Finding Solace in The Soil

Hello, hi, it’s me. I’m back writing again- tentatively. After a good run of one blog a month last year, I fell off the bandwagon in 2023. To be honest, the start of this year was a shit show. An absolute dumpster fire. I spent it jumping from hospital to hospital; appointments of which were both for myself and very dear loved ones. Nothing ever prepared me for the lack of motivation, fatigue, and sheer sadness of being chronically unwell combined with simultaneously supporting a sick family member. 

It’s an experience that has aged me about a hundred years, I feel.

Slowly Getting Better

However, a few weeks of sunshine, a doctor who finally knew what medication to prescribe, and plenty of rest have made a world of difference, and I finally feel as though I’m coming out the other side. I’m basically a glorified plant. I’ve been rescued from the drought and wilting of the sad supermarket plant stands and planted into a stunning terracotta planter, put proudly on a windowsill and given a healthy dose of tomato feed. At least that’s what it feels like.

Speaking of plants… 

Yesterday I had the strength and energy to go to my local garden centre, pick out some flowers, come home, and plant them. I even clipped some overgrown ivy from the fences and swept the stray leaves that had fallen on the ground. This morning, I managed to water my outdoor plants without fatigue, vertigo, or nausea. I felt so happy. I felt so healed.

In truth, the garden has been my sanctuary over the past six months. I come from a long line of gardeners; my Nana’s great petunias, dahlias, and hydrangeas have always made people stop, stare, and talk, while my Mam’s pots of dainty pansies and marigolds bloom bigger and brighter every year. I usually stick to houseplants, but this year, being stuck inside and feeling too ill to venture much further than my home, meant that oftentimes my garden was the sole space I was inhabiting.

And I’ll be damned if the space I’m inhabiting looks crap. 

The Daffodils

It started when my Mam brought a huge pot of carefully planted daffodil bulbs to my door. “They’re your Nana’s” she explained, asking if I could take care of them this Spring. Nana wasn’t able to, and the bulbs were years-old. It would be a shame to have them die now. They needed someone to tend to them. 

I took my job seriously, meticulously watering, feeding, and caring for them; taking them in when it got windy and covering them when it got cold. In some ways, my nurturing of them made me feel like I was caring for my Nana herself.

When they bloomed, I was filled with immense pride, sending excited pictures to my Mam and Nana and bringing everyone that visited my home to the pot; showing them enthusiastically how fantastically yellow and bright they were. I had always kept some plants in my garden, but these ones were different. The daffodils felt special. 

Seasonal Changes

My daffodils have come and gone, their stalks cut down and bulbs now stored snugly until a thick layer of dirt and tree-bark, waiting for next year’s bloom. But they taught me about the beauty of caring for things. Since the daffodils, I’ve appreciated more than ever how my garden is a mismatch of my loved ones’ fingerprints. From the beautiful olive tree and succulents gifted to me by my partner’s sister and brother-in-law to the herb boxes planted in old wine crates by my Mam and sister, my garden is a living, growing, and thriving space that has been touched by the hands of people I love. Is that not the coolest thing ever?

Similarly, the space teems with memories, from drinks and barbecues with friends under the hot sun to late-night gossip on our homemade pallet furniture, the fences and walls surrounding my garden have seen and heard it all. Even when alone, the time I spend in my garden drinking coffee, working, writing, and practising yoga feel sacred. I am surrounded by the life of the plants, the sounds of the bees, the smell of the flowers, and the swaying of trees. I feel so blessed.

Working 

Before I got sick, it felt strenuous to put work into my garden. I grumbled about having to sweep the fallen petals from the neighbours’ white magnolia tree, got annoyed with how difficult the ivy was to control, and found dead-heading my flowers tedious. Sometimes I let plants die, just to get rid of them and eliminate some of the effort involved in keeping the space beautiful.

Now, I see it differently. Having been so acutely aware of my body the past few months; paranoid about every pain, acutely inspecting any fluids, pulling at hot, reddened skin, and hesitant to both over-exert and under-exert myself, my garden has become a place where I can just be. As a person, rather than an inefficient skin-sack. It has taken me out of the body and straight into the mind; a place where I’ve been far, far away from for quite a long time. 

Immersing Myself in Life

It’s a privilege to water, feed, and plant life into the ground. A pleasure to get dirt under my fingernails. It’s a gift to have a space where, my partner, my friends, and I can gather. And it’s an honour to see life growing from the effort I put in.

My apple tree is heavy with fruit. My wildflower planters are messy and free. My pastel fuschias hang beautifully from their pots. My fat succulents expand by the day, their strong leaves bursting with nutrients. The tropical palms make noise while they swish; both from the wind and the cats climbing to sit atop them. My oregano and thyme and lavender and marjoram fill the space with scent; the smell of life and food and health. My daffodil bulbs sleep soundly under their thick layer of dirt, waiting patiently until next spring when they will loyally come back to me. My garden has healed me. I will continue to show her the same love.

-Avril xox

The Best Books I Read in 2022

After a tumultuous year (to say the least), books served as a great escape from reality for me in 2022. I reached my goal of reading 45 books, ending the year with 47! (cue the celebration music) 

Similar to my 2021 best books round-up, most novels I read this year fell into the genre of “contemporary Irish fiction by female-identifying writers”; forgive me- I’m obsessed. I did, however, spread my wings a little and read a few international books. Maybe next year there’ll even be a male author on the round-up… Here are my top picks (in no particular order)! 

Boys Don’t Cry by Fiona Scarlett

Source: Goodreads.com

Boys Don’t Cry was one of the first books I read last year, downloaded hastily on my kindle before a solo trip to The Netherlands after realising I had forgotten to pack a book. Despite purchasing the book on a whim, and not knowing anything about it before reading, I left the same plane I had started reading it on sobbing, having finished the entire novel in just under two hours. I ate this book up. Couldn’t put it down. Talked about it for weeks. Utterly obsessed. The story follows two boys growing up with their abusive father in inner-city Dublin and tackles the subject with such honesty, tenderness, and depth that it’ll stick around in your head for years afterward. 

