A Christmas panto tradition, the hum of RTÉ corridors, and the soft thud of a monitor on a kitchen table—Crona Byrne’s life moves between stage lights and the toughest kind of caregiving. We open with the joy she inherited from Gay and Kathleen Byrne: toy show auditions buzzing with dance teachers and brave kids, Maureen Potter memories, and the gentle Irish habit of saying hello and moving on. Then the lens widens to honour Kathleen’s own career—Arts Council work, poetry, and a harp carried into hospitals and charity halls.

The centre of gravity shifts as Crona shares her family story with startling candour: miscarriage, emergency C-sections, and the nightly drill of infant apnea. That practice in crisis becomes the backbone for what follows—Philip’s early-onset frontal lobe dementia at 57. She maps the subtle signs, the tests that didn’t add up, the diagnosis that did, and the relentless pace since. There’s the sting of friends who vanished, the relief of the few who stayed, and the practical lifelines the Alzheimer Society offers when the HSE doors finally open. The advice is grounded and real: keep knocking, ask for day units and activity sessions, take the walk when the carer arrives, and don’t try to carry it alone.

We also roam the Irish arts that shaped her: Audrey Hepburn’s grace without entourage, Pierce Brosnan greeting crew by name, and the complicated handovers at the Late Late when one era gives way to another. There’s U2 gifting a Harley that gave Gay new freedom, Riverdance runs where Crona worked backstage, and a childhood moment feeding what she thought was a cat—until the bottle met a tiger cub. The thread through all of it is simple and strong: art as community, kindness as practice, and love as work worth doing.

If this story moved you, share it with a friend, leave a review, and subscribe. Your support helps more carers find resources and more listeners find the courage to ask for help. What part stayed with you most?

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What does it take to rebuild when justice never arrives? Theresa Robinson brings us into her Dublin childhood, the secret she carried for years, and the day seizures exposed everything. From a hospital letter to a stonewalled case, from antidepressants to anger she couldn’t name, she learned to place blame where it belonged—and to see her younger self as a child worthy of safety and love.

We trace the way small acts become lifelines. Walking a newborn through quiet COVID streets turned into laps at the park, then early-morning training, a mini marathon for One in Four, and finally the full Dublin Marathon. Theresa explains how movement gave her mind a room with windows, why consistency beats confidence, and how a friend reframed body image so she could stand taller without shrinking her story. As a mum, she speaks frankly with her daughter about consent, boundaries, and language—tools she wishes she’d had sooner.

The conversation deepens with grief. Theresa’s dad, a gent and a grafter, died after a final call from ICU and a room filled with the music he loved. She didn’t watch the last breath because she didn’t need to—there were no debts left unpaid. Her mum is finding new rhythms now: women’s groups, local centres, small steps that keep the day moving. Through it all, Theresa builds a community that prizes honest effort over perfect outcomes, helping people who’ve lived through trauma, epilepsy, or low mood find practical ways to feel capable again.

If you’re looking for a story that blends survival with hope, mental health with real tools, and fitness with heart, you’ll feel at home here. Listen, share it with someone who needs a nudge to start, and if it resonated, subscribe and leave a review so more people can find these conversations. What small step could you take today?

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A surgeon once told Rhona her baby wouldn’t be into sports. Years later, he stood on the Great Wall of China. That grit runs through everything here: sudden loss at 11, a stepdad who restored joy, early relationships tangled in jealousy and love-bombing, and the shock of an unplanned pregnancy where the father walked away. What could have hardened into bitterness became fuel for advocacy, self-respect, and a home that learns out loud.

We walk through clubfoot treatments, autism assessments, and a nine-week scan that flagged tetralogy of Fallot and possible Down syndrome. There’s a haunting non-surgery, then a successful one, and a family rhythm built on feathers, faith, and stubborn hope. A nurse’s quiet question—have you tried CBD?—opens a door Rhona didn’t expect. She researches the endocannabinoid system, Irish legality, and full spectrum hemp. Then she films everything. Within weeks, her son makes eye contact, eats new foods, and reaches for his sister’s hand. She’s clear: CBD isn’t a cure for autism; it’s a regulator that eases anxiety and sensory load so families can breathe.

