The Unraveling of My Life (and Finding a New Path)

In September 2022, I gave most of my possessions away. The rest, I put in storage. The pandemic had erased my life, and I had to start over. A few months before, I was walking along Foster Street in Durham, North Carolina, looking for an outdoor café where I could work safely. It was the same street where my friends and I used to do theater—in a black box, a storefront, a park, a condemned garage, the street itself. Now, we were being forced to return to life as normal while the pandemic raged on. Meanwhile, developers with earthmovers had gouged up all the places I loved.

As a science fiction writer who studies the near future, part of me knew that it was only a matter of time before late capitalism would uproot me too. And so it did. I wanted to leave the United States. I was disgusted by the mass shootings, gun worship, bought politicians, police brutality, corporate landlords, unregulated development, inaction on climate change, and a Democratic administration that chose corporate profits over the health of its people. Who would take care of me if I contracted long COVID? I was 41 years old. I wasn’t born into wealth, I had no partner, and I didn’t want one. My career ensured that I would always be part of the precariat. And a simple surgery to restore my writing arm had taught me in no uncertain terms that privatized American health care would destroy my well-being as surely as any disease.

I had to create a new life on my own terms instead of continuing to let COVID create it for me. In my study in Durham, where I quarantined, I had a family heirloom—a portrait of my great-great-great-grandmother, Mary Ann Hartnett. Her glassy tourmaline eyes watched over 11 years’ worth of labor—two novels, five plays, eight pledge drives, 60 journals. Family lore held that she came from Cork, so the idea of a new life took shape: to travel to Ireland, reversing my ancestors’ journey, and then from place to place indefinitely until I found somewhere better to be and some way to stay there.

Escaping to Ireland

I drew up a budget, expecting the cost to be exorbitant. But I found that it would actually be cheaper to live on the road than it was to live in Durham. In addition, though I wasn’t cash-rich, I had three forms of wealth that can’t be measured in dollars: 1) a US passport, 2) the ability to work from anywhere, and 3) a living wage through my online Patreon patron community. Traveling indefinitely wasn’t just a daydream—it was doable.

That fall, I pet-sat in exchange for accommodation all the way up the East Coast and celebrated Christmas in my hometown. Then, on New Year’s Day, I boarded my flight to Ireland. My first view of the country was the peninsulas of County Cork, patched green on blue like a stained glass window. Jet-lagged euphoria overtook me. I got silly. Could those tourmaline eyes of my ancestor see me setting foot on Irish soil all the way from storage in North Carolina? I told myself I was home.

I didn’t understand a word my taxi driver said, but I tipped him 10 euro and wished him a happy new year. Six hours later, I woke up in a tiny cottage with cube glass windows, like the pod of a spaceship. I didn’t know where I was. Then, I remembered: Ireland. The fact alone was unbelievable. I was surrounded by Irish people, breathing Irish air, eating Irish apples. The pubs were all still drenched in Christmas garlands. I took long walks in the rain—hard rain, wispy rain, cold rain, warm rain. It turned on and off 10 times a day, like a spasming faucet. Everywhere I went, I scrutinized the houses: lace curtains and water-stained cottages, wet cobblestones and leaden skies.

Questioning My Decision to Move to Ireland

I left Cork and went to Limerick. I stayed in a hotel discounted for winter. I bought fresh produce and put it by the window to keep it cold. It was too rainy even to go out for walks. Two weeks gone, and I didn’t like Ireland nearly as much as I thought I should. “What am I doing here?” I thought. “What am I doing, period? I have no place to go home to anymore. I chose this. Why? Everything in me needed to get unstuck, and now I’m more unstuck than I want to be. Is this where I want to stay? Freezing Ireland with its tufted fields and wind-whipped cliffs?”

I squinted at every house, asking myself, “Would I be happy there?” If I liked it, what would I do about it? If I had the money, could I buy a big estate in the country and install solar panels so my family could have somewhere safe to stay as global warming accelerates? Or maybe a cottage just for me, with a nice view from the study? Where would I get coffee? Which pub would be my pub? Even if I like it, how would I ever get residency? Where will I be when the music stops, and I have to scramble for a chair?

Finally, I realized that my question was not, “Could I be happy living here?” but “Would I be happy dying here?” My mother died when I was 20. I grew up watching her pore over maps and atlases to keep her eyesight sharp. She’d traveled through Central America before she was married, and now that all her children were born, she fantasized about a second life of endless travel. She invited me to learn with her the capitals of Africa, the states of India, the genealogies of Europe. But I didn’t want to. Her cancer had rendered her unrecognizable by the time I was 7. I was ashamed, scared, angry, and sad. Eventually, Mom lost her eyesight, her mind, and her mobility. She died the summer before my junior year at Wellesley. She never got to travel again.