NORA by Nuala O’Connor

Source: dubraybooks.ie

As an English grad who based essay after essay in uni on feminist readings of Joyce’s novels, my heart jumped when I got my hands on NORA, a fictional retelling of the love story between James Joyce and his wife, Nora Barnacle. The writing and pacing of this book were magic, inviting the reader straight into the heart of Joyce and Barnacle’s often chaotic, but always passionate, relationship. From elopement and childbirth to financial and marital woes, O’Connor’s fiction paints a stunning picture of one of the most interesting couples of the last century. Another selfish win that this book achieved was that it fully made me fall in love with my Joyce tattoo all over again. If that’s not a win, what is?

Where I End by Sophie White

Source: tramppress.com

I am in awe of every single book that Sophie White puts out; she just gets better and better. Where I End is a delightfully creepy work of literary fiction set on a remote, rugged island off the coast of Ireland. Set between the violent landscape of the island and a dank, creepy cottage where three generations of Irish women reside, Where I End depicts three lives cloaked by the heaviness of mental illness and rural, island living while covering themes of family, violence, obsession, and horror incredibly. Oftentimes, it felt as though the island was a force of evil infecting the characters that lived on it. This book was one where I often felt uneasy turning the next page, such was the richness of the descriptions of horror within. That being said, the originality of the story, plot, location, and characters made it an absolutely addictive book, and one of my favourites ever- not just this year. 

Big Girl Small Town by Michelle Gallen

Source: goodreads.com

If you’ve ever chatted to me about books before, you’ll know that my number one priority when finding a text I like is that there has to be some kind of atmosphere I can feel. Give me some rich, descriptive writing about a place or character (or even about nothing at all), and I’ll eat it up. Big Girl Small Town gave me everything I wanted and more regarding this. Set in a small, fictional town in Northern Ireland and written against the backdrop of the Troubles, BGST followed a week in the life of Majella, a young, bored chip-shop worker caring for her alcoholic mother and completely jaded by the mundanity of her life. Gallen is an incredible writer, offering insight, depth, and importance to a character who I think would often fade into the background in other books. 

None of This Is Serious by Catherine Prasifka

Source: dubraybooks.ie

What a little firecracker of a book! None of This Is Serious is a super easy read without being boring, flat, or unconsidered. Set in Dublin and covering some strange ecological/cosmic events that happen during a post-leaving-cert party, None of This Is Serious encapsulates both the feeling of late teen/early twenties life and post-Covid dread like nothing I’ve ever read before. Similar to Big Girl Small Town, nothing, in particular, happens to the protagonists in None of This Is Serious, but throughout the book, there is an intense feeling of unease, uncertainty, and dread. If you’re looking for a unique and accessible novel to springboard back your love for reading, this is it. 

Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan

Source: goodreads.com

What can I say about Small Things Like These that hasn’t already been said before? Another little gem of a book, the multi-award-winning Small Things Like These covers topics of family ties, institutional abuse, secrecy, responsibility, and more in 1980s Ireland. Despite only spanning 128 pages, this book packs quite a punch, showcasing a fascinating storyline that dives deep into the moral responsibility of a community. In implicit ways, STLT continually turns the question of “what would you do?” back on the reader. On finishing this book, I immediately texted my mam telling her she had to read it, before saying on the phone to her later that day that I think everyone in Ireland should have to read it. I still think that. 

Tender is The Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica

Source: goodreads.com

I don’t think I’ve ever come across a text as divisive in the online book community as Tender Is The Flesh. This dystopian horror is set during a time where animals are infected with a virus, thus making them unfit to eat. In response, humans are bred for consumption. This novel details the life of a slaughterhouse worker employed by a human farm and details the total collapse of society while always questioning how human meat is any different from animal meat in an almost Orwellian way. This book is horrifically graphic, disturbingly descriptive, and insanely original. While I felt a little ill reading it in parts, it was a little dose of total escapism and horror every day, which made me love it so much. 

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

Source: newyorker.com

Another novel that divided audiences is A Little Life. Set in New York and spanning the lives of a group of four friends from young adulthood right up to old age, A Little Life absolutely enraptured me. Aside from the beautifully descriptive writing and detailed characterisation in the book, Yanagihara presents the intimacy, struggle, and fragility of male friendship in such a complex and thoughtful way that I truly felt changed after reading the final page. With themes of brotherhood, love, and intense mental illness, I cried buckets after reading this book, but was so glad of the world it introduced me to. It’s being turned into a play soon, I heard, which I think will be an interesting way of reimagining such a bulky text.

Cat Lady by Dawn O’Porter

Source: easons.com

I’ll proudly admit that I am a Dawn O’Porter stan. I love her Instagram, I love her interviews, and I love love love her books. Cat Lady was gifted to me by a friend (thanks Trizz, love u) and was a warm, cuddly, empowering, and comforting read. Turning the cliché of “crazy cat lady” on its head, this book centres on the life of an unhappily married, middle-aged woman who finds great comfort and empowerment in the love she has for her cat, Pigeon. Oh, and the pet bereavement support group she attends, despite not having lost her cat. Amidst the bleak backdrop of her life, the protagonist’s bond with her cat serves as a hopeful, bright, and positive reminder of the magic of animal-human relationships. I read this book curled up on the couch with my two cats and revelled in the joy that it, and they, brought me while doing so. 

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy

Source: goodreads.com

I was never an iCarly or Jennette McCurdy fan, per se, but the absolute chaos that ensued when this book was released was enough to pique my interest. Described in many reviews as a “heartbreaking and hilarious memoir,” I’m Glad My Mom Died was one of the most honest, raw, and transparent memoirs I’ve ever read. McCurdy has a beautiful way with words, juxtaposing scenes of intense childhood trauma with her unresolved feelings of unconditional love for her family which made this more than just an autobiography, but a rich literary text exploring family bonds, addiction, self-worth, and the entertainment industry as a whole. A must-read if you want a peek inside a story that is both intensely human and (hopefully) wildly unrelatable; an interesting and unexpected mix.

Any books on here you agree or disagree with? What did you read in 2022 that I should put on my list for this year?

Thanks for reading!

-Avril xox

Crazy Cat Lady

It’s been a hard few weeks.

Trips to the hospital to visit a sick family member, combined with working full time and trying to upkeep a home has resulted in me all but neglecting the parts of my life that give me genuine, euphoric energy; trips abroad, visits to friends houses, nights spent dancing in clubs, date nights with my partner, reading fiction books… 

One aspect of my life that has stayed strong, stable, and reliable through all this upheaval has been my two cats. 

