June 24, 2025

In early June, I made a snap decision, one that involved passports, a flight, and a quiet promise to myself. My son and I were going to fly to Dublin to mark the end of his middle school years and the start of high school, a meaningful threshold in any young life. But this trip wasn’t just for him, it was also for me. It would be a way to honor how far I’ve come and also to plant a flag in new territory- one not ruled by fear.
For many years, anxiety has been my constant companion, a deeply familiar presence that I have come to understand more fully in the years since my mother’s death in 2004. Her worries shaped the contours of the world we shared as I was growing up; they were a quiet limiter on what felt possible. While she loved deeply and gave so much of herself, I’ve come to realize how rare it was to see her truly at ease: unguarded, playful, light of heart. I don’t want that same absence in my son’s emotional bank. No, I needed to show him that his mother found joy in her world- and that meant bringing him along for the ride.
So, we went to Ireland.
We wandered the cobbled streets of Dublin, ducking in and out of bookstores and cafés, exploring the city with no agenda beyond spending time together. One day, we took a tour of Kilmainham Gaol, the historic prison that looms large in Ireland’s story of rebellion and resilience. The somber beauty of the place struck us both. Walking through the echoing stone corridors and hearing the stories of those who’d been held there - revolutionaries, poets, ordinary citizens- left a mark. It was a heavy but necessary kind of awe, and it grounded our trip in something deeper than just sightseeing.
Another day, we escaped the city and took a side trip south to Wicklow and Glendalough, and it was pure magic. We hiked winding trails, skipped stones across the upper lake, and stood in the shadows of ancient ruins. There was no rush, just the gentle rhythm of the path under our feet and our conversations. It was the kind of day that I hope he will carry well into adulthood - not because it was spectacular, but because it was ours.
And then, there was the Pulp concert. I’ve loved the band Pulp for thirty full years, since their 1990’s Britpop heyday, thrilling to music that is equal parts sharp wit and big feeling. Jarvis Cocker, the band’s lanky, charismatic frontman, still brings that same energetic charm to the stage- so for me, that time was unforgettable.
My son, meanwhile, was … patient. It wasn’t exactly his scene, but he let me have my moment. I danced my heart out to Disco 2000, sang every word at full volume, and likely pushed the limits of his secondhand embarrassment. Still, I hope that image stays with him: His mother, completely in her element, unapologetically having fun- even if it made him cringe at the time.
Lately, Jarvis Cocker’s interviews have been reflecting on joy, specifically, the urgency of it. In interviews about More, Pulp’s latest album, he urges us to stop deferring happiness and instead embrace the unruly, beautiful present. It struck a chord. That idea- less fear, more joy; less waiting, more doing- feels like the exact shift I’ve been working toward. (Sidenote: Pulp takes the Stage at Suffolk Downs this September. Still negotiating whether my teenage son will join me for Round Two in Boston.)
So, our trip was many things: a celebration, a coming-of-age marker, a healing time. But most of all, for me it was proof that joy can be a choice. That anxiety doesn’t have to win. That fun is not frivolous; it’s necessary. We came home with souvenirs and snapshots, yes; but also with something far more lasting for my son: The memory of his mother dancing wildly at a rock concert as he rolled his eyes. He’ll remember that scene from a time when we took a trip overseas, just the two of us, and I hope that whenever he looks back, the memory will make him smile.