williamhyland

Over the years, one of the most frustrating realities has been how much control the club exerted over Josephine, even in situations that should have been simple and personal. At events she attended, Josephine wasn’t allowed to leave alone. This meant that I, as part of her support and family network, effectively became responsible for her entire experience on-site. I wasn’t just accompanying her — I had to: Snap photos of the events she took part in, because sharing or posting on social media wasn’t allowed or appropriate Print selected photos for Josephine’s personal album Backup SD cards to my PC and USB hard drives to preserve everything All of this had to be done offline, because the club’s rules made it impossible to use social media for sharing or coordination. In short, the club’s restrictions forced me into extra work and full responsibility for something that should have been simple and supported by Josephine herself. I wasn’t looking for extra tasks — I was filling a gap the ...

Since 2001, Ireland has been wall-to-wall with breaking news and big promises. Booms, busts, tribunals, crashes, recoveries, housing crises, health crises, cost-of-living crises — each one presented as if it arrived out of nowhere. But when the headlines fade, very little changes for the people at the bottom. I’ve seen it up close — not from studios or press conferences, but from kitchens, spare rooms, hospital corridors, community halls and train platforms. From friends stepping in when the State didn’t. From families absorbing the pressure while being told things were “improving.” Our story didn’t begin with politics. It began with loss, displacement, and people quietly helping each other survive when systems failed. Over time, I watched the same pattern repeat itself across institutions, clubs, charities and governments: speak the language of compassion, count the money carefully, and leave the hardest consequences to individuals. Every government since 2001 promised fairness — even...

Part 1:  The House That Welcomed There was a time when our door was always open. People came for a mug of tea, a sandwich, sometimes a full dinner. Not because we had plenty — but because that’s what you did when people were struggling. You shared what you had. Fast forward to now, and I’m here alone. Many of those same people are either gone, or their lives are fully wrapped up in the club in Wicklow. Visits replaced by schedules. Friendship replaced by structures. Human connection replaced by “activities.” No one ever says you’re no longer needed. You just stop being visited. This is what doesn’t get talked about enough: how organisations can quietly pull people away from informal support, from real community, from the places and people who were there before the club. Progress shouldn’t mean isolation. Support shouldn’t come at the cost of cutting people off. Food, warmth, time, care — those things mattered once. They still should. Part 2:  Our Story Back in 2005–2006, after...

Who Is Really Paying for the All‑Ireland Games? Every time the All‑Ireland Games come around, the headlines are familiar. Pride. Celebration. Community. Medals. Photos. Smiles. Speeches about inclusion and opportunity. But behind the banners and the applause, there’s a quieter question that rarely gets asked out loud: Who is really paying for them? Our Story, Lived Between the Lines In our story, nothing was ever simple or well‑funded. Support came from kitchens, not committees. From shared meals, not glossy brochures. From people opening their homes when systems failed or moved too slowly. Long before games, uniforms, or transport plans, there were years of getting by. Years of choosing between essentials. Years where dignity depended on who showed up, not who issued a press release. That reality never disappeared. It just became less visible once medals entered the picture. The Hidden Cost of “Participation” On paper, the Games are about opportunity. In practice, they often come with...

Our story doesn’t begin with a headline or a campaign. It begins back in 2003, shaped by friendship, loss, and the quiet responsibility people take on when others are struggling. After the Bray fire, the damage didn’t end when the flames were extinguished. Trauma has a habit of settling in silently. Nightmares became part of everyday life. A family GP intervened, and sleeping medication — intended as a short-term support — stretched on for years, right up to around 2016. As time passed, other signs emerged. Weight dropped. Periods stopped. Blood tests were ordered. Hospital outpatient follow-ups became routine. None of this happened suddenly or dramatically. It was slow, cumulative, and largely invisible to those on the outside. At the same time, the club environment leaned further into a keep-fit and transformation mindset — echoing what was popular in wider society and on television. Targets. Routines. Discipline. Appearances. Movement was encouraged and praised, but nutrition, recov...

We’ve talked a lot in 2025 — about oversight, about systems that look fine on paper but fail people in real life, about how inequality doesn’t start in Leinster House and doesn’t end there either. It shows up at kitchen tables, bus stops, club nights, and in the quiet decisions people make just to cope. Back in 2010, during the last All-Ireland Games Josephine attended, I saw first-hand how fragile the reality was beneath the smiles. This was the era of austerity, and yes, people were struggling everywhere — but within the club environment, that struggle became invisible. Fees had to be paid. Travel had to be covered. Participation had a cost. And people coped quietly. Loans were taken out. Meals were skipped. Support came not from structures or oversight, but from individuals stepping in behind the scenes. That wasn’t resilience. That was survival. Fast-forward to 2025, and we’re still having the same conversations — about clubs with unclear governance, blurred personal and official r...