My love for them, and their love for me, specifically.

I’ve always been lauded as “The Crazy Cat Lady,” as a joke. I won the award for “Most Likely to Live Alone With 20 Cats” at my 2014 school graduation, for God’s sake, and what’s more affirming than that?

Reflecting

From the age of three, I’ve had cats to dote on; my first being a gorgeous little ginger and white tabby called Huggie, who stayed with me until I was 20. In some ways, despite her being very sick into her old age, it felt as though she hung on just long enough to see me into adulthood, passing peacefully in her sleep once she deemed her job done. In college I had Mo, the raggedy, affectionate, one-eyed stray who I fought to for months with a landlord to keep, after my partner and I moved to Dublin to start our lives together. (We won, and she fell into city living with ease, much to our relief). During the pandemic, we briefly adopted a terminally-ill stray, Marge, who brought endless joy into our lives with her quiet, calm, and cuddly demeanor.

After going through the soul-wrenching loss of Mo and Marge, who were both old and sick, but still so, so painful to lose, my partner and I decided to adopt two kittens. What an experience that was. 

Our experience of pet ownership together had always been so easy. Older cats are quiet. They sleep a lot. They’re very agreeable, and placid, and relaxed. We very soon learned that kittens are not.

Kitten Khaos

Our first few months of being pet-parents to the kittens were chaotic. I’m not sure if you’ve ever raised an animal from two months of age, but it involves a lot of patience. Our daily lives were full of plants being eaten, curtains being torn, muddy paws on surfaces, scratch marks on couches, and so much more. As they got a little older, they only got crazier; going missing under the couch, darting out into the garden before they were big enough to, eating hair bobbins, eating plastic, eating bees… I could go on.

I loved them, of course, but at times I wondered whether we were mental for taking on such a responsibility. 

But the thing is, that kittens, like all babies, learn through play. They push boundaries. They need to jump on the countertop to learn that it’s not a place that they’re allowed to be. Them getting lost inside the innards of the couch wasn’t them intentionally pissing me off, they were learning that there are better places to feel warm, safe, and secure than the back of a leather sofa. 

The great thing about adopting animals so young is that they’ve grown with us. Peggy and Steves are almost two now, and I couldn’t imagine surviving these past weeks months without them.

Every late night I’ve come in from visiting the hospital, when the house is dark and my partner is asleep, they’ve been sat with their paws on the glass of the door and tails raised high, happy to greet me. Every time I’ve cried about how shit life is, there’s a warm, purring, ball of fluff sat beside me, reminding me it gets better. Every morning it’s felt too difficult to get up, there’s been a paw on my face and an authoritative “meow” letting me know that getting out of bed isn’t an option; it’s a requirement.

They Bring So Much Joy

Having a pet is a responsibility. You wake early, you feed them, you play with them. You buy them toys and make sure the house is warm enough for them to sleep. You spend way too much on vet bills. You’re mindful of how long you spend out of the house, and you don’t go on holidays sporadically; you have to plan ahead.

With that responsibility, comes so much reward. 

Love comes in the shape of eight paws, countless whiskers, and two wet noses every day. My cats show me how to be fun, how to be mindful, how to relax. They show me I matter and that life is an adventure, not a slog. I wouldn’t trade anything for the feeling of their tiny, warm, purring bodies on either side of me on the couch; the same couch they spent their first few months getting stuck under. 

Call me a Crazy Cat Lady; I’ll wear that title with pride. 

-Avril xox

A Love Letter to Autumn

I love Autumn.

I love the change of seasons; the shock of cold air through my nose and the many minutes each day spent rifting through my coat rack trying to decide what jacket is warm, but not too warm, while also matching my outfit. I love putting on thick socks to protect my feet against the hard leather of my Dr Martens.

I love waking slowly in September, brewing a hot coffee, and drinking it in bed while reading a book- the backdrop of soft rain against single-glazed window panes in my ears. I love that the cats seem to understand the changing seasons, too, opting to stay snuggled underneath the blankets a little longer than they usually would. 

Summer is good, too, but by the end of August it feels too much. Maybe it’s because I was born in winter as a Scorpio sun and Cancer moon, or maybe it’s because I’m too pale for the sun, or maybe it’s just because I’m lazy… but the constant rush of summer drains me.

I’m ready to say goodbye to long, balmy nights with beer in my belly, to early morning sun that burns my sleepy eyes, and to long walks through festival campsites that make the backs of my legs hurt.

This autumn, I’m going to rest. I will nest in my home, light up some rich incense and watch the smoke swirling upward while I’m curled up on the couch. I will spend time sitting around sticky pub tables, across from log fires while I catch up with friends and laugh late into the night. I’m going to write in new notebooks with colourful pens and not scold myself for eating chocolate with my tea. I’m going to drive through deserted, foggy roads with my partner and point out every orange and yellow and red-leafed tree I see. 

I’m also going to be hit by a deep pit of seasonal sadness, have that all-encompassing pain in my bones from the cold of the house, walk home in the dark terrified of being attacked, and slip and fall on my arse from the ice, but let’s not think about that for now.

-Avril xox

Learning From a Swarm of Bees

A few weeks ago I hurried into my bedroom after hearing a loud humming sound, assuming that my heater had broken or a wire had exploded or something. What met me instead (and I’m not sure if it was better or worse than a potential faulty wire) was a GIANT swarm of bees hovering outside my window.

After many, many frenzied minutes of Googling what to do when the rapture (of bees) descends on your home, I heard my neighbour (who I would later learn was a beekeeper, funnily enough) talking outside with her family and ran out to her, asking her what the heck was going on and was everything okay. My cat had been stung by a bee the day before, and I just assumed the entire bee population of South Dublin County was out for revenge, I explained to her. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case.

Bees on The Move

Instead, she explained to me that she was moving her own beehives from one location to another. While this was happening, the swarm simply located their new hive (with the queen already manually placed in it) using some kind of crazy intelligence, and slowly made their way to the new place together. While doing this, they were so docile and so intent on preserving their energy that they wouldn’t sting anyone or anything. They were at their calmest right there and then, as that massive, freaky-looking, buzzing group. To prove her point, she placed her hand gently into the now-huge sphere of bees that had gathered on one of the trees out front. It shocked me to learn that this amazing group of bees swarming in my front garden were simply having a rest and taking a breather before bumbling off on their journey to their new home together.

