Irish Queens: A Daughter’s Journey Through Ancestral Healing

Just as I sit down to write, a rustle behind me catches my attention. I turn—and my Irish bag of potatoes topples over. Irish Queens, it says. I smile. That feels like an endorsement. He loved potatoes. And what true Irish person doesn’t, you might ask?

Well—my dad loved potatoes.
But he found it hard to love me.
Or more accurately, to love me in the way I would have loved to be loved.

I’m a child of the ’60s, when affection from men was rationed—awkward, rigid. His hugs often felt like stone. And I was often fearful of him. I don’t recall many embraces.

Six months after he dies, he comes to me in a dream. Vivid. Issuing instructions about his funeral, as always—commanding, directing. I wake up feeling him all over me. On my skin.
Ugh.
Angry.
Tense.
Hard.
Contracted.

No shower helps that day. I make coffee. Feel sick. I think I might vomit, so I cancel my clients and give myself two hours in a clearing meditation. I fall asleep toward the end. Afterwards, I feel back to myself. I tell him: Don’t come to me like that again.

Two weeks later, he returns. He’s tenacious, my father. This time, he’s in my head. His voice—clear as day.
Here we go again.

Thankfully, I have the day off. I rest. I meditate. I sleep.

Then I seek a medium to hear him better. And I do. Loud. Clear.
It’s impossible to medium for yourself—or at least, in my experience, I haven’t been able to do that easily or with clarity.
The first thing the medium says:
“Your dad is sorry he wasn’t there for you in life… but he promises—he’ll be here for you now.”

And then followed so much information. Like a jigsaw puzzle I fitted the missing pieces together.

Finally—love from another realm.

Healing, I learn, can happen anytime.
Maybe some healing waits until the soul leaves the body.

I found it impossible to speak with him at the end of his human life. He reached his ninth decade—despite the Drinking, the Hard Work, The Troubles, and everything else—he lives a long time. His tenacity shines through the aches and pains, the heart failure, the liver cirrhosis. And more.
(The list of ailments is long.)

I see him again—recently, in ceremony.
Plant medicine.
Spirit medicine.

I witness his PTSD shaking his body into dysfunction. He vibrates in my vision, his nervous system so shattered he can’t hold his soul inside. He drinks—heavily. To settle the storm.

But I don’t feel any angst between us now.
I only feel his presence.
No residue of his alcoholism, his anger, or his contracted system.
That’s the personality—and it has gone. Dissolved.

Now what’s left is his presence.
His true nature.
He’s happy.
I feel it.

I too now know—
I am an Irish Queen.

Despite all of this, I’m still learning to feel my worth in this world.
My human journey.

So thank you, Dad.
Without you—and others—I wouldn’t be here as I am.

Today.
Writing.
Speaking.
Becoming.
Trying to understand true love, just for me.

“When the soul is ready, its path becomes clear.” — John O’Donohue

Note:
The “contracted system” refers to the craniosacral system—a fluid-based network surrounding the brain, spine, and nervous system. As a craniosacral therapist, I connect to this system in others to support alignment, balance, and vitality. A system that feels contracted is tight and holding; flow states are disrupted, misalignment may be present, and the person often doesn’t feel free or fully well in their body or life. When the system opens, healing becomes possible.