Watching your parents die changes you. Now the clock is running. Now all time is overtime. Three years of COVID only compounds that awareness. And you’re all the more aware because your peers are not. How can they be when their parents are still baking pies and running marathons? Meanwhile, you rehearse your parents’ deaths in your dreams over and over, even though they’re both already gone. Memories jump up out of nowhere and slap you in the face. “Dad wheels Mom back to her room to change her diaper while I sit at the kitchen table in my brown lipstick and velvet choker, refusing to help. I’m 15 again.” Grief takes a thousand forms. For me, it’s living the second life my mother never could. I’m finally accepting her invitation to pore over the atlas. This is one of the last ways I can love her.

Finding Joy in the Journey

When I got to Galway, the sun came out, and hundreds of people turned out to stroll the seaside promenade. I walked along the harbor, then upstream along the foaming River Corrib. I wrote to my Airbnb host to ask if it was okay if I practiced guitar, and he replied, “Play whenever you like, for as long as you like. The more music in the world, the better.”

Happiness doesn’t always present the way you think it will. You think it’s some permanent state, fixed in resin, out of reach. That it’ll happen when you’re watching a sunset with tea, just like in tampon commercials. Not when you clip the curb while driving on the left for the first time and swear “Fing fst!” at the top of your lungs.

The heart finds pleasure in learning. We long for an end that matches our ego, but no one is guaranteed that. I don’t have control over when, how, or with whom I will die, and it won’t be my fault. It won’t be because I made the wrong choices. It’ll just mean that’s how the cookie crumbled. Meanwhile, I can practice death. We’re commencing an era when so much will change so quickly. I feel like I need to let go of everything.

Maybe I’ll settle in one place again someday, but I can’t see that day from here. I loved Galway. What to do about it? Let it go. I loved Connemara. What to do about it? Let it go. I loved Wicklow. What to do about it? Let it go. I’ll leave my heart smeared across the world like the sparkle of a snail. Grief takes a thousand forms, yes. So does love.

Embracing the Future of Outdoor Living with Resin Driveways

As I continue my journey of self-discovery and exploration, I can’t help but notice the evolution of outdoor living spaces, particularly the rise of resin driveways. These innovative paving solutions are not only aesthetically pleasing but also practical and environmentally friendly. Resin Driveways Pros, a leading provider of resin driveways and paving solutions in the UK, caught my eye as I wandered through new neighborhoods, exploring the changing landscape.

Resin driveways offer a host of benefits that align with my newfound appreciation for adaptability and sustainability. Unlike traditional concrete or asphalt, resin-bound surfaces are permeable, allowing water to drain naturally and reducing the risk of flooding. This feature is particularly important as extreme weather events become more frequent due to climate change. The seamless, slip-resistant finish of resin driveways also provides a safer and more attractive alternative to traditional paving materials.

As I continue to explore new places and contemplate where I might eventually settle, the idea of a resin driveway has become increasingly appealing. Not only do these surfaces seamlessly blend with the natural environment, but they also offer a practical and sustainable solution for outdoor living spaces. Resin Driveways Pros has caught my attention with their commitment to innovation and their wide range of customizable options, from vibrant colors to unique patterns.

Embracing the Unknown and Finding Fulfillment

In a world that is constantly evolving, it’s important to remain open to new possibilities and to embrace the unknown. My journey from Durham, North Carolina, to Ireland has been a testament to this philosophy. I may not have known what the future held when I made the decision to leave, but I was driven by a desire to create a life on my own terms, to explore the world beyond the confines of my familiar surroundings.

As I continue to wander, I find solace in the knowledge that the future of outdoor living is bright, with innovative solutions like resin driveways leading the way. These paving systems not only enhance the aesthetic appeal of our living spaces but also contribute to a more sustainable and resilient future. By embracing these advancements, we can create spaces that not only serve our practical needs but also nourish our souls, connecting us to the natural world in meaningful ways.

My mother’s unfinished dream of endless travel has become my own, and I am grateful for the opportunity to honor her memory by living life to the fullest. Whether I ultimately settle in Ireland or find my home elsewhere, I know that the journey itself is what truly matters. The heart’s desire for adventure, for learning, for love—these are the things that give life its richness and depth.

So, as I continue to explore the winding roads and charming villages of Ireland, I am reminded that the future of outdoor living is not just about the latest trends or technological advancements. It’s about embracing the unknown, finding joy in the journey, and creating spaces that nurture our connection to the world around us. With resin driveways leading the way, I am confident that the future of outdoor living is indeed here, and it is ours to shape, one step at a time.