My talk with my neighbour was fascinating. In mere minutes, the huge, ominous swarm of bees I had assumed were about to wreak havoc on my house transformed into a symbol of bravery, resilience, and community. They were so clever. They were so intuitive. They were so harmless. And they thrived in a group together. It got me thinking more about how I view my own community, and made me realise that I don’t appreciate it enough.

What is Community?

I don’t know if it’s just city living getting to me, but the past few weeks I’ve been feeling nostalgic and grateful and proud of the communities I’m in. My friend community. My neighbour community. My family community. My partner’s family community. The more I visit, randomly meet, or plan activities with people, the luckier I feel to simply have people to just exist around.

Society tells us to be independent. It tells us to look out for ourselves, to build independent wealth, to be brave and go at it alone. So many places teach that the most important person is YOU.

I think that’s bullshit.

No one can thrive alone.

While looking out for yourself is incredibly important, nourishing meaningful relationships with friends, family, colleagues, neighbours, and all the acquaintances in between is what keeps life interesting. It’s enriching. It’s the stuff that lays the foundations for a meaningful and happy life, in my opinion.

As I enter my late twenties and start to get a little more clarity about how I’d like my future to look, I realise that I’m not thinking so much about big things, like how I want my career to progress or my future house to look like. I’m thinking about how close in geographical proximity I’ll be to my friends. I’m wondering whether I’ll still have neighbours who I dog-sit for. I’m contemplating all the drives I’ll go on with my Dad and all the Sunday morning cuddles in bed with my Mam. I’m thinking of all the countless days out exploring with my sister. I’m looking forward to all the evenings sat in my Nana’s and Grandad’s sitting room, watching crappy TV and chatting for hours and hours and hours about everything and nothing all at once.

And beyond that, I’m excited for all the random conversations with strangers that I’ll inevitably have on buses and trains and planes. I look forward to seeing, and chatting to, the baristas and waiters and shop assistants that I interact with on a daily basis. I’ll be glad to share a smile with the randomers on the street who I recognise, but don’t know.

Amidst hustle culture and capitalism and post-covid, work-from-home mundanity, it’s important to remind ourselves how important human connection is for our souls. I strive to keep nurturing my communities no matter how big or small, and I encourage everyone to do the same. Whether that’s just asking a shop assistant how their day is going, or it’s picking up the phone to ring your family, it’s important to start making an effort.

It’s time to be more like the bees.

-Avril xox

All My Friends are Leaving

A few months ago, one of my best friends in the entire world moved to Berlin.

A decision not taken lightly, they left after the rental market and landlords and living standards in Dublin made it virtually impossible for them to stay.

As a highly sensitive person who loves my friends more than life itself, it’s been really tough for me to come to terms with. Sometimes the magnitude of them living so far away, and not being able to pop into their house for a cuppa after work, hits me, and I feel angry and sad and sick and happy for them all at once. In fact, in a very dramatic and somewhat ridiculous turn of events, last week I rang them for a chat, and simply burst out crying as soon as I heard their voice on the other end of the phone.

“Dublin doesn’t feel the same without you” I wept. “It just doesn’t feel homely anymore or something.”

Where is Home?

The question of home is something I’ve been fascinated by ever since moving out of Longford and up to Maynooth, to college. I’ve since moved to Dublin, travelled across Europe, and toyed with the idea of living abroad for a few years. Everywhere I’ve been, I’ve been able to find a “homely” home. I’ve been able to cultivate a warm and comforting environment through my friends, my pets, my partner. I’ve stuck art on the walls. I’ve cleaned so much that every trace of a past tenant has been gone, leaving the house ready for my own clutter and dust. I’ve found coffee shops that I like to frequent, takeaways that hit the spot, and things to do on the weekends that bring me joy. Recently, though, something feels off.

While nobody enjoyed the Covid lockdowns, there was something comforting to me about the stasis of it all. I created a little bubble of my partner and cats and friends. And, together, we developed a routine; one that kept me sane and healthy and as-okay-as-I-could-have-been in such an emotionally volatile time.  We met regularly for outdoor walks and trips to the grocery shop and little dinner parties and it felt safe and comforting and good. On the streets of Dublin 3, the coastline of Dublin 5, and between the walls of various houses in Dublin 6, we enacted small rituals that made us a family and kept one another safe and calm.

With the world opening back up, my mid-twenties are hitting me hard and reminding me sorely that people have lives outside of our friendship bonds. People move away and change jobs and make decisions that don’t centre home and community at the root of it all. It’s something I find difficult, but something I am working to accept.

While I want the best for my loved ones, and God, I love to see them live out their dreams, I find it hard to deal with, sometimes.

I’m not sure if it’s my rural roots; the fact I grew up on a road where everyone knows everyone, or my Cancer astrological placements, but my need to live in a place that feels like “home” is located deep, deep inside me, like roots to the soil or an anchor down to the seafloor. I would happily live in the one place forever if it meant I could be surrounded by laughter and love and fun and pleasure, which doesn’t seem to be a very popular opinion amidst the whimsy that everyone says your twenties should provide.

Yes, I want to travel, but I want to come home to somewhere that I know and feel comfortable in, too.

While I’ve been feeling pretty hopeless and lost at the thought of my friends leaving to fulfil their travelling dreams, start new jobs and meet new people abroad, it’s something I’m trying to embrace now. I’m trying to remind myself of the immense privilege I have being able to choose where I live and that I have the option stay if I want to. I try to remind myself that if the urge takes me, I can move too; I don’t have to stay here forever, and if somewhere stops feeling like home, I can seek that elsewhere.

I try, mostly, to send out joy and positivity and happiness to all my friends living across the world or far away, and genuinely hope that they are happy and thriving and that one day, we’ll rekindle our little community in a physical sense.

I’m hoping, too, that some of them get bigger apartments where I can stay sometime; because if they’re going to be cheeky enough to leave, they might as well invite me over for a holiday as remorse!

All Jokes Aside, Though…

All in all, I think my heart is just sore because of how lucky I am. My friends have cried with me, laughed with me, danced with me. We’ve gossiped late into the night over a bottle (or two, or three) of wine. We’ve climbed (literal) mountains together, gone on holidays together, and swam together. We’ve spent countless hours together in cars, buses, trains, planes. I’ve hurt my thumbs texting them, burnt my phone battery out on hours-long phone calls, and told them my deepest, darkest, most difficult secrets. We’ve kissed and hugged and made some horribly questionable decisions together. It’s always worked out and, no matter how hard it might feel, I think it always will work out.

