It is two years since my sister, Jackie, took her last breath.
I still catch myself wanting to reach for my phone and call her.
I still find myself wishing I could tell her about the latest little quirk of life that made me laugh, or to simply hear her voice telling me to slow down. Life isn’t a race.
Yet, though I can’t, I know, the love that she shared so freely, is still flowing all around and in me.
I am so blessed.
The Love That Never Dies by Louise Gallagher
When does grief die, and quietly slip into missing the presence that vanished in one last breath?
When does each breath you take stop holding the sharp tang of a loss you cannot replace?
When does the pain of reaching out to a number, disconnected begin to ease into remembering the voice you can never hear again?
Perhaps, remembering is their love walking hand in hand, carrying you through the grief to the Love that never dies.
In 2017, a wave of discord and division following the U.S. election sparked a profound necessity for protest within me.
This resulted in my creating a series of 82 feminist-based protest paintings. It is my visual rebellion against what I felt was happening globally.
The message is clear: They said it couldn’t be done, She proved them wrong.
As women, we must keep our voices strong, stand united, and support one another in retaining the hard-won victories across the broad spectrum of issues that have historically left us feeling undervalued, diminished, or like second-class citizens or possessions. And, a reminder that we must continue to fight for the rights of women the world over to have agency over their own bodies, minds and lives.
This series, The She Dares Rebellion Paintings, is my challenge, my defiance, and a rallying cry to dare boldly in the face of regression. It is a testament to the powerful, rebellious agency of women—then, now, and always.
Over the next months, I shall be sharing paintings from the series as my call for solidarity and courage in the face of oppression. I hope you join in.
A photo of two friends, a husband and wife, hugging, waist-deep in the Mediterranean sea, flits across my social media page.
My mind immediately trips me up, spitting me out of contentment with the speed of a child emptying a bowl of mushed peas onto the floor. “C.C. and you will never do that again,” the harsh, woebegone critic hisses. I remind him he’s not welcome here, but the critic pays no heed. His niggling at my peace is relentless.
C.C. is my husband. His health has been severely compromised by COPD and a year of on-again, off-again pneumonia. With each passing day, the list of ‘Things we’ll never do together again’ grows.
This struggle, watching his health decline while my attitude eroded, is why Dear Me, I Love You, was born. I saw a harshness creeping into my voice and a lack of care: who cares if the soup is slopping onto the tray? He should be thankful I serve him at all! That negativity required a fast attitude adjustment.
Whether life is getting me down or lifting me up, writing these poems grounds me in the moment. Like the automatic joy of children’s laughter, writing urges me to stop peering into the darkness and look up. I’m learning that the true challenge isn’t a lack of Love — Love flows, always, everywhere. The challenge is my attitude.
Life Now, Life Imaginedby Louise Gallagher
I struggle some days
to balance
life now
with life imagined.
How two words
juxtaposed
jammed together
have the power
to redefine me.
I struggle to contain
the roles I inhabit
Lover,
friend,
partner,
co-conspirator
and in all of it, that word.
Caregiver.
The heavier the struggle
the greater the need
to retreat
and find solace
in the one place
that soothes
my confusion
my fear
my anger.
Love.
No matter how
battered and torn
my heart
is all I have
to lean into.
A decade ago, I spent a year writing a daily love poem to my husband. That practice taught me the immense, sustaining power of love, even in the darkest times. Now, it’s time to turn that unwavering devotion inward.
At the beginning of September, recognizing that I was feeling stressed and overwhelmed , mostly as the role of care-giver continues to challenge my self-perceptions and my courage to be present within all that is present, I decided to write a love poem.
That one poem inspired this series, Dear Me, I Love You. The commitment is to write a love poem to myself every single day for one year. This compilation represents the first month of that journey, a deep dive into the sometimes difficult, always necessary work of radical self-acceptance.
The creation of these poems became its own lesson in vulnerability and trust. The daily ritual demands a choice: to choose surrender over certainty, acceptance over criticism, and grace over judgment. Within these pages, you will witness a transformation—a journey from seeking external validation to standing firm in the truth that your worth is non-negotiable. It is a chronicle of learning that the love you seek is the love you are already made of, revealed one heartfelt poem at a time.
I invite you to follow along on my Substack– each poem has an intro that explores the inspiration for the poem as well as the philosophical elements underpinning it.
I watch a windsurfer skimming the water, waves slipping underneath the board, body taut, legs primed, arms grasping the bar. A picture of tenacity, grit, and commitment. Commitment to every wave. To every nuance of the water, riding each roll of the surf like a bronco buster on a bull. Anticipating. Adjusting. Moving with each unpredictable buffet of the wind and eruption of the sea.
Like life, we travel through each day, holding on to what’s dear to us, to what’s important. Anticipating. Adjusting. Moving. Sometimes, we miss a step and fall. We have one or two choices: get back up and carry on, or stay down and let the waves carry us further out into the chaos of not taking charge of our own journey.
