We’re All Friends Now
We’re All Friends Now
August 1, 2025
Belfast, Northern Ireland
We landed safely in Ireland and headed to a place I’d long dreamt of seeing, but one that had never been on John’s list: Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland. Pat, my driver, met me just outside baggage claim. Within minutes, we were heading north.
As we drove away from the airport and onto the highway, Pat pointed to the road. “Infrastructure!” he said. “You can tell a lot about a place by its roads.” I looked out the window and asked what he meant. Ireland, Pat said, had been united until 1921. The southern counties became the mostly Catholic Republic of Ireland, while six counties in the north remained part of the UK as Northern Ireland. The south struggled for years, while the north did much better, supported by the UK.
Today, it’s the opposite, Pat said. The south is thriving, especially now as part of the EU, while Northern Ireland is facing a difficult time that began in the late 1960s with “The Troubles.” I heard about violence, economic problems, and public resources stretched thin. “You’ll see it in the roads when we cross the border,” he said. And I did. We went from broad, fast motorways to narrower, winding roads. What’s more, for the first time in history, Northern Ireland has more Catholics than Protestants.
We were almost in Belfast when Pat told me about the “peace walls.” Monsters of concrete, filled with graffiti, and topped off with razor wire separating the Catholic neighborhoods from the Protestant ones. PTSD, depression, and suicide occur inside those homes at rates higher than anywhere else in the UK. “The trauma’s just passed from one generation to another,” Pat shared. “All those walls do is keep the hurt and anger festering.” And segregation doesn’t end with the homes. Almost three decades since the Troubles’ official end date, the Catholics and Protestants of Northern Ireland have also separated their schools and sports clubs. “Yet,” Pat said, “life goes on.”
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror and gave a shrug. “We’re all friends now.” I could hear the irony in his voice. Then he added, “Funny how time changes dynamics. It doesn’t necessarily heal wounds.” His words were unsettling. I thought I was traveling to a peaceful place, but listening to Pat, it seemed as if the Troubles hadn’t ended. I must see the peace walls—I must walk the streets of Belfast and witness them myself.
Pat dropped me off as close to the hotel entrance as he could get—the rain was coming down hard. I checked in and waited for Lachlan and Isabele. They had arrived by ferry last night, after spending time with their daughter, Marnie, an educator in York. A former member of the military, Lachlan had developed a detailed concept of operations—”CONOPS”—plan for us. This morning, the top priority for them was securing our rental car. This car is going to be the one constant in the weeks to come.
I sat in the lounge, waiting quietly, when suddenly the Murrays appeared, turning the corner from reception. The smiles on their faces warmed my heart. I jumped up and hugged them.
Lachlan wore his signature straw bowler hat. Isabele’s long hair was tied up in a bun—no doubt because of the rain and humidity. She has a lot of hair. Lachlan? None on his head—but on the Queen Anne, he alternated between a clean-shaven face and a long, scraggly beard. I hope he stays clean shaven; the beard draws attention. We need to do our best to fit in.
After a delicious curry lunch at a restaurant nearby, we explored our neighborhood to get our bearings. We saw beautiful murals and lots of very lively pubs, but no peace walls.
It’s late and I’m exhausted. I feel silly for worrying about meeting up with the Murrays again. I let doubts creep in, afraid things might feel awkward off the ship. But none of that matters. We’re going to be together every day, sharing meals, traveling side by side. We’re all in. No turning back.
Hopefully tomorrow we’ll see what “We’re all friends now” really means.
Dilly & Dolly’s
August 2, 2025
Belfast, Northern Ireland
At breakfast, Isabele read from her phone the do’s and don’ts of touring West Belfast: “Stay on the main roads during the day. Don’t wander too far off Falls Road. Avoid Shankill Road, especially at night. Some parks and side streets aren’t well lit after dark. Some places are fine in daylight but not at night.” The boundaries, we were told, aren’t always obvious if you’re not from here.
We set out on foot. Lachlan prefers walking—it’s great exercise, but also a habit shaped by his years in the Australian Army. For us, distance will be measured in steps: Anything five miles or less, we’ll walk.