-Avril xox

Logging Off

I logged off a few weeks ago. Mentally and literally. And now, for the first time in a very long time, I’m feeling positive and hopeful. I’m feeling motivated and excited about the future. And best of all, I’m feeling silly and mischievous and giddy and fun again. Like I did during the happiest years of my early twenties, I’m prioritising pleasure. And it feels sooooo good.

Here’s how, and why.

Toward the latter end of the pandemic, I, like so many others, turned to hyper-productivity as a way of distracting myself from the absolute shit-show world we lived in. In a post-Trump, mid-pandemic, pre-war society, working constantly, connecting purposefully with spirituality, and maniacally researching ways of “bettering” myself online were the only things that brought a feeling of control in what felt like a world gone mad.

Inspired by this, I decided that the most effective way of self-betterment was by planning meticulously for the future and making everyday a productive one. Inspired by “girlboss” and “That Girl” culture, I decided self-optimisation was vital if I wanted to find happiness and meaning again.

While I was always a “lists” person (if it’s not in my diary, it’s not getting done, okay?), I soon began segmenting my months and years into goal-oriented lists, completely disregarding the option of having a bad week or a lazy spell. After ascertaining my more long-term goals, I began to organise my days and weeks into smaller lists, with the goal being that would help me achieve the larger ones. While planning and list-making isn’t, inherently, a bad thing, categorising your entire life as a set of goals to be achieved is- in my opinion.  

With self-improvement in mind, I soon began to set a goal for everything in my life. Friendships, relationships, career goals, travel goals, family-making- I wanted it all, and I thought that categorising these massive, massive parts of the journey of life into neat lists scribbled in pretty gel pens would somehow inspire me (correction; guilt me), into achieving them. It didn’t.

Rather than set off on my merry way down my pre-planned path to success, I trudged desperately through a sea of stress, irritability, and guilt. All self-inflicted, too.

I worked three jobs. I started arguments with my partner if he wasn’t fully aligned with my idea of our future. I made strict plans with family and friends, angry and upset if things didn’t go how I planned them. I painted my entire house. I made travel plans that I couldn’t realistically afford. I pushed myself to do things I didn’t want to, with people I didn’t want to see, in places I didn’t want to be. Because I made myself feel like I had to. And for what? The illusion of being in control and having my life together?  

Ironically enough, in the midst of all this “self-improvement”, I cried. And cried. And cried. And cried.

I cried when one of my plants died. I cried when my favourite cup fell on the ground, and smashed. I cried when I didn’t pass my driving test. I cried when I woke up hungover. I cried when plans to see people got cancelled.

I cried about anything and everything that went wrong or didn’t match my idea of the perfect, productive, growth-minded day.

I was, dear reader, a fucking maniac.

And then I logged off.

                                                                       ***

I’m not sure what clicked in my brain, but a few weeks ago, the stress of simply living caused me to re-think my entire lifestyle and have a sort-of action-based breakdown/epiphany. Making lists and setting big goals and working constantly and waking early and being organised just wasn’t me. It isn’t me, and never has been. It doesn’t suit me. It turns me into a highly-strung and grumpy and irritable and anxious mess. And I’m never, ever doing that to myself again.

In a fit of “delete everything that makes you stressed and just do what you gotta do to try and attract happiness” I halted work on my small business, shutting it down indefinitely. I deleted social media apps from my phone. I returned home to the countryside for a few weeks, caring for my nana and finding joy in the peace of nature and mundanity of a cuppa with a family member. I got a library card and read loads of books. I moseyed around shops and cafés, not feeling guilty about time wasted. I changed jobs. I said no to things I didn’t want to do. I started going clubbing again, almost every weekend. I started seeing friends spontaneously, and saying yes to last minute plans. I’ve stopped forcing myself to cook or clean or do other life admin bits if I don’t feel up to it. I’m still writing lists, but it’s ordinary things like “buy cat food” or “call Mam” rather than “find a way to heal trauma holistically, drawing on spiritual practises that works in 2-3 weeks, max”.

For the first time in so, so long, I feel calm again. And, ironically, even though I’m partying and staying out late and seeing people, I’m more energised than I ever was in my “personal growth@“ bubble.

I can barely remember another time where I was laughing so much and acting so goofy and truly not giving a damn what happens tomorrow. Or in 5-10 years, at that.  

Someday, I might own a home. I might have a baby. I might, by some divine intervention or miracle, pass my driving test. I might get married. I might move abroad. I might make more money. I might own a successful business.

Right now, though, I don’t have any of those things.

I might never have any of those things.

And it doesn’t fucking matter, does it?

Because I’m fine now. And I’ll be fine then.

And that’s me, logging off.

-Avril xox

Letting Go of Guilt

Getting Rid of Internalised Guilt – Slowly

I have a terrible sense of imposter syndrome. All the time.

Not only in my job. In fact, my job is where I feel this the least, to be honest.

I often feel like I’m not productive enough, not pretty enough, not ambitious enough, not successful enough… the list goes on. And on. And on.

I’m exhausted.

While most people feel this in most parts of their life (thanks, capitalism, hyper-productivity, and social media!), I got to a point where I was so well and truly sick of it that it felt like “do or die”. As in, do something about how you’re feeling or look back at your life aged 80 and realise you wasted it all in a pit of self-loathing.

This year, I’m trying to do small things for myself that make me feel good. Things that are healthy and luxurious and novel- but not necessarily boring and pricey and extravagant. You get me?

Here’s a few of my faves that I’ve discovered so far.

Travelling Solo

I feel like I’m always bringing this up, but travelling solo has literally changed my life. There are few joys as pure as discovering a new city for the first time at your own pace while also conquering all the new fears that come with it. Including, but not limited to: attempting a foreign language, trying to find the place you’re staying, navigating public transport, finding someplace to eat and drink alone, etc. Whether I’m away for two weeks or two days, I see solo travel as a dedicated time to recharge, check in with myself, and reevaluate how things are going in my normal day-to-day life in Dublin while also experiencing new cultures, cities, people, and food. While many would see this as an attempt to escape the everyday, I see it more so as a “time-out” to recharge the introverted side of me while also challenging myself to step outside my comfort zone. It’s okay to be selfish with your time, and do things that you want to do by yourself, even if the world so often tells us it’s not.

