I can’t close my eyes and picture my mom’s face. Or my dad’s. But I can feel the calm settle in my bones when I remember the scent of Red Door perfume on my mom, or the rasp in my dad’s voice when he spoke. That’s what memory is like for me—it’s not visual. It’s sensory.

Lots of people confuse friendliness with weakness. And then they get surprised (and angry) when they realize you’re not the supporting character in their movie.

It’s such an interesting dichotomy. We Irish are often seen as happy-go-lucky, dancing, singing, and joking our way through life. But the truth is, Ireland has a deeply tragic and dark history. From the forced starvation during the Famine—let’s call it what it was, an attempted genocide—to the abuse and identity erasure under English rule, and the horrors inflicted by the Catholic Church, the scars run deep. Generation after generation, we’ve carried that trauma, and it still lingers within us today.

Growing up in a small city that lacked the diversity it has today, my Irish name often made me feel like I didn’t belong. Over time, though, I realized how much power a name holds—the history, the identity, the sense of belonging. Writing Where Old Ghosts Meet helped me reconnect with my heritage, showing me that some ghosts, like names, are there to guide us home.