Humans of Dublin Ireland - Stories of Care, Empathy & Love

I met Conor on a wet Thursday in Dublin, the kind of evening where the buses hiss at the kerb and everyone looks a little defeated under their umbrellas. We were both…

I knew it was over before she said anything. It was in the way she kept both hands on the wheel after she parked, as if letting go might make the whole…

I was thirty-nine when I first realised grief could make a person invisible. My marriage had ended quietly, without smashed plates or dramatic confessions, just a man at the kitchen table in…

My wife started yoga because of her back. That is the part I kept repeating to myself, as if the whole story could be made ordinary again by returning to the first…

I sent the last text at 1:17 in the morning, standing under the yellow light outside Tara Street Station, with rain needling the back of my neck and the Liffey looking black…

I met him on a wet Thursday evening outside St Stephen’s Green, the kind of Dublin rain that doesn’t fall so much as settle into your bones. I was standing under the…

I knew I should not go the minute the invitation landed on the mat. Thick cream card, our names written in that careful gold script people use when they are trying to…

I met him on a Tuesday evening in Dublin, which is to say I met him when neither of us was at our best. I was carrying a broken umbrella through the…

I met him on a wet Thursday in Dublin, the kind of evening when the buses sigh at the kerb and everyone looks like they have somewhere warmer to be. I was…

I met him on a wet Thursday in Smithfield, the kind of Dublin evening where the sky gives up pretending and just pours. I had gone to The Cobblestone with two friends…