There are some journeys that stay with you long after you return home—where the land itself feels like a companion, still whispering your name in the old tongue. Our August pilgrimage through Ireland was one of those.

Three women—each carrying her own questions, hopes, and heartaches—met in Dublin with open suitcases and open spirits. What began as a simple itinerary through sacred sites became a living prayer—one of courage, companioning, and transformation.

We arrived in Dublin under soft gray skies, a little weary from travel but already enchanted by the rhythm of the city. The Irish have a gift for welcome—it’s not just hospitality; it’s warmth that goes straight to the soul. It felt like Ireland itself opened its arms and said, come in—you belong here.

That first day felt like a threshold. There’s something sacred about crossing over from the known into the unknown—stepping into a journey that you know will change you, even if you can’t yet say how.

At Newgrange, older than the pyramids and Stonehenge, we entered a passage tomb built for light and rebirth. The stones seemed alive with memory. Their spirals carved into rock spoke of cycles—life folding into death, death opening into life again.

Inside that dim, ancient chamber, time collapsed. We stood in silence and listened. It felt like the earth itself was speaking—a whisper crossing time and space reminding us of the endless turning of life, of beginnings hidden within endings. We left with a quiet sense that maybe our own stories were circling back toward something deeper, too.

When we reached Glendalough, the valley of two lakes, it was as though the air itself had been blessed. Mist hung over the hills, and water moved gently over stone, a hymn older than any church.

We stepped into the lake and let the water wash over our feet. It was cold, startlingly alive. Healing, somehow. Not the kind of healing that erases, but the kind that tenderly acknowledges what’s been carried too long.

For a long while none of us spoke. It was as if the water itself was doing the talking—washing over our tired places, softening what had grown hard. The kind of healing that doesn’t erase the past, but blesses it instead.

In Kildare, we found the quiet well of St. Brigid—protector of hearth and heart, keeper of both flame and water. The well was surrounded by wildflowers and small offerings left by other pilgrims, each one a testament to the long lineage of longing that brings women here.

Brigid holds the tension of opposites—fire and water, strength and tenderness, the sacred and the ordinary. Standing beside her well, we could feel that same tension within ourselves. The part of us that creates and the part that rests. The part that leads and the part that needs to be held.

Brigid, Ireland’s beloved saint, feels like a friend to those who live between worlds—the practical and the mystical, the sacred and the ordinary. Her spirit lingers in Ireland’s landscape, in every flame and flowing spring, in every act of hospitality that says, “you belong here.”

From Galway, we sailed to the Aran Islands, where stone walls trace the land like veins and the wind carries the ocean’s song. It’s the kind of place that humbles you. The kind that invites you to unclench and remember that you belong to something far larger than yourself.

We tasted salt on our lips, and felt the Atlantic wind rush through us like a cleansing breath. There’s freedom in such vastness. Standing on the cliffs at the edge of the world gives one a sense for how very small we are, and at the same time how full the world is of possibility. The island gave us no answers, but it gave us space, which might be the same thing.

On our way to Ballintubber Abbey, we stopped at Brigid’s Garden, where each section marks a sacred season of the Celtic year. There’s wisdom in that cycle—the reminder that our lives, too, move through seasons of darkness and light, of letting go and beginning again.

Ballintubber itself is known as “the abbey that refused to die.” Its walls are weathered but alive, a symbol of resilience and renewal. Standing in that space, I thought of the stories within us that refuse to die—the ones still finding their way into the light.

We began our Celtic Camino at Ballintubber and walked toward Croagh Patrick, Ireland’s holy mountain. What began as a hopeful trek became an act of sheer perseverance.

The climb was steep, the rocks loose, the wind relentless. There were moments we wanted to stop, moments when we questioned whether we could go on. But we did. Not by strength alone, but by grace—and by each other.

When one stumbled, another reached back. When one lagged, another offered a steadying word. We held each other up and pushed one another forward, refusing to quit.

By the time we reached the summit, our bodies were trembling, muscles aching, and our souls had been stripped bare. We stood in the mist together—three women, drenched in sweat, having done what none of us could have done alone. It wasn’t triumph so much as transfiguration.

Our journal for that day had quoted Thích Nhất Hạnh: “Walk as if you are kissing the earth with your feet.”
We had done just that—one slow, deliberate, grace-filled step at a time.

By the time we returned to Dublin, our bodies were tired but our hearts were light. We’d walked through thresholds, touched holy waters, carried fire, and stood in silence that healed. We’d laughed until our sides ached and cried without words.

The beauty of Ireland—its people, its landscapes, its warmth—had opened something in us. Every stranger who offered a smile or a story became part of our pilgrimage. Every shared meal, every quiet moment by the sea, every bit of laughter on a rain-soaked street—it all became sacred.

Ireland reminded us that faith isn’t always about certainty. Sometimes it’s about continuing to walk, even when the path turns steep. Sometimes it’s about holding one another up until the summit appears. And sometimes it’s about realizing that the summit isn’t the end at all—it’s just another beginning.

We came to Ireland as travelers.
We left as pilgrims.
And somewhere between the first step and the last, the land began to live within us.