. In 1973, the Rehabilitation Act was passed, but Section 504 – which rendered it illegal for state-funded services to discriminate against persons on the basis of disability – was vetoed. Age-old excuses of cost of adaptations were trotted out as valid reasons to not sign the regulations, so passing the Act was merely paying lip service to equality for disabled people.
By 1977, a frustrated Judy had had enough. In her eyes, and the eyes of her supporters and fellow activists, sitting around waiting for something drastic to happen was time wasted. Using her experience of successfully suing the State of New York for denying her a teaching licence as she was perceived to be a fire hazard, Judy and what was referred to at the time as an “army of the handicapped” gained access to and refused to leave the offices of Health, Welfare and Education in San Francisco. Judy was highly organised, and soon various committees had been established to organise food and bedding, as well as entertainment. Nonetheless, the physical impact of sleeping on mattresses on the floor was roughly felt by many protestors, many of whom developed bedsores. Despite this, it seemed that the protestors in San Francisco knew that there was too much at stake to back down.
In the later stages of the sit-in, Evan White, a news reporter, had amassed an impressive amount of footage of the protests. He described his jubilance at having the honour of sitting in during “meetings of strategy” with disabled protestors, as Judy led long meetings with fellow protestors every evening that often lasted into the wee morning hours. Everyone was given a say, and a job to do. By a stroke of luck, a nationwide television strike enabled Evan’s recorded reports to become front and centre of the country’s viewing schedule. This worried Califano more than the sit-ins themselves; it had the potential to damage his public image as a politician. On the twenty-fourth day of the sit-in, Section 504 was signed, a feat that was achieved by the will and determination of a strong collective of disabled people. (If you want to find out more about this sit-in, I recommend watching the award-winning Crip Camp on Netflix).
Indeed, if we as activists can learn anything from Ed and Judy, it is that disabled people working together is the best way to attain our human rights. Having experienced discrimination and exclusion firsthand, we know best what we need. Although our lives are better than they were fifty years ago, we still battle to hold onto those hard-won rights that activists such as Ed and Judy, and here in Ireland, that Martin Naughton, Michael McCabe, Dermot Walsh, Ursula Hegarty and so many others fought for us to have. We must also come to accept that we work best as a collective. Nothing will change if we wallow in self-pity. Instead, we must use our experiences to make a better, more inclusive future for all of us. We owe it to Judy and Ed, and we owe it to ourselves, to never settle for a lesser life than the one we aspire to.
Wobbly Yummy Mummy 