Home Away from Home: Sending Our Daughter Back to Ireland

On Friday, we stood in the swirl of airport goodbyes—suitcases stacked, voices hushed, hearts caught somewhere between pride and ache. Our daughter was heading back to Ireland, just a few weeks before her wedding, ready to finish building a life—and a home—half a world away.

It’s a strange kind of joy, watching your child set out to make a new place her own. Ireland wasn’t always a part of our story. I didn’t grow up with Irish roots or family legends about green hills and cozy pubs. But somewhere along the way—through her courage, her adventures, and our visits to see her—Ireland began to feel like home. And for one of us, it now is.

There’s a bittersweet magic in letting go: the sense that you’re losing something, while at the same time gaining a new branch on the family tree. Friday, as we hugged goodbye and watched her disappear beyond security, I realized that belonging isn’t always about where you start. Sometimes, it’s about where you’re brave enough to go—and who you become along the way.

There’s something about watching your child walk away at the airport that makes the world feel both impossibly large and incredibly close. We hugged, we laughed, we reiterated we'd see her at the wedding—familiar rituals, but this time they carried more weight. This wasn’t just another round of volunteering, or a quick trip to see her fiancé. This was her choosing Ireland, not just as a destination, but as the place she’ll call home.

I never expected Ireland to become part of our family’s story in the way it has. Yet, somewhere during her first solo journey and the countless video calls that followed, it did. On our visits, we learned how quickly a foreign place can feel familiar: the cadence of the language, the warmth of a pub, the way a perfect pint settles in the glass and in your heart. Each trip, we returned a little more changed—carrying bits of Ireland back with us, noticing the echoes of its spirit in unexpected places.

Back home, we found ourselves drawn to Boland’s—a small Irish bar that somehow felt like an extension of those visits. Maybe it was the music, maybe the accents, maybe just the way people lingered over their drinks, unhurried and present. Sitting there, pint in hand, I realized that “home” isn’t always a fixed point on a map. Sometimes it’s a feeling—a sense of belonging that follows you, or finds you, wherever you are.

Friday's goodbye wasn’t easy. But it was softened by the knowledge that our daughter isn’t just leaving—she’s building. She’s carrying our family’s story into new places, creating her own rituals, and inviting us to see the world through her eyes. And every time we raise a glass, whether in Ireland or Worcester, we’re reminded that home can be both where you start and where you’re brave enough to go.

There’s a moment after every goodbye when the world feels quieter. Friday, standing by the airport windows, I caught my own reflection in the glass—tired eyes, a hint of a smile, the weight of pride and longing mixed together. Our daughter was already past security, off to Ireland to finish building her new life, and I was left holding the memory of our last hug, the echo of her laughter still hanging in the air.

It struck me then how much our sense of “home” has changed. Not so long ago, Ireland was just a place on a map, a curiosity. Now, it’s woven into our family’s story—through her courage, through our visits, through the rituals we’ve adopted along the way. I think about the first time we landed in Ireland, unsure and a little overwhelmed, and how quickly those unfamiliar streets and pub corners became places of comfort. How the ritual of sharing a pint, listening to music, and lingering in conversation started to feel like home, no matter how far we were from where we began.

That’s the magic, isn’t it? Home isn’t just an address or a set of coordinates. It’s a collection of moments—airport goodbyes, late-night calls, quiet (and sometimes loud) pints at Boland’s when Worcester feels a little closer to Dublin. It’s the rituals we create to hold onto each other, even as we let go.

As we count down to the book launch, I’m realizing that Pints and Power is really about this journey: the search for belonging, the courage to start again, and the unexpected places we find ourselves reflected back. Whether you’re raising a glass in Ireland, Worcester, or anywhere in between, the feeling is the same—a pause, a memory, a reason to gather and remember what matters most.

Maybe that’s what I’ll remember most from Friday—not just the ache of letting go, but the gratitude for what we’ve found along the way. Our family’s story is bigger now, stretched across two countries and held together by the rituals we share: airport hugs, late-night calls, and the simple act of raising a pint to someone you love, even when they’re far away.

In the pages of Pints and Power, and in every pint poured here or back in Ireland, I see proof that home isn’t a single place. It’s the mosaic of memories, the people who welcome you in, and the courage to keep building new chapters—no matter where life leads.

If you’ve ever felt your heart tugged between two places, or found comfort in a ritual that reminds you of someone far away, I’d love to hear your story. Where is your “home away from home”? What small traditions or moments help you feel connected, even across distance?

As we get ready to launch Pints and Power this Tuesday at Boland’s, I hope you’ll join us in celebrating not just a book, but the journeys that shape us—the goodbyes, the welcomes, and the pints that remind us we belong, wherever we find ourselves.

Share your own “home away from home” in the comments, or come raise a glass with us in person. Here’s to the places and people that make us feel at home—no matter how far we travel.

Sláinte.

—Mike