Living in the colony is like trying to keep a lantern lit in a storm—there’s a constant hum of effort, and the light flickers, but you keep tending it. I’ve traded the weight of my father’s pub for the quiet of a shared home, and though I’m still paying off the past, there’s something honest in starting over with nothing but a dream and a few cheddar coins. I like the way people still tell stories in the square, how music drifts from open windows, and how the sky here feels bigger than it ever did back in Mayo.

Living here is like trying to build a house on shifting sand—everyone’s doing their best, but the ground keeps moving. I came here for a fresh start, but I didn’t expect how much of my old self would have to be rebuilt. Now I’m learning that dignity isn’t just about having a clean space—it’s about not having to hide, beg, or feel shame just for existing. I used to think dignity was a luxury. Now I know it’s a right. And I’m fighting for it—because I’ve seen what happens when it’s denied.

Yes—since I arrived, I’ve stopped running a business and started trusting people with my money and my future. I used to think I had to know everything to survive. Now I’m learning to ask for help, to believe in shared rules, and to let myself be cared for. That’s the biggest change.