Darragh lived life with energy, determination and heart. A passionate hurler and a dedicated gym-goer, he thrived on challenge. He pushed himself physically, embraced competition and inspired those around him with his drive and quiet strength.
"I need to honour them in the best way and in every way that I can. Everybody is here supporting Rioghnach-Ann too and she knows her brothers are living on in a really good way in their memory."
Dr. Bessel van der Kolk writes in 'The Body Keeps the Score' that trauma doesn't just live in our minds - it reshapes how our bodies respond to emotion. Sometimes, when we experience significant loss, our nervous system essentially decides that feeling is too dangerous and shuts down the whole operation.
And my mother was heroic and did so many things to make it feel like a normal childhood. But when your dad lives in a VA hospital, and you go visit him every Sunday and walk down the linoleum halls to a weird room that doesn't smell like home, and you see your dad sitting in there—it wasn't him.
The Stasi, the secret police, were legendary for their data files. Their work was based on instilling fear, and they induced stunningly amazing numbers of East Germans into informing on their neighbors. Something along the lines of 1 in 6 East Germans were informants, whether out of fear or out of approval of what the East German government was doing.
The Stasi, the secret police, were legendary for their data files. Their work was based on instilling fear, and they induced stunningly amazing numbers of East Germans into informing on their neighbors. Something along the lines of 1 in 6 East Germans were informants, whether out of fear or out of approval of what the East German government was doing.
Part of the answer lies in the visceral nature of the game. Unlike chess, football is physical to the point of absurdity. Grown adults in body armor crash into each other over what is essentially a leather egg. There's drama in every play. You don't need a PhD in physics to appreciate a one-handed catch while somersaulting over a defender like a caffeinated acrobat.
I noticed this shift in my own life when I started having dinner with my partner most nights, phones deliberately tucked away in another room. We made this change after too many evenings disappeared into "just checking one thing" that turned into hours of parallel scrolling. The difference was immediate and profound. Conversations went deeper. We actually looked at each other. Time seemed to stretch in the best possible way.
"Frank, also known as Francis to some of the family members, was a lifelong bachelor and the third youngest among 15 siblings. "He was born in 1940 in East Wall in the very house where he spent his entire life. At 17, he began working at The Irish Times in 1957, and stayed there until he retired at 65. "Despite living alone, Frank was never lonely.
February 20 is National Caregivers Day, celebrating caregivers everywhere, whether they are friends, professional caregivers, or family members, for the hard physical and emotional work they do that often goes unseen. Caregivers also include surviving parents trying to navigate their grief after the death of their spouse, while also supporting children who are trying to navigate their grief from the death of their parent.
In a stack of mail on his dining room table, Jason Snape spotted a postcard from his former college professor. In clean, Helvetica type, it read: "If you're reading this I'm dead, and I really liked you." Next to the message was a selfie of Don Glickman wearing a serious expression, a hoodie and yellow aviator sunglasses. There's a hand-sketched portrait of him in the corner.
My former life as a lawyer required accounting for time in six-minute increments, sometimes confronting the fact that I'd derailed and taken way too long to research something that turned out to be the wrong question. Something similar happened here when I looked up and realized I'd lost 30 minutes scouring wedding related message boards to figure out how one would obtain a suit in his exact size without paying for it.
'They're dead.' In disbelief, my response was unfiltered. 'What?' Followed by the F word. A wave of emotion rushed through me. My chest tightened. My body went cold. I could not immediately find the words to offer condolences, not because I did not feel them deeply, but because inside, my many parts were experiencing a collective shock. When you live with dissociative identity disorder (DID), news like this does not land in one place. It ricochets across all parts within.
I was thinking about this the other day while scrolling through my phone on a Saturday morning, realizing I'd been working for two hours without even noticing. Growing up, my weekends looked nothing like this. There were unspoken rules, traditions that just happened without anyone scheduling them into a calendar app. These weren't grand gestures or expensive activities. They were simple rituals that, looking back now, built something most of us are desperately trying to recreate through therapy apps and self-help books: genuine connection.
I was thirty-eight years old the first time I stopped performing at Chinese New Year dinner. Not dramatically-I didn't stand up and deliver a monologue about authenticity or announce that I was done pretending. I just stopped smiling when I wasn't amused. I stopped nodding when I disagreed. I stopped telling my aunt that her unsolicited career advice was helpful when it wasn't. I stopped pretending that the version of me sitting at that table was the real one.
