My People

My people are positive thinkers. They believe in the good and see the good in others. They stand by me through every challenge, loving me not for what I can give but for who I am. My people lift me up, even when I feel drained from giving too much. They remind me to grow, to rise, to become the best version of myself.

When I think about my people today, I also think about where we came from—those whose blood and spirit still flow through me.

My people were Irish, transplanted to America. But for what? What freedom were they searching for? Perhaps they sought escape from the weight of strict religion—only to find themselves bound again by another form of it.

I was told we were also part Cherokee. I held onto that story with pride, feeling its truth even without proof. Maybe somewhere in my lineage, someone loved a Native soul, and their spirit found its way into mine. I feel it in the pull of the water, the whisper of the wind, the pulse of the earth beneath my feet.

I wonder what my Irish ancestors worshipped. They weren’t always Catholic or God-centered, I’m sure. I feel too much spiritual energy in my veins to believe they were ever confined to one god or doctrine. I imagine they were people of the land—forest lovers and wildflower smellers—souls who found divinity in nature itself.

Whether Irish or Native, I know my ancestors were connected to the earth, to Spirit, to something larger than themselves. Their reverence for nature runs through my blood, stronger than any written creed.

And today, my people are here with me—my children, my husband, my grandchildren—the ones who carry the same light, the same hope, the same heartbeat of all who came before us.