Sometimes we simply need the right tool. Or the inner wisdom to know we are strong enough to carry on, even when we feel we have no energy left.
Just as the windsurfer learns from every dip and dive, we too can grow stronger through life’s inevitable challenges. It’s in those moments of choosing to rise that our true power is revealed, often found by tapping into our inner wisdom or discovering the right support. What if we all embraced that spirit, understanding that sometimes the most profound growth happens right after a fall?
What helps you get back up when life knocks you down? Is it a particular tool, a mindset shift, or relying on your inner strength? Share your strategies and support others in our community who might be feeling adrift. Join the conversation below!
Fear lives in my belly. It’s that grumbly, rumbly, churning feeling of disquiet that eats away at my peace of mind when I give into it.
Love lives in my entire being. It’s that warm, soothing, tranquil feeling of quiet joy bubbling up to embrace my peace of mind when I give into it.
Which one will I choose? It’s up to me. Just as I can’t ‘try’ to be fearless, I can’t try to ‘be fearful.’ I am or I’m not.
Yoda said it best: “Do or do not. There is no try.”
Which will you choose today? To take the path to the dark side, or to keep walking the path into the light? Will you allow your fearful thoughts to drag you down, or will you allow loving kindness to lift you up and draw you out of the darkness and hold you in the light? It is your choice.
Some time ago, during a presentation, I experienced a moment where fear washed over me with such velocity I was left speechless. I’d made a mistake in how I presented something to a group of about 100 people, and when my co-presenter offered some feedback, my critter mind went into hyper-active defensive mode. I heard their words as a scathing critique, condemning me as stupid and unprofessional.
Here’s the thing: that is not what my co-presenter said. All they really did was provide constructive feedback on how to do it better next time. In my fear of making mistakes, of looking foolish in front of the group, of being shamed for not doing it right, my fear twisted their feedback completely out of context. In that moment, my fear rose up and heard condemnation. It drove me away from courage and truth into the darkness of self-criticism.
I’d like to tell you I recovered right there on the spot. Truth is, as soon as I could, I ‘gracefully’ (ok. I rushed out of the room without making eye contact with anyone) left the room, desperately trying not to draw attention to myself and went to the washroom. In a stall, alone and crying, I had a little pity party and then pulled myself together. When the session resumed, I stood in front of the group and continued.
The Breakthrough Moment: Fear as a Catalyst for Clarity
Yet, here’s the thing about those moments. This particular one was a breakthrough. The initial wave of fear, the self-condemnation that followed my co-presenter’s kind words, felt utterly disorienting. But that very intensity, that visceral jolt of discomfort, became the catalyst I didn’t know I needed. It forced me to ask: Why did I react this way? What was truly going on inside me? All night long, I worried over and thought through the events of that evening, trying to discern why my reaction to such a simple moment had been so visceral, so immediate, so intense. The discomfort of that fear was no longer paralyzing; it was probing. It pushed me to look beyond the surface interaction and into the depths of my own internal landscape.
The next morning, I awoke, tired yet incredibly clear on what that moment of feeling shame at the front of the room represented. And in my enlightenment, the sun broke through the darkness and light illuminated my path in all its brilliant clarity. The fear, in its uncomfortable intensity, had served its purpose: it had shone a spotlight on a hidden truth.
Since I was a small child, I had held a belief within me that was not true. I didn’t even know the belief was there until such an insignificant moment erupted into a deep dive into truth. The ‘belief that is a lie’ rose to the top and screamed in my face, and, I swear, felt like it was ripping my heart out. This painful confrontation, however, was precisely what was needed. The fear had not been the enemy; it had been the messenger, pointing me toward a limiting pattern I needed and was ready to shed.
The specific details of the ‘belief that is a lie’ are not what matters most today. What matters is, I stepped into it and today, I am celebrating. I am dancing. I am shouting for joy. Throughout my life, this ‘belief that is a lie’ had caused me a lot of pain, confusion, and harm. On some deep subconscious level, I had always been aware of its presence, lurking in the darkness, disturbing my status quo and jeopardizing my capacity to feel and know pure joy.
Now that I see it. Now that I know it. Now that I can face it, I can deal with it. I am grateful. The very fear that initially threatened to derail me ultimately became the powerful force that propelled me towards greater self-awareness and healing.
I cannot heal or change what I do not acknowledge. I acknowledge that the ‘belief that is a lie’ does not serve me well. It does not bring me the ‘more’ of what I want in my life.
Today, I choose to step boldly, confidently, and joyfully onto the path of light, love, and well-being, understanding that sometimes, the greatest growth begins with the uncomfortable truth that fear reveals.
Which path do you choose today?
As a Thank You for being here, I have created a mini-guide on transforming fear into a motivating force for good.
