Corkonians Abroad: 'I need to visit Cork for a power refill'

I was born in Cork and lived there until I was eight. We lived in Hilltown, just outside Carrigaline, with a kind of freedom my kids today wouldn’t believe.

I remember picking blackberries along the roadside to make jam, getting stung by nettles, climbing trees, scrambling over hay barrels, and once - when I accidentally wandered into a field with a bull - vaulting over a stone wall in record time. I was a scrappy kid, and it served me well.

In the mid-1980s, my parents made the decision to emigrate to New York City with three young kids.

I remember the scratchy wood seats of our Aer Lingus flight - me and my two younger sisters, Laura and Louise, all of us wearing Bosco T-shirts and little red shorts.

I remember the bewildering NYC skyline with the twin towers still standing, and the way the city rose up as we crossed the 59th Street Bridge toward our new home.

It was such a jarring, surreal experience that I genuinely believed it must be a dream. Any moment, I thought, I’d wake up back in Cork, putting on my school uniform and clipping on my tie. But uniforms were a thing of the past for me.

People in New York looked so different -nationalities I’d never seen before. Ireland at the time was still very homogeneous, so stepping into Manhattan felt like stepping into a film… complete with the sound of sirens and gunshots. (There were no gunshots. But still.)

School was tough at first. I was shy, and my accent didn’t help. One kid called me “Milk Bottles Who Talks Funny”, which hurt at the time - but now I can appreciate the weird poetry in it.

We found our footing. My dad helped me land early jobs at The Irish Voice newspaper and The Hit Factory recording studio through his friends - fellow Irish immigrants living in New York.

That sense of Irish community, of people helping one another out, was something I absorbed early.

Later, while working at Sephora beauty store to support myself during my time at the School of Visual Arts, I used to go outside for cigarette breaks and got chatting with an artist who sold cartoon cat drawings on the sidewalk. He told me he knew someone at MTV - said they used to be homeless together. He sent me up there, and I ended up landing an internship.

And here’s the wild part: I probably never would have gotten that internship if those two men hadn’t once shared the misfortune - or strange fortune (for me, at least) - of living on the streets together. It’s random, it’s messy, and it’s also kind of perfect.

That internship opened a lot of doors - and got me into some amazing concerts!

After school, I built a career in packaging design - an industry most people don’t think about but interact with every single day.

I’ve designed everything from the current Nutella packaging to Head & Shoulders bottles, and most recently, I created the fragrance design for Millie Bobby Brown’s Wildly Me.

I worked on global brands, high-profile launches, and fast-paced timelines.

It was around this time in my career that I met Alec. We got married and, after having our first child, Wylie, we moved to Brooklyn. We started our family, and while I loved designing, it began to feel less fulfilling. It started to feel so digital and a bit… cold.

That’s when I started weaving and making, and I began to feel a creative passion that I had never felt before.

I began designing woven wall hangings and started a small business called The Urban Loom. One of my favourite pieces was made for my daughter, Esmé. I wove it using soft alpaca fibres alongside textured yarns, and embellished it with delicate little flowers - made from the pink and blue cap she wore as a newborn in the hospital.

Things in Brooklyn were good - designing, weaving, and getting used to being parents for the first time. But one thing about kids is that they grow. And one thing about New York City apartments? They don’t. Not an inch. So, it was time for a change.

We decided to move to Arizona because we had some family there and had visited a few times over the years for holidays like Christmas. We were excited for a new change, new opportunities, new experiences, and - most of all - room to grow. But that room would have to wait as we renovated the house.

We lived in a tiny casita next to the house while it was under renovation, and I continued working in design. I had to pack away all my yarn and weaving supplies because there just wasn’t space, and, in the meantime, I started getting curious about jewellery-making.

That curiosity led me to resin and mold-making - something I could tinker with in the garage, despite the oppressive heat, the occasional scorpion sighting, and the fact that it’s sometimes so hot I can barely get the rubber gloves on to protect myself from the chemicals. But I don’t care - I love it.

And then covid hit. Suddenly, we were all crammed into the casita full-time, juggling lockdowns, a homeschooling fiasco, and whatever emotional tailspin the day happened to bring.

Somewhere in the middle of that madness, I needed an outlet. One afternoon, my daughter Esmé asked if I’d play dolls with her - which has never been my strong suit. I joked: “Why don’t we make molds of the Barbie heads and turn them into rings instead?” Her look of horror said it all. But, of course, I went for it anyway - and the initial results were no less horrific! But I couldn’t stop.

That’s how Pandemic Pills was born. It started as an escape - something creative to pour my brain into when the world outside felt like chaos.

But the more I played with the concept, the more it became a reflection of something bigger: how we all need something to get us through. A little joy, a little weirdness, a little relief.

Pandemic Pills is my tongue-in-cheek response to a world medicating itself just to stay afloat - a wearable joke with a beating heart. The pieces themselves are resin rings with interchangeable tops - or ‘pills’ - that snap into place with a satisfying click. Each collection is its own little capsule of storytelling.

It hasn’t launched yet - Pandemic Pills is still a side project, but it’s become my way of channeling everything I love: design, storytelling, play, and a very specific kind of humour. The Irish kind.

That sharp, irreverent, bone-deep humour that never leaves you, no matter where in the world you end up.

My workspace is full of things I call ‘research’ - tiny treasures I won’t let the kids touch - that I hope will one day find their way into something wearable.

There are ferrofluid vials, diffraction glasses that make everything look like holographic hearts, even cesium capsules with gold liquid that melts when it’s warm. To me, it’s magic-pure and simple.

It’s that sense of humour and curiosity -deeply rooted in where I’m from - that I hope to thread through Pandemic Pills.

I want it to be more than just a brand. I want it to spark connection, to feel like a secret handshake or a wink across the room. That’s the dream: wearable joy, grounded in storytelling, built on community, and always delivered with a bit of a laugh.

And, of course, I already imagine a Pandemic Pills Corkonian collection - because obviously Cork is the best place in Ireland, and I’m very Cork proud.

To Americans, I sound foreign, but they can’t place the accent. To the Irish, I’m a Yank. And to myself, I’m floating somewhere in the middle - away with the birds, making things that delight me, and still (maybe always) chasing the idea of those streets paved with gold - be it luck, legacy, or just something that sparkles enough to keep you moving.

What I’ve come to understand is that life isn’t about clear paths or neat identities. It’s a series of connections - moments that link together and carry you forward. Like the airport doors at Shannon closing behind us and the ones at JFK opening in front. Like my mum used to sing to me at night: “Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be.”

Now, smack in the pits of middle age, I’m genuinely excited for what’s still to come. A visit back to Cork is high on the list - I need the refill to power me through.

I couldn’t have done any of this without Alec. Through all the chaos, transitions, and creations, he’s been my rock. He puts up with what it means to be married to someone as untethered as me. He’s a lucky duck - and he knows it.

Together, we have two kids, Wylie and Esmé, who proudly tell anyone who’ll listen that they’re “more than half Irish”. And that might just be enough gold for now - not the kind promised under rainbows or on the sidewalks of New York, but the kind you piece together over time without even knowing you’re doing it.

These days we live in Paradise Valley, surrounded by mountains and wide sky. It rarely rains, but when it does, it’s epic - and I’ve never seen so many rainbows in my life.

In New York, you can barely see the sky. But here, I find myself staring up often, marvelling at the blue, the clouds, the light.

It’s not gold, but it’s close.

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