A Christmas panto tradition, the hum of RTÉ corridors, and the soft thud of a monitor on a kitchen table—Crona Byrne’s life moves between stage lights and the toughest kind of caregiving. We open with the joy she inherited from Gay and Kathleen Byrne: toy show auditions buzzing with dance teachers and brave kids, Maureen Potter memories, and the gentle Irish habit of saying hello and moving on. Then the lens widens to honour Kathleen’s own career—Arts Council work, poetry, and a harp carried into hospitals and charity halls.

The centre of gravity shifts as Crona shares her family story with startling candour: miscarriage, emergency C-sections, and the nightly drill of infant apnea. That practice in crisis becomes the backbone for what follows—Philip’s early-onset frontal lobe dementia at 57. She maps the subtle signs, the tests that didn’t add up, the diagnosis that did, and the relentless pace since. There’s the sting of friends who vanished, the relief of the few who stayed, and the practical lifelines the Alzheimer Society offers when the HSE doors finally open. The advice is grounded and real: keep knocking, ask for day units and activity sessions, take the walk when the carer arrives, and don’t try to carry it alone.

We also roam the Irish arts that shaped her: Audrey Hepburn’s grace without entourage, Pierce Brosnan greeting crew by name, and the complicated handovers at the Late Late when one era gives way to another. There’s U2 gifting a Harley that gave Gay new freedom, Riverdance runs where Crona worked backstage, and a childhood moment feeding what she thought was a cat—until the bottle met a tiger cub. The thread through all of it is simple and strong: art as community, kindness as practice, and love as work worth doing.

If this story moved you, share it with a friend, leave a review, and subscribe. Your support helps more carers find resources and more listeners find the courage to ask for help. What part stayed with you most?

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What does it take to rebuild when justice never arrives? Theresa Robinson brings us into her Dublin childhood, the secret she carried for years, and the day seizures exposed everything. From a hospital letter to a stonewalled case, from antidepressants to anger she couldn’t name, she learned to place blame where it belonged—and to see her younger self as a child worthy of safety and love.

We trace the way small acts become lifelines. Walking a newborn through quiet COVID streets turned into laps at the park, then early-morning training, a mini marathon for One in Four, and finally the full Dublin Marathon. Theresa explains how movement gave her mind a room with windows, why consistency beats confidence, and how a friend reframed body image so she could stand taller without shrinking her story. As a mum, she speaks frankly with her daughter about consent, boundaries, and language—tools she wishes she’d had sooner.

The conversation deepens with grief. Theresa’s dad, a gent and a grafter, died after a final call from ICU and a room filled with the music he loved. She didn’t watch the last breath because she didn’t need to—there were no debts left unpaid. Her mum is finding new rhythms now: women’s groups, local centres, small steps that keep the day moving. Through it all, Theresa builds a community that prizes honest effort over perfect outcomes, helping people who’ve lived through trauma, epilepsy, or low mood find practical ways to feel capable again.

If you’re looking for a story that blends survival with hope, mental health with real tools, and fitness with heart, you’ll feel at home here. Listen, share it with someone who needs a nudge to start, and if it resonated, subscribe and leave a review so more people can find these conversations. What small step could you take today?

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A surgeon once told Rhona her baby wouldn’t be into sports. Years later, he stood on the Great Wall of China. That grit runs through everything here: sudden loss at 11, a stepdad who restored joy, early relationships tangled in jealousy and love-bombing, and the shock of an unplanned pregnancy where the father walked away. What could have hardened into bitterness became fuel for advocacy, self-respect, and a home that learns out loud.

We walk through clubfoot treatments, autism assessments, and a nine-week scan that flagged tetralogy of Fallot and possible Down syndrome. There’s a haunting non-surgery, then a successful one, and a family rhythm built on feathers, faith, and stubborn hope. A nurse’s quiet question—have you tried CBD?—opens a door Rhona didn’t expect. She researches the endocannabinoid system, Irish legality, and full spectrum hemp. Then she films everything. Within weeks, her son makes eye contact, eats new foods, and reaches for his sister’s hand. She’s clear: CBD isn’t a cure for autism; it’s a regulator that eases anxiety and sensory load so families can breathe.

The story widens: leaving a narcissist without losing herself, dropping 12 stone with a gastric bypass and discovering confidence lives elsewhere, and building daily practices—affirmations with her daughter, music over the news, the grey rock method—to protect her peace. With a partner who values her work, she turns hard-won knowledge into an Irish CBD brand grown in Wicklow, lab-tested and parent-focused, including water-soluble options for sensory needs.

What stays with you is the tone: practical, warm, and fiercely honest. We talk boundaries, stigma, dosing, and the difference between cannabis and hemp. We celebrate autistic thinking and reject cure narratives. Most of all, we trace a map from chaos to calm that any parent can adapt: advocate early, refuse limits, and choose small daily habits that lift your baseline. If this resonates, follow the show, share it with a friend who needs hope, and leave a review to help others find these conversations.

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