Just click below to download your complementary copy of ‘When Fear Becomes Your Guide’
I am back home. My suitcase arrived today having decided to stay in Paris a couple of extra days. It was obviously having even more fun than me!
The challenge is, Customs obviously opened it, and, because my daughter had stuffed a few extra things in it and laid on top of it to close it, Customs simply put it in a big plastic bag. Three plastic bags actually, one on top of the other to keep everything together. I’m grateful for their consideration!
It’s nice to have it home. Though now I really do have to unpack and do the laundry!
From almost forgetting my purse when I left (I’d left it at home and didn’t realize it until after my husband dropped me off at the ferry and I was waiting to board. Fortunately, I’d called him right away and he brought it to me before the next ferry left! Losing my bag at the end is just a small end note to an amazing trip. A friend asked me yesterday what was the highlight. I didn’t have to think about it – the time with my daughter. Pure delight. The sights and sounds and experiences were amazing. But… laughing and chatting, sharing meals and talking for hours — so much grace and gratitude.
This morning, Beaumont and I walked along the shoreline, the wind whispered its secrets of far away places into the branches of the trees stretched out above us. The waves lapped along the rocks beguiling them with tales are the depths below and seagulls cawed and cussed as they dive bombed waves lapping against the shore.
And the muse stirred… and I listened.
Dancing with Shadows by Louise Gallagher
The shadow stretches body thrown across freshly mown lawn, shorn short, prickling its dark expanse searching for separation yearning for freedom beyond the tree trunk standing firm holding it close to its roots until night stealthily descends steeling away the day separating light and shadow slipping silently into oblivion.
I never traveled alone with my mother. I couldn’t have imagined it. A river of judgment, fed by my belief that her world was too distant to ever bridge, flowed through my mind, a current too strong to let her cross the Rubicon guarding my heart, fearing it would tear my world apart.
Lunch under a flowering tree
Yet here I am, years later, savouring Paris, Malta, and Portugal with my youngest daughter—the sights, the people, the special moments, the delicious food and wine. An amazing time.
Perhaps my mother saw the world through a veil of omnipresent dangers. Or maybe, sensing my perceived recklessness, she feared my stumbles and falls, feeling helpless to stop them. It could also be that, feeling my aversion to her way of being in the world, she kept her distance, believing it the only way to shield her own vulnerable heart.
Like my mother, I built walls to separate us. Over the years, they grew as formidable as the old gates of Valetta, designed to withstand any onslaught, to shelter those behind them. Fortified, proud, defiant of invaders, they stood the test of dangerous arms and passing time.
Where the old gates stood
In the old city of Valetta, the Knights of St. John erected a monumental gate to deny Suleiman’s Ottoman Empire access to their fortress. In the 15th century, that gate, its wide ditch, and high walls were vital to the city’s defense. Today, the walls stand as a testament to the past, but the gates are gone. Only two tall, slender metal poles, their parallel arms echoing archery bows, mark the beautiful sandstone entrance to the walled city.
I never dismantled my walls with my mother. But somewhere in my fifties, I did learn to stop shooting words meant to pierce her heart like an arrow.
Inside the walled city of Valetta
Time changes everything—the past, the future, even people. Traveling with my daughter, there are no arrow-sharp words, no need to close the gate to my heart.
Valetta
It is a beautiful thing. A gift, this time on foreign soil with the woman I once held in my arms, dreading the day I’d release her into the world for fear she would fall. Over the years, she and her sister taught me to keep my heart undefended. That I have nothing to fear when I keep it open to the love that holds us, secure and safe, in our family circle—a circle connecting us through the ages to my mother, her mother, and all the mothers before her, and all the mothers to come, whose arms circle the ones they love to keep them safe from harm
Do you sometimes resist the muse’s urgings to create, telling yourself, later, next time, I don’t feel like it?
I do. Sometimes. Sometimes more often than not.
Sometimes, morning calls me to dive into the deep well of poetry flowing within like an endless silent river. Sometimes, still sleeping, I resist. And then there are those days when, the muse’s irresistible urgings to awaken, open my heart to the words not yet written. On those days, I follow, blind faith my only guide to unleash the poetry pouring up from deep within me, calling out for freedom. It is in that surrender that I discover the paradoxical beauty of the present: lost in the flow, yet ultimately found within its graceful unfolding.
In The Moment by Louise Gallagher
I awaken dawn breaks open the rest of my life whispering deep the muted backdrop of tomorrows hide beyond the horizon invisible they drift holding still passing days shrouded by the unknown moments ahead.
In this present moment-by-moment spent breathing loosening yesterday's hold clinging like a barnacle to a whale dreading their release into life's swirling currents I find myself lost and found.
Awake asleep time slips by indifferent to my eyes open shut eyes that see the past more clearly than the blur of all my unlived days clamouring to hold me present in this moment of awakening.
Dare Boldly 