One year ago, I arrived in Vancouver with no familiar faces, no clear path, and a head full of dreams that felt just beyond reach. It’s a story that might feel familiar to anyone who has ever packed their life into a suitcase and stepped into the unknown, hoping the ground would appear beneath their feet.
In those first quiet weeks, I learned that purpose doesn’t always arrive in grand gestures, it often reveals itself in the smallest, most practical daily goals. The kind you quietly commit to, even when no one is watching. Showing up for yourself, consistently, is where direction begins. Looking back now, I can see that those days of solitude weren’t empty. They were soil. Every moment of discomfort was planting something that would one day bloom into the life I’m living today.
Then came November in Arizona. The sun lingered low, casting golden light across the red desert as I stood at the start line of my first full Ironman 140.6. My mum was there, her steady, loving presence grounding me like the desert itself. In her quiet support, I felt the strength of something greater than myself, a reminder that we are never truly alone.
On race day, I showed up fully for me, and for every version of myself that had fought to reach this moment. Each pedal stroke, each kilometre that passed from morning into the hush of early evening, felt like a promise. A promise to the strong woman I’ve become through endurance, resilience, and care.
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Ringing that finish-line bell was a quiet triumph, an acknowledgment of everything I had built from within. It wasn’t just about the training, it was about healing, growing, and choosing to keep going, no matter what.
My heart swelled with the energy from my dad and those sleepless few others cheering from Ireland, somehow, I could feel every “come on Doireann” echoing across the Atlantic.
The year that followed carried an energy I could feel in my Irish bones. I found myself stepping on to small stages at two Seanchoíche storytelling events hosted in Vancouver. Not to compete, but to be heard. Founded in Dublin, Seanchoíche is now an international storytelling platform that gathers people across the world to share tales of truth and imagination. For me, those evenings became mirrors, places to pause and reflect over how far we have come instead of endlessly pushing toward the next goalpost.
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Professionally, I began a new chapter as a specialist analyst with a British Columbia Crown Corporation. It was a shift that brought both stability and expansion, grounding my weekdays while my weekends filled with adventure.
I spent my time trail running through Pacific Spirit Park, hiking across Vancouver Island, and chasing sunsets over the North Shore Mountains.
In the summer of 2025, I packed up my newly purchased 2010 Grand Caravan and drove solo toward Banff and Jasper, just me, the open road, and the hum of possibility. This type of solitude, once daunting, had become sovereignty. When reception allowed, Joanne and Vogue’s podcast [Joanne McNally and Vogue Williams present podcast My Therapist Ghosted Me] kept me company, their familiar laughter threading through unfamiliar blue skies and carrying a part of home far away from home.
Amid all that motion, something softer found me. I entered a relationship rooted in conscious connection, one that mirrored the security I’d been cultivating within myself. Within a few months, I began a breathwork course, diving deeper into the body’s quiet wisdom. Together, these new beginnings taught me that growth isn’t always about striving, it’s often about softening, allowing, and trusting and having faith.
Now, as I near thirty, I feel a grounded confidence rising, the kind that only comes after years of beginning again. I know I won’t stay in Vancouver forever. My heart will return to Ireland, to the vast green fields, to the pulse of our rich language, to those moonlit mornings that never quite leave you. But I’ll return different, steadier, clearer, finally at peace.
What I’ve learned is this, sometimes you have to leave to grow. You have to wander far to remember what home really means to us. Because the journey is never just about distance, it’s about depth.
Tosaím arís, le suaimhneas istigh, le neart na bhféileacán i mo chroí. (I begin again, with peace within me, and the strength of butterflies in my heart.)
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