Getting a Silly, Flavoured Coffee if I Want One

This is a weird niche, but up until recently, I always felt so guilty for buying a coffee that was anything but a black Americano. As well as the fact that milky coffees never really woke me up quite like a black coffee did, the excess calories and increased price of a latte or flat white never seemed justifiable. Even with all this in mind, I had a bizarre moment in a coffee shop lately when I ordered an Americano and walked out feeling super disappointed that I “couldn’t get” a sweet, delicious vanilla oat latte. I felt ridiculous then, walking down the road with my bitter black coffee, longing for something frothy and milky and sweet. I mean, I’m an adult. With a job. And no one forced me to get the Americano. I had enforced these stupid rules of only allowing myself an Americano myself. How many ridiculous rules do we make up in our heads each day to deprive ourselves of pleasure, just because we think we’re doing the “right” or “sensible” thing? While I still sometimes feel a little pinch of guilt going into a coffee shop and ordering the sweetest, silliest, frothiest drink (why is internalized guilt so normalized) for a number of reasons, I fight it an order the damn thing anyway. It’s been delicious. 

Being Flexible with Eating & Diet

Moving on from my new-found love of sweet, frothy coffees, something else I’ve been trying to implement in my life to stop internalized guilt and negative self-talk is to be more flexible with my eating patterns and overall diet. While I’ve been vegetarian for 7 years- and I don’t think that will ever change- the past few years have seen me go vegan and then not vegan and then vegan again. While I absolutely commend and acknowledge the incredible changes that vegans are making to the world right now, I don’t think strict veganism is for me, and I’m trying not to punish myself for that. All too often I would eat a vegan diet for months at a time and then cave, eating a piece of cheese or chocolate and feeling horrible guilt for weeks and even months afterwards. In retrospect, being that hard on myself for breaking veganism was worse for me than any piece of dairy could be. This year, I’m trying to eradicate the guilt I feel around dairy products and eggs and allow myself to eat these things sparingly if I want to. While it’s not the way I would like to be eating every day, acknowledging that I’m not a bad person and am still doing my bit to reduce my impact feels like it’s better than nothing.

Reading Before Bed

Like everyone else on the planet right now, pandemic boredom mixed with a mild social media addiction means that my screen time is ridiculous, and way higher than I’d ideally like it to be. I went from a modest 1-2 hours of screen time a day before the pandemic to sometimes spending upwards of 4 hours on my phone now, which is EMBARRASSING as well as brain-frying. As someone who doesn’t have a great history of sleeping anyway, staying up with a bright light that tells me about all the horrors in the world flashing in my face isn’t the most relaxing way to wind down before getting some shut-eye. In an effort to 1. Cut Down My Screen-Time and 2. Read More, I’ve started reading before bed and it’s been surprisingly lovely. While I will admit that I sometimes give up on reading after 15 minutes and just go on my phone instead, most nights now end with soft lighting, a nice cup of herbal tea, and a good book in my hand to lull me off to dreamland. Even if I only read for 10-20 minutes, it feels like such a luxurious little treat to round off the day with and literally comes with no disadvantages.

Having a Back-Up Outfit If I Don’t Feel Good

As you’ve probably guessed from the little coffee and food blurbs above, sometimes my idea of self-image isn’t great. While I’m much better than I was as a teenager, there are days when all I want to do is stay wrapped in a duvet burrito and not go outside, lest someone perceive me. In an effort to alleviate these feelings and discourage myself from hiding in the same dowdy “t-shirt-hoody-trackie bottoms” outfit that I always revert to in times of low self-image, I’ve instead put aside some comfortable but not totally rotten outfits to wear. While it may seem small and simple, investing in some nice, high-waisted yoga pants, fitted crop tops, pretty underwear, and oversized-but-cute jumpers has made such a difference to my overall self-image on these low mood days.  While I used to think that dressing in old, oversized, and totally unstylish clothes was a great way to hide myself, in the long run it just made me feel worse. Now, putting on a mildly stylish but still massively comfortable outfit allows me to relax and hide my body while still feeling like I have a sense of self and can go about my every day routine without constantly thinking about how good or bad or in-between I look.

Getting out of a rut is hard, especially after life being turned upside down in the last two years, but all that matters is that I’m trying. Succeeding some days, failing others. It’s all G.

What’s helping you get back to yourself?

-Avril xox

Scrolling My Own Social Media

I liked it better when I was oblivious.

Last night, I decided I would archive my entire Instagram history.

I’ve had Instagram almost since it began, meaning there are photos up there that are 5, 6, 7 years old up there.

My page is full of old pictures of exes and friends I don’t speak to anymore and blurry food images and curated snaps of books and makeup and all the things that were popular in 2013’s first dalliances of social media and self-induced surveillance.

I imagined archiving these images would be a pretty straightforward process- click on each one, press archive, and then save them all to a google drive or something so I would have them to look back on should the urge ever hit again. Easy, right? Nope.

2013                                                    

Instead, I found myself scrolling longingly through my page, clicking into each picture and reading every caption and every comment. Suddenly I was transported right back to 2013, studying for my leaving cert while desperately unhappy, stressed, and overwhelmed. While the images show someone happy and smiling, studying hard while reading lots, listening to music, and spending all her free time with friends, in reality I was struggling to cope.

Leaving Cert Higher Level English- The Only Thing I Enjoyed at School That Year

Before Going for a Walk With Family- Struggling Mentally

I Discovered Orwell This Year & Continued My Long-Term love of Reading

2015 & 2016

Scroll up to 2015 & 2016- arguably one of the happiest times in my life, but one of the most chaotic, too. My Instagram shows carefully curated images of friends-who-had-become-family, nights out, and coffee and food shots, too. In reality, while I was having an amazing time, I was sleep-deprived, working 7 days a week between college and work, and couldn’t stop partying, even if my body was begging me to. I had put on weight, the bags under my eyes were permanent, and I was falling behind on college work.