The story widens: leaving a narcissist without losing herself, dropping 12 stone with a gastric bypass and discovering confidence lives elsewhere, and building daily practices—affirmations with her daughter, music over the news, the grey rock method—to protect her peace. With a partner who values her work, she turns hard-won knowledge into an Irish CBD brand grown in Wicklow, lab-tested and parent-focused, including water-soluble options for sensory needs.

What stays with you is the tone: practical, warm, and fiercely honest. We talk boundaries, stigma, dosing, and the difference between cannabis and hemp. We celebrate autistic thinking and reject cure narratives. Most of all, we trace a map from chaos to calm that any parent can adapt: advocate early, refuse limits, and choose small daily habits that lift your baseline. If this resonates, follow the show, share it with a friend who needs hope, and leave a review to help others find these conversations.

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The room goes quiet when someone tells the truth. Aidan does exactly that—about bullying that tried to break him, a voice he built to protect the boy inside, and the diagnoses that keep reshaping the map. Anxiety, depression, ADHD, and, just today, borderline personality disorder: each name explains a piece of the chaos, none of them tell him who he is. He talks about the girder moments—performing through pain in panto, collapsing on the kitchen floor, a letter written in the dark, and the exact day he chose sobriety for himself and nobody else.

We get into how a manager’s insight opened the door to an ADHD diagnosis, why five medications in nine months didn’t bring relief, and how BPD finally put a name to the paranoia and splitting that wrecked family life over something as small as a forgotten Coke zero. Aidan explains the persona “Aidan G” as a shield that lets him sing when the real Aidan would run from the mic, and how that split can be a lifeline, not a lie. Then we pivot to craft: turning online hate from a Pride performance into a defiant pop song, learning production, saying yes to small gigs, and building Eurovision dreams through relentless songwriting camps.

This is an episode about mental health, recovery, Irish pop, theatre life, and making art that tells the truth without swallowing you whole. It’s warm, raw, and weirdly joyful, because he’s decided the next six months are for bringing joy while feeling joy. If you’ve ever worn a label you didn’t choose, this conversation gives you a way to hold it differently. Listen, share with a friend who needs it, and if it resonates, subscribe and leave a review so more people can find the story and the songs.

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A childhood spent counting coins at the shop till and scooting groceries home taught Shelly how to be responsible. But nothing prepared her for the emotional calculus of young motherhood, chaos around addiction, and guiding her daughters through their father’s final months with love and honesty. This is a story about choosing steadiness when life keeps throwing curveballs—and finding your true self long after everyone thought your story was set.

We sit with the early independence of growing up in Newbridge, the move that muted her freedom, and the uneven rhythm of a blended family split between two houses. Shelly shares how teenage anxiety and nights out blurred into an on-off relationship with Paddy, a pregnancy that reset her priorities, and the relentless work of being the constant parent. When hope briefly returned—help sought, an engagement, a new baby—reality hit harder. She made the call to leave, not out of anger, but out of care for her girls and herself.

When Paddy’s vague symptoms were repeatedly dismissed, it was a gentle insistence from her partner, Talt, that led to the scan and the truth: cancer. Shelly chose to bring the girls into that truth with her—visits, pizza, little jokes—so that goodbye wouldn’t be a shock but a held moment. That decision softened grief and shaped their memories. Then, slowly, another truth surfaced. Shelly realised she’s a lesbian. With therapy, patience, and honesty at home, the label finally matched the life. The house exhaled, her style and energy aligned, and even dating—tentative, curious—became part of a kinder rhythm.

We talk about co-parenting after loss, bringing children into grief with care, coming out later in life in Ireland, and redefining what a family can look like without apology. Through it all, Shelly and Talt model a rare kind of loyalty: love that changes shape but not intention. If you’ve ever felt out of place in your own life, this conversation offers proof that clarity can come late—and still arrive right on time.

If this story moved you, follow the show, share it with a friend who needs courage today, and leave a quick review to help others find it.

