And I have Cory and Randy to thank for a lot of that.
They never asked for my story. Never asked what broke me, or why I was walking alone.
They just handed me a sander, made me tea and good Irish stew, gave me work to do—and space to breathe.
That’s love. That’s—family.
I hope they know what it meant.
What they meant.
Maybe I’ll tell them someday.
Or maybe I already did—in the way I stayed. In the way I worked.
Still… before I leave tomorrow, I’ll leave a note in the till.
Just to let them know how much they matter.
Day Nine – Just outside Limerick, at the edge of town
Cory and Randy made it easy to stop for a few days. Let my feet breathe. Let my soul breathe. In their shop, the smell of sawdust clung to me like it belonged there. My hands remembered the rhythm of sanding, shaping. No one askedwhen I was leaving. I think they knew before I did—this walk isn’t about the finish line. They reminded me of a truth I’d forgotten: being unbreakable isn’t the same as being healed.
And now I’m back on the road. No one here to tell me I’m right. Or wrong. Just me. And I’m not sure I like what I see when there’s no one to impress. I talk big about doing the right thing, but who am I when I’m not the hero in someone else’s story?
Every mile feels like I’m peeling something off—layers of performance, maybe. I don’t know what’s under there yet. I’m not sure I want to.
I remember:
Dancing with him in the kitchen. No music—just the hum of the fridge and his hand at my waist. I spun him once, then drew him back in. His breath brushed my cheek and he said, “This is my favorite part of the day.”
I see:
Roadside shrines, weathered by years and prayers—rosaries faded by rain, wax pooled at the bases, slips of paper pressed into cracks. I knelt and whispered one prayer for my beloved, one for Sarah, one for Hannibal… and, for the first time in years, one for me.
I feel:
I ache all over. From the walking, sure—but more from carrying his absence inside me.
Day Ten – Limerick → Rathkeale
Distance: 19 mi
Route Notes:Leaves the city along the Great Southern Trail, a converted railway path lined with old stone bridges and shaded green tunnels. Flat, easy walking with long rural stretches between villages.
Location Reflection– Rathkeale:
The greenway feels like a forgotten corridor—ferns spilling over stone walls, the hush of old tracks buried under moss. Two lads on bikes passed and waved, never slowing. No questions, no expectations.
Journal:
I see:
A hillside covered in gorse, gold against the gray sky. For a moment, the sun broke through, and the whole world glowed. It touched my face and stayed there. Thirty seconds of warmth. I didn’t cry. I didn’t crumble. I just stood and let it fill me.
I remember:
Sunday morning. Sunlight on our faces. His fingers in my hair. His voice low, telling me, “You don’t know it, but this is when you’re most beautiful.”