As we moved through the city, past murals and memorials, I was struck by the feeling that these things we were witnessing, though created many years ago, didn’t feel like history. They were as fresh today as they were when they were created. At one stop, we stood in front of a poem set into a peace wall and protected behind wire mesh. The Murrays and I marveled at the irony: a peace wall statement that needed to be protected. Above us, fencing rose high, part of a network of barriers cutting through the neighborhoods. These peace walls didn’t feel peaceful at all. They felt foreboding.
I took a photo of the poem. This is the last stanza:
But Belfast streets refuse to give its secrets of the past.
With the unrelenting notion that the die’s already cast.
My truth is mine and yours is yours, no need for compromise.
When a monopoly of victims can hide a thousand lies.
When pain and years of suffering is just reserved for some.
The ones we leave behind us will not escape the gun.
The hopelessness was heartbreaking for us. I can only imagine how the people living here must feel. The depths of their sorrow could explain the high rate of alcohol consumption and alcohol specific death.
By mid-afternoon, we needed a break. We had been walking for hours, and with every wall and mural, life felt heavier. We were told there had been only a few walls when they were built decades ago. Now? There were more than one hundred stretching for miles throughout the city. Clearly these weren’t peace walls. There was peace on paper that had magnified today into generational trauma fueled by isolation and hatred of people of different neighborhoods and different faiths.
We passed through something that felt like a secret passageway—an exit from the sadness into a world alive with color and . . . treats! “Dilly & Dolly’s” in huge letters, with even larger garlands of flowers shaped like hearts lining the storefront of this little sidewalk café. Isabele and I both pointed. Lachlan, also in need of some nourishment at this point, nodded in approval and stopped to take my photo at the door. He knew that hearts were special to John and me: we had collected them and gifted them to each other over our decades together. Hearts of all shapes, sizes, and materials were one of the many ways we showed our love. Near emotional collapse from the miles we had walked and all we had seen and experienced, I felt John was looking out for us.
Isabele, Lachlan, and I passed beneath pink-and-white striped umbrellas and through a door with a sign above: “COFFEE BRUNCH DINNER TREATS.” Yes to all these, please, is what I thought. And we went in.
Everything was red, white, and pink—heart-patterned wallpaper, cozy tables, a room that felt like a valentine. We ordered coffee, sandwiches, and pastries. For the first time that day, things felt brighter. And when my coffee arrived, there was a heart drawn into the foam. The Murrays didn’t have one, but I did. I just started crying, missing John.
Our server, Caitlin, saw this and came over to ask if I was okay. She was in her late twenties, with sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes and a lovely smile—and, just like the place where she worked, clearly a kind heart.
I told Caitlin about John’s passing—how much I miss him, and how this trip was not a vacation. The three of us were traveling to bring life skills education to school leaders across the UK and Ireland. I gave her my card: Life Skills Ambassador. She asked about Overcoming Obstacles and our curriculum, and I told her how we provide educators with the materials to teach their students communication, decision making, and goal setting. Thinking about our day—what we had seen, where we had been—I added two more skills to my list: empathy and conflict resolution.
She listened. Then said something I always hope to hear but never expect: “Life skills education would make a huge difference for the children here in Belfast.” Then, lowering her voice, she added, “You need to go to East Belfast. That’s where I live. It’s different.”
East Belfast was already on our plan for tomorrow, but Lachlan pressed her for specific neighborhoods and street names, writing everything down carefully. When we finished our meal, it was clear that something had shifted. We had arrived festive; we were leaving serious.
Lachlan reviewed his notes, going back over the streets she had named. The Murrays spoke quietly between themselves. I kept thinking about what Caitlin had said—about life skills education, and about the children of Belfast.
As we headed out the door, away from the oasis of hearts on walls and back onto streets where sorrow hid behind smiles, I thought of the word peace differently than I ever had before. Teaching Northern Ireland’s children communication, decision making, goal setting, empathy, and conflict resolution might be the surest path to bringing down those walls. Wrecking balls and bulldozers couldn’t do a better job.