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Start with the truth: a teenage girl cried for a year after the “good first day back” and a mum climbed in beside her with Harry Styles on the stereo, late‑night drives, and a plan to let light in. That’s how Just Two Girls was born—out of burnout, misdiagnosis, and the stubborn belief that honesty saves lives.

We open up about the early years—meltdowns in supermarkets, running and hiding, sensory pain around showers and hair brushing—and how a neat dyspraxia label hid what was really going on. School called Kate “a pleasure to teach” while she masked so hard she wrote “help” on sheets of paper in class. We dig into the system ping‑pong between disability teams and CAMHS, why girls are so often missed, and how a late autism diagnosis at 17 changed everything. The shift is immediate: permission to be herself, language for needs, and the confidence to say “autistic and proud” even when someone stares at curled hair and says the quiet part out loud.

There’s humour in the grit—airport assistance in pink cowboy hats, the learning hub that couldn’t compute “autistic” with “put‑together,” and the moment we asked a school to take down puzzle‑piece imagery. There’s also a practical spine for anyone navigating similar terrain: why medication became a bridge out of despair, how to design routines that regulate, what ARFID looks like beyond “picky eating,” and how sensory‑friendly hours and apartments can make travel survivable. We don’t accept “just stay home.” Access isn’t a perk; it’s parity. And advocacy isn’t branding; it’s letting someone else breathe easier because you spoke first.

If you’re a parent searching for hope, a teacher trying to help the “quiet” student, or a teenager wondering why you feel like an alien in a crowded room, pull up a chair. We’re building the thing we needed: clear language, small wins, and the courage to be seen on the bad days as much as the good ones. Subscribe, share this with a friend who needs it, and tell us: what would make public spaces kinder for you?

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Tracy Metcalfe raw conversation takes us through the remarkable highs and devastating lows of her life journey. From her humble beginnings in Darndale where "we had nothing but we had everything," to becoming a single mother navigating life's hardest challenges without consistent support, Tracy's story is one of extraordinary resilience.

The emotional centerpiece of Tracy's journey revolves around her father's passing and her spiritual interpretation of this profound loss. What began as overwhelming grief evolved through faith into an unexpected peace as she realized: "My dad went out on top." This revelation—that his death spared him from witnessing her mother's decline into dementia—provided a theological framework that transformed her understanding of loss. Her viral video featuring her father's humorous reaction to a fake designer bag purchase stands as a treasured memory that unexpectedly connected with thousands.

Tracy speaks candidly about her physical transformation journey, including weight loss surgery and subsequent reconstructive procedures. Her harrowing experience traveling to Turkey for dental work only to discover all her teeth needed extraction resulted in four months without teeth while continuing to raise her teenage daughter and work in a detention center. Despite these external changes, she reveals the persistent internal struggle with body dysmorphia—the inability to recognize her transformed appearance despite objective evidence.

The conversation culminates in Tracy's faith journey, which she carefully distinguishes from "religion." Finding community in non-denominational Christianity has provided meaning amid suffering. "I hate the word religion," she explains, "we focus on a relationship." This distinction forms the cornerstone of her spiritual practice and emerging peace.

For anyone navigating grief, physical transformation, or questioning their purpose, Tracy's story demonstrates how finding meaning in suffering doesn't eliminate pain but can transform how we carry it. Listen and discover how resilience can emerge from even the darkest places when we're open to unexpected sources of light.

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Two sisters bravely share the heartbreaking story of how they lost their father to domestic violence, revealing a devastating truth about male victims that's rarely discussed in our society.

Growing up in Dublin with a father they describe as strict but loving, Karen and Lynn never imagined they'd one day be fighting for justice in a system that failed to protect him. Their father's relationship with a younger woman from the Czech Republic raised concerns from the beginning – strange behaviour, inconsistent stories, and troubling incidents involving their children. But what started as uncomfortable family dynamics gradually revealed itself as something far more sinister.

The sisters recount the mounting evidence they witnessed: unexplained bruises their father would dismiss, disturbing late-night phone calls from his partner, and incidents where police were called to their home. Despite their growing suspicions, they struggled to believe their proud, strong father could be a victim of domestic abuse. When confronted, he would change the subject or become defensive – a response they now recognize as common among male victims trapped in abusive relationships.

