Learning Misneach on The Emerald Isle: A Tale of Letting Go

I was 26 the first time I traveled alone. I was 26 the first time I boarded a plane, entered another country, and navigated unfamiliar territory by myself. When my plane landed in Dublin in June, 2015, I anticipated that everything would go as planned. I would find and board my shuttle with ease, arrive at my hotel quickly, go to the hotel bar, meet some friendly locals and find out all I needed to know about Ireland, and everything would be swell. But that isn't how travel works. I had a lot to learn, and I learned it pretty fast. I had to figure it all out by myself. I was all I had, and that was the first time in my life that I realized that. But the struggles became part of the journey, and I fell in love with traveling alone.

My first trip to Ireland opened my eyes to adventure. I wanted to experience everything new and different. I was ready to live outside of my comfort zone (and trust me when I say I lived far outside of it). I met my writing family in Ireland, and some of the best friends I'll ever know. I learned enough about writing to keep me mentally unpacking those workshops and lectures for years. But I discovered something else while studying on The Emerald Isle that I never anticipated--how to let go.

During that first semester in Ireland, I realized there were some heavy pieces of my life that I had been tucking away for so long that I was living as if they didn't exist. I could still feel their weight, but I didn't have to acknowledge them. But that isn't how the life of a writer is lived. It's especially not how the life of a nonfiction writer is lived. With each in-class writing prompt and overnight assignment I found myself drilling closer and closer to the truth. But I became resistant, because I knew when I struck something, there was no going back. The pain I was about to uncover could be my undoing. I didn't know I had to fall apart in order to move on.

I also found that I had a lot to offer the world of writing that I never realized before. As the fellow students in my graduate program introduced themselves during our opening dinner in Dublin, my ears turned hot. I didn't belong here. I was sure of it. These writers were coming from much bigger or fancier undergraduate schools (for example my roommate was from Wellesley), and they all seemed to be doing great things with their writing already. The first time I heard some of them share their work I nearly slipped into a full panic attack. Was I admitted to this program by mistake? Would they all realize I was a phony? How could I ever read my writing to these people? I had no idea that this is exactly where I belonged, and these people would not only accept me, but become my biggest supporters. I had yet to embrace where I had come from, and there was much growth ahead of me.

I left Ireland that year with that buried pocket of emotions so close to the surface that I could feel its pulsing heart, but I left that thin layer of

denial over it. I didn't want to face the fact that my mother had died the year prior, and I would never see her again. I didn't want to face the fact that I had slowly been going insane as a new mom, and I needed help. I needed so much help. I didn't want to face the fact that my marriage had split at the seams. Or that I was hurting inside, like bruised ribs--nobody could it see but it winded me with every move. I didn't want to face any of it, and I didn't have to. Until the night of the fire.

I was living in New York, but staying the night at my dad's house in Pennsylvania for a job interview the next morning. It was 1:00AM when I discovered the house was on fire. We got out safely, but I watched the home I spent eighteen years living in with my mother, and everything she owned and loved turn to ash. At the end of the night I watched the firefighters carry out charred quilts, albums, cookbooks--things that belonged to my mom. Even her urn. That was when I struck that pocket of fear, and pain, and sorrow that I had been avoiding. That was when I erupted.

I didn't know how to deal with any of it, so I wrote. I wrote my way through the grieving process (which, by the way, is lifelong). I wrote my way through motherhood. I wrote my way through my separation and divorce. I later wrote my way through my coming out at the age of 27. I wrote my way through so much heartache and loneliness. I reminded myself that I was all I had.

I returned to Ireland in June of 2016. Having been in the writing program for a year, I finally started to feel a sense of belonging. I was sharing my work with my classmates, and even reading proudly in front of them in public venues for practice. I was participating in workshops and taking constructive criticism in stride. I was submitting work to literary magazines and having intelligent conversations with published writers about craft and style. I was doing it. This wasn't a mistake. I was supposed to be here.

That last year in Ireland I knew that I wanted to get a tattoo to symbolize what that trip had meant to me. I wanted it to be a word in the Irish language, but I couldn't decide what word meant the most to me. Nothing seemed quite right. I thought about the word fírinne (truth), because that is what nonfiction is--truth telling. I considered what that meant for me. I was still hiding an important piece of myself from the world. I hadn't yet come out to anyone other than my therapist. That alone had been more than I ever told myself I would do. In high school I accepted the fact that I would never tell anyone. I didn't feel safe. I didn't feel like I would be supported. Confiding in my therapist was stressful enough. It was another pocket of emotion that I needed to keep buried. I wasn't ready. Truth didn't seem like the right word for me yet.

I thought about the word neart (strength), because it takes great strength to be a nonfiction writer, and I felt myself getting stronger with it. But I wondered how strong I really was outside of the world of writing. I drank my way through that Ireland residency. It only took four pints of Guinness and a little Irish music to numb the pain of this ghost of a life I had been living in those days. So that is what I did night after night, pint after pint. I felt so alone, even in the wild crowd of The Temple Bar, even with my writing family by my side, I felt myself slipping. I felt anything but strong then. Strength wasn't the word for me yet.

I thought about the emails from my writing mentor in Pittsburgh. She signed every one with the word courage before her name. It takes great courage to be a writer--to drill toward those pockets of trepidation and release all of it. The word for courage was misneach, pronounced MISH-nyukh. I wasn't sure that I exemplified courage, but I surely needed it.

On one of my last nights in Ireland, my best friend in the program, Hannah, and I shared a bottle of wine on the floor of her dorm while we poured our personal lives onto the blue Berber carpet. We laughed that veins-popping-out-of-our-foreheads kind of laugh, and we cried until our faces were swollen. I admitted for the first time that my marriage was falling apart. I told her that I was still grieving my mom's death to the point of nightmares. I told her that I was in pain. She told me about her life too, about her pain. I realized we're all carrying those pockets of emotion inside of us, and we're all a little reluctant to tap into them. I also realized how much Hannah's friendship made me feel safe. I have loved and trusted her like a sister, which is huge for me. I don't have that kind of trust for most of the people in my life. Her friendship reassured me that I had the courage to let go. I could get through this. I didn't have to carry it alone, and I would survive it all.

The next day I chose my tattoo. Misneach. Courage. I had it permanently needled into the top of my spine (because I'm one of those people who celebrates important life events and meaningful moments with body art). But the tattoo wasn't just a reminder of how far I had come. It would also serve as a reminder for how far I had to go. It takes courage to be a writer--to be in such a vulnerable state by sharing something so intimate. But it also takes courage to let go, and release all of the anger, sorrow, and guilt that surrounded my mother's death. To say goodbye. To admit when I was wrong. To let go of ten years with the person I thought I would be with forever. To wake up every day and know that I have a four-year-old daughter to teach, and lead by example, and love with all of my soul. To tell the world unabashedly that this is who I am and who I want to be, and this is the life I'm going to live now. To tell

the people who take advantage of me that I won't stand for it anymore. To live for love.

My last day in Ireland was spent alone. Everyone in my graduate program had already left for their flights by that afternoon. I sat inside the main gate at Trinity College awaiting my taxi to the airport. I seemed to be the only person in the courtyard as rain pattered down around me. But I didn't seek shelter. I sat in the silence of the college grounds and splintered open. This place and these people saved me. How could I ever leave? I remembered my first moments on those same steps I sat upon that day. Who knew how much I could change? Who knew how much I would grow? I sobbed for moments that felt like hours as I said goodbye to this place that showed me what it means to seek truth, strength, and most of all courage. I said goodbye to more than Dublin that day, and I learned what it means to heal.