Electric Picnic 2016- Mid Break-Up & Very Unhappy

We Witnessed a Car Accident This Night & Left Early Due to The Trauma of It

Each “section” of my Instagram that I saw had this duality. There was the curated, pretty, and fun-looking part that was seen online, but all I remembered from many of the selfies and night-out shots and cute, vibey landscapes were the difficult things behind them that were kept locked away and secret. Pictures of Electric Picnic don’t show the rotten break-up I was experiencing simultaneously. Posed selfies taken in a new house didn’t show how lonesome I felt without my best friends closeby. Landscapes of beaches and forests didn’t explain how I was so hungover the day they were taken that I felt like I was going to die.

Hidden Happiness

In an ironic kind of way, though, there are so many photos still up there that brought me so much happiness it almost made me jealous of past me. There’s a standard sunset picture up there that seems like a throwaway photograph, but I know that I took it while walking to my first date with my now-boyfriend of 5+ years. There are pictures of me and my best friends, who’ve been around for years, taken right after we first met. Pictures of my graduation- one of the proudest days of my life. There are selfies up there that I took where I felt happy and healthy and genuinely hopeful and confident about the projectory of my life.

Walking to Meet My Now-Boyfriend for a First Date

Declan & I Graduated- So Much Love

Pre-Knockanstockan With Besties

Pre-Drinks in the Apartment I Now Live In (Before We Lived Here!)

Beautiful Sunny Day With my Bestie

One of My First Nights Out Post Lockdown Restrictions- I Felt Pretty & Confident & Nervous all at Once

What’s Next for Us?

We are the first generation to have a digital footprint, and it’s difficult to know how to navigate this. In a way, I want to eradicate my presence off the internet and live privately and not allow anyone in. In other ways, I love having a long-established Instagram profile that allows me to meander around the past parts of my life and rediscover the person I used to be. Sometimes looking at these pictures makes me so, so happy and proud of where I am now. Other times it crushes me, and makes me wish for times gone by; where I had less goals, less direction, and more time to dick around doing nothing with my friends.

All in all, I feel weird about it. A love/hate relationship with the idea of publicity, social media, and self-reflection to the highest degree.

In an ironic turn of events, just after I finished endlessly scrolling through pictures of my own face and life, I saw a quote (on LinkedIn of all places, lol) saying “Remember how much past you dreamed of being where you are now”, and I suppose it’s true. Maybe it is okay to be nostalgic for a little while, but it’s important not to forget the bad parts that were back then, and the good parts that are right now.

I still don’t know whether to keep or delete it all.

-Avril xox

The Best Books of 2021

How are we here again? It’s my fave blog post of the year- a rundown of the best books I read in 2021 (in no order, obviously, as that would be near impossible). Like most people, 2021 was absolutely horrible for me. It was a year plagued by negativity and sickness and death and sadness and so many other rotten things. With this in mind, books really became so much more important to me than they had in previous years. Not only were they a way to sit back and relax as usual, but good books, on so many occasions this year, pulled me out of a rut, gave some much-needed escapism, and took my mind off all the pain going on around me. Also, I finally hit my yearly goal of reading 50 books!!! Here’s my list of the top 10. Enjoy!

(As per usual, this list is absolutely saturated in Irish female writers. I will never change, don’t ask me to x)

Handiwork by Sara Baume

Handiwork was one of the first books I read in 2021 and, my god, did I lap it up. A short, stream-of-consciousness-esque narrative, Handiwork is a deeply intimate look Baume’s artistic process and thoughts while juggling life as a writer, artist, and woman. As well as being an incredibly intimate account of her life, Baume’s writing brings the personal into something universal, and I found so much of myself in the text, despite our differences in age and life stages. At times, the personability of the text made it feel as though I was in the author’s home with her, listening to the sounds of her cleaning or creating or writing or cooking. It was a deeply evocative text that drew me in to a place I didn’t want to leave. In short, it felt as though the author drew on her artistic abilities to paint a picture of her life through words that were so, so utterly endearing I never wanted it to stop. I gobbled this text up in less than a day and would recommend it for anyone looking for a truly unique story to kick-start their reading in the coming year.

Corpsing- My Body and Other Horror Shows by Sophie White

As someone who feels very weird about the parasocial relationships between “online people” and “real people” (I am very behind the times, I know), Corpsing is the only book I have ever read that has compelled me to reach out to the writer afterwards via Instagram DM and thank her for everything she put in those pages. Corpsing is a masterpiece of a book, written in essay form and detailing White’s experience as a writer, mother, and daughter who also experiences mental health issues; issues that are dark, confusing, difficult to read about, and for many, deeply relatable. Corpsing is, genuinely, the most honest and gripping collection of essays I have ever read and brought so much comfort to me. These essays explore family dynamics in an unapologetic and visceral way that helped me to feel more at ease about my own insecurities and reassured me that I wasn’t an innately bad person for feeling some of the ways I feel.

Dominicana by Angie Cruz

If you’ve read any of my previous book reviews, you’ll know that I rarely pick up a book for the story and tend to focus more on character development and writing technique. Angie Cruz’s Dominicana completely shattered this perception I thought I had of myself as a reader and introduced me to a world where the actual plot was just as engaging and beautiful as the writing was. Set in the 60s between the Dominican countryside and the bustling streets of New York City, Dominicana follows the story of a young girl forced to marry a much older man to secure a future for her wider family in the Dominican Republic and the US respectively. Despite being one of the more heart-wrenching novels I read this year, the characters written by Angie Cruz are so well-developed that you feel as though you know them, making this book one I couldn’t put down. I laughed, cried, and raged silently while reading this book, thinking of all the immigrant women in 1960s New York whose families relied so heavily on their pain to flourish. A hard read, but a deeply important and inspiring one, too.

A Ghost in the Throat by Doireann Ni Ghriofa

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ll have heard of A Ghost in the Throat and its insanely positive critical acclaim this year. After hearing this book lauded as a “genre-defying masterpiece” by so many publications, I had to purchase it and read it. And let me tell you, pals, the critics were not lying. A Ghost in the Throat is a fabulous novel blending the author’s own life story and experiences with her perpetual searching for the lost life story of Irish poet Eibhlin Dubh. A Ghost in The Throat is a deeply feminine, disturbing, and heart-wrenching novel contemplating themes of womanhood, motherhood, authority, and loss in a way that I personally have never read before. At times, I was confused and at times I was utterly obsessed as Ni Ghriofa weaved the life story of a long-dead poet and her own together so beautifully. A must-read for anyone interested in unique, challenging, and deeply rewarding prose, as well as for those who want more than “just” a novel or story to digest.