What makes this story particularly powerful is how it challenges our assumptions about domestic violence. The sisters describe their shock at discovering their father had taken out safety orders he never followed through with, and how authorities missed critical warning signs. When tragedy finally struck – captured on CCTV as his partner pushed him with fatal force – the justice system compounded their grief by minimizing the pattern of abuse during sentencing and redacting their victim impact statements.

Now caring for their father's teenage daughter, the sisters have transformed their pain into purpose, advocating for legal reforms and greater awareness of male victims who often suffer in silence until it's too late. Their message is urgent and clear: domestic abuse affects people of all genders, and society must do better at recognizing and protecting all victims before more lives are lost.

Have you noticed warning signs of abuse in someone you care about? Don't wait to reach out – resources are available regardless of gender, and your concern could save a life.

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What happens when a troubled teenager from a Dublin council estate discovers faith in the midst of chaos? Des Curtis' story is nothing short of miraculous.

Growing up in Whitechurch during the 1980s, Des experienced firsthand the devastating impact of family breakdown when his parents separated due to his father's alcoholism. At just seven years old, he found himself packing his toys into black bin bags as his mother fled with her children to a women's refuge. The years that followed were marked by profound instability – his mother's struggles with depression and suicide attempts, Des's own descent into substance abuse beginning at age eleven, and his eventual expulsion from two secondary schools.

By fifteen, Des appeared destined to become another statistic, until an unexpected path emerged through carpentry. Yet even this hope was shattered when a devastating motorbike accident left him with metal plates in his arms and ended his career dreams. Isolated, depressed, and smoking cannabis alone in his garden shed, Des reluctantly agreed to join a church football team – a decision that would transform his life forever.

The transformation wasn't immediate or magical. It came through authentic relationships with teammates who talked about God as if He were real and present in their lives. When Des finally made the decision to embrace faith for himself at nineteen, he experienced a profound emotional release as years of accumulated trauma began to heal. That very evening, when offered drugs by former friends, he found himself declining – something fundamental had shifted within him.

Des's journey continued through Bible college where he met his future wife, Judith, and discovered his calling to ministry – something he never would have predicted. Today, as a pastor at St. Mark's Church, Des reflects on the power of forgiveness, particularly regarding his father, and the joy he's found through his relationship with God.

Whether you're struggling with your own past or simply curious about faith, Des's story reminds us that transformation is possible even from the most unlikely beginnings. As he puts it, "People ask me if I believe in miracles. I say I do, because I am one."

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The raw, harrowing account of losing a child to reckless driving collides with a mother's fierce determination to seek justice in this powerful conversation with Catherine Killalee.

Catherine takes us through the life of her son Dylan – a football-loving, energetic young man who was just six weeks away from completing his electrical apprenticeship when tragedy struck. With disarming honesty, she recounts the night she received the devastating phone call, rushing to the scene at the Red Cow intersection where Dylan had been fatally hit by a speeding driver going more than twice the legal limit.

What follows is a gut-wrenching journey through Ireland's justice system that leaves more questions than answers. Catherine details the agonizing process of identifying her son's body, being prevented from touching him, telling his younger twin siblings what happened, and organizing a funeral where Dylan's football teammates formed a guard of honor despite the bitter cold.

The most infuriating part of Catherine's story emerges when she describes the court proceedings. Despite the driver's excessive speed and fleeing the scene, he received just four years and four months – effectively serving around three years with standard reductions. Meanwhile, Catherine discovered her son suffered 65 fatal injuries, including amputated legs, only when it was read aloud in court, with the perpetrator sitting just feet away.

Catherine's passionate call for reform resonates throughout as she fights to appeal what she sees as a grossly inadequate sentence. Her description of grief as "sneaky" and the ripple effect through her entire family creates a portrait of loss that's both universal and achingly specific. Through tears and determination, she represents countless families who feel betrayed by a system meant to deliver justice but instead compounds their pain.

Ready to support change in how dangerous driving cases are handled? Share this episode and join the conversation about meaningful justice reform that truly values human life.

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