Well, now, would you look at the state of it!
Life’s a right messy, scheming hoor some days, isn’t it? One minute you’re flat-out minding your own business, thinking you’ve finally got a handle on things, maybe even feeling half-decent about yourself, and then, bang, the universe decides it’s time for another round of ‘let’s see what this one’s made of.’ Bills, bad news, backstabbers, and the kind of weather that makes you question all your life choices. Welcome to Ireland.
But here’s the thing, and you’ll want to stick this one in your back pocket for a rainy day (which, let’s face it, is probably tomorrow), that mess? That relentless, muddy, maddening mess? It’s your soul’s training ground. Your spiritual boot camp. You’re not just surviving it; you’re sharpening, thickening, learning to laugh in the face of it and say, “Ah, would ya ever piss off, Life, I’ve had worse.”
Us Irish, we didn’t get our reputation for resilience from skipping about fields full of daisies. No, we got it from standing in the lashings of rain at a graveside, from family rows that could raise the dead, from losing what mattered and still finding a way to laugh, probably at ourselves. We learned to carry grief in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. To bury people we loved and still find the strength to put the kettle on.
See, this isn’t some fancy American-style ‘life coaching’ spiel about positive vibes and manifesting yachts. This is the raw, unfiltered truth of living and staying standing when life’s trying to knock you sideways. It’s about the bruises you carry, the mistakes you made, the nights you cried in your car outside the house because you couldn’t face another row or another silent room. That’s the real work. That’s where you get fierce.
I’ve learned more from having my heart broken and my name dragged through the mud than I ever did from a clean patch of clear sky. Every bit of hardship chisels away the shite and leaves you with what’s real, and what’s real is this: you’re tougher than you think. Your soul is getting buff, and not in the way a gym selfie will show. It’s getting lined and tempered like old timber, seasoned by storms.
And when you finally reach the other side of whatever fresh hell life’s serving up, you’ll be sitting there with your messy hair, your half-broken heart, your unshakeable sense of humour, and you’ll realize you wouldn’t swap your scars for anyone else’s smooth skin. You earned every single one.
So, when life starts acting the gobshite again (and it will), throw on your coat, grab a cuppa or a pint, and give it a look that says, “I was built for this.” Because you were. And don’t you forget it.
Here’s to the warriors, the misfits, the ones who keep showing up. Sláinte to your beautiful, battered, still-standing souls.
UNDER THE WILL... OVER THE DRAMA... 
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