About

Some of the most important things I know, I didn't learn from books. I learned them in a kitchen in Kerry, from my grandmother, mother and other wise souls. They spoke in bite-sized truths I only half-understood. But they stayed with me, like seeds planted in soft ground, waiting.

Years later, in moments of confusion or heartache, their words would surface. Not everything that weighs on you is yours to carry. I'd hear their voices, steady and warm, and I'd find my footing again.

One day, I started writing them down. First in a notebook. Then on scraps of paper. Eventually, I began sharing them, first with friends who were going through hard times, then online, with strangers who somehow felt like kin. The response surprised me. People wrote saying they cried, or printed them out, or sent them to their own mothers.

That's how Conversations with a Kerrywoman began. Not as a brand, or a product, or a platform, but as an act of remembering. A way to keep the conversation going.

The wisdom here isn't radical. It's not new. You won't find hacks or systems or revolutionary strategies. What you'll find are old truths, the kind your grandmother might have told you, the kind that get passed down in whispers over tea, the kind that feel obvious once you hear them but somehow easy to forget.

The card deck came later. A way to make the wisdom tangible. Something you could hold, shuffle, draw from when you needed it. Something that could sit on a kitchen table the way conversation used to, waiting for you, not demanding.

If any of these words land with you, good. That's all they're meant to do. Sit with them. Argue with them. Share them if they help. Ignore them if they don't. This is an invitation, not an instruction.