The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel A. van der Kolk

This year, The Body Keeps the Score was recommended to me incessantly via BookTok, the book-nerd’s version of the all-seeing TikTok algorithm. Lauded as the self-help book to read if you were struggling emotionally, The Body Keeps the Score was flooding my timeline, making it difficult to ignore and impossible to forget. As my year continually got worse, and my mental health with it, I decided to give it a read. I have been open on this blog regarding my experience with therapy and medication and, honestly, this book did more for me than the two combined. Written based in Dr. van der Kolk’s own research and the research of other psychologists, The Body Keeps the Score details the relationship between trauma, relationships, and mental health in a way that’s understandable, accessible, and extremely helpful. Drawing on research, science, case studies and sociological experience, this book changed my thinking, behaviour, and habits in ways that were better for me and the people around me. Read this book if you’re feeling down, struggling mentally, or want to make a change for the better.

Snowflake by Louise Nealon

First of all, I apologise to any of my friends or family who I met in the 2-3 months after reading this book, because it’s literally all I talked about and was probably my favourite read of the entire year. (Although admitting that makes me feel guilty because there were SO MANY good books this year). Set between Maynooth and Dublin, Snowflake details that difficult transition period of leaving home as a young woman while also carrying the responsibilities of family life and generational trauma on your back. As someone who has also lived between Maynooth and Dublin, Nealon’s descriptions of people, place, and things were so accurate and apt that it felt as though I was being re-immersed in the life I led in my late teens/early 20s. This was simultaneously comforting and deeply distressing, to be honest. Dealing with themes of family, early adulthood, generational responsibility, home, mental health, loss, and love, Snowflake felt, to me, like the more honest and successful portrait of what Sally Rooney’s Normal People aimed to do. If you felt lost or out of place or guilty or lonely while in college- or are feeling any of these emotions now, please, please for the love of god read Snowflake. And talk to me about it afterwards. Because there is never a time where I don’t want to discuss this novel.

This Happy by Niamh Campbell

Coming down from the high of reading Snowflake, I was desperate to read something similarly bleak but relatable and preferably set in Ireland. A friend of mine recommended This Happy by Niamh Campbell and, like Snowflake, I absolutely ate it up. Written as a reflective novel detailing the juxtaposition of the present and past in the life of a young Irish woman (surprise surprise, I said I’d literally never change) This Happy is a unique, personable, and almost voyeuristic account of the protagonist’s short love affair with a much older, married man. This book is written in a chaotic and detailed way that is so beautifully evocative that you can almost smell and taste the words on the page. Despite not having much of a plot, the writing style, metaphors, character development, and allusions are stunning and make the book come alive. While reading, I both loved and hated the protagonist, seeing so much of myself in her while simultaneously being disgusted by her. All in all, this is a deeply intimate look at a short but impactful love affair and was unlike anything else I read this year. (Thanks for the rec, Declan!)

No One is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood

I first heard about No One is Talking About This on Blindboy Boatclub’s podcast and thought it sounded quite Baudrillardian so I just had to give it a go- there are few things I love quite as much as freaking myself out about the fact we probably live in a simulation and nothing is real, after all! Written as a long series of Facebook-status-like paragraphs and split into two parts, No One is Talking About This is a truly unique story that blends internet culture and Twitter-esque writing with a deeply human storyline that poses questions of reality vs internet, humanity vs technology, love vs loss, and so much more. I found the style of this book a little difficult at first, but as I got more into it, it was impossible to put down and I finished it in about three days. While I can’t say much (I don’t want to ruin the plot), this text blends an extremely interesting writing style with a heart wrenching and shocking plot to produce a work that is genre-busting, unique, and highly innovative- something to read if you want to be exposed to the limitless possibilities and potential future of modern novel writing.

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Drama? Yes. Glamour? Yes. A massively shocking twist and decades-long lesbian love affair? Yes. The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo is one of the most engaging, interesting, and binge-worthy novels I’ve ever read, with its popularity fully deserved in my opinion. Written as a biographical account of a fictional actresses life before she dies, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo builds the character of Evelyn up to be one that is interesting, alluring, multi-faceted, and deeply, deeply captivating. From accounts of wild parties in the 80s to anecdotes explaining the legal issues and horrific discrimination faced by the LGBTQ+ community throughout the 50s-00s, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo is, at its heart, part cultural commentary, part same-sex love story. This book is written in easy English and is as heartbreaking as it is hilarious. I’ve never read a love story formulated in this way with such care, consideration, and thought on the part of the author, and I really, really enjoyed this book for its plot, characters, and comfort-read effect. Whether you’re an established reader or don’t read much at all; this book is one for you.

Acts of Desperation by Megan Nolan

(Trigger Warning for Content Below)

All too often, books about abusive or toxic relationships focus on the harsh words said, punches thrown, or control excerpted. While these are all, obviously, parts of abuse, not many novels focus on the more subtle and “beneath the surface” types of abuse that can arise in relationships, especially between younger couples. I finished Acts of Desperation at 2am last night, unable to put the damn thing down after starting it earlier in the day and being utterly obsessed. This book details the entirety of the relationship between the protagonist and her boyfriend, from the first flushes of romance to the couple’s ultimate demise. With themes of self-harm, addiction, control, gaslighting, rape, and manipulation, this was a deeply uncomfortable read that low-key triggered me at times but, nonetheless, was utterly incredible and important to read. Hailed as an “anti-love” novel, Acts of Desperation lays bare the frailty of mental health, humanity, and love, and how quickly and quietly another person can strip you down to the worst version of yourself without you knowing it.

While I’ll never apologise for my top picks of the year, I do know that my favourite books of 2021 this year are very Irish, very white, and very cis-female. For that reason, I want to give some honourable mentions below of books that I loved but didn’t quite make the cut and while I’m doing that, ask- what were your favourite books of the year?

Thanks for reading as always, loves, and Happy New Year!

-Avril xo

Honourable Mentions:

–Hood Feminism by Mikki Kendall

-American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins

-Skin by EM Reapy

-Queer Love by Various Authors

-The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett

-The Midnight Library by Matt Haig

-Beautiful Noise by Helen Seymour

-56 Days by Catherine Ryan Howard

-The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka

-Anxious People by Fredrik Backman