Somewhere Between Grief and a Guinness

This week brought me to Dublin, Ireland for work, and I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly makes this place feel so different. It’s not loud about itself. It doesn’t feel like it’s trying to impress you. There’s just a quiet simplicity.. The streets feel lived in, the people feel present, and even something as simple as a pint of Guinness somehow tastes better here. Maybe it’s proximity to where it’s made, or maybe it’s just the pace, but everything feels a little more grounded. It’s the kind of place that made me wonder if we’ve all been sprinting through life when we didn’t actually need to be.

Travel tends to create space for me, and when there’s space, reflection usually shows up right behind it. This week is always a tough one for me because it marks the anniversary of losing someone in my life to suicide. It’s one of those things that never fully leaves you. It just shifts depending on the year, the moment, the environment you’re in.

This year, it feels closer.

Maybe it’s because I’m here, in a new place, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude while also carrying something that still hurts. That contrast has a way of cracking things open. I’ve been more emotional than usual this week, and instead of trying to push past it, I’ve just let it happen. The quiet moments hit a little harder. Walking alone. Sitting with my thoughts. Letting my mind drift just enough to feel it again.

And honestly, I love a good cry. Not in a dramatic way, just in that human, grounding reminder that something mattered, that someone mattered, and that it still lives somewhere inside you.

Maybe that’s why I found myself completely locked into the Boston Marathon this week. There’s something about watching people push themselves to the edge of what they’re capable of that just gets me every time. I become an instant puddle. It’s not just impressive, it’s emotional. At some point in that race, every runner hits a wall, and what happens next is less about ability and more about decision.

And they keep going.

I always find myself rooting for strangers during these races. Loudly. Enthusiastically. Probably a little too invested for someone I have absolutely no connection to, but somehow deeply care about their outcome. It feels important. Like we don’t root for strangers enough, and maybe part of being a good human is just reminding someone, even silently, but hopefully not silently, to keep going.

Watching those finishers this week, already feeling a little more open than usual, I couldn’t shake the thought that we’re all just running down a dream. There’s no perfectly marked course, no guaranteed finish line, just miles, breath, and the hope that we have enough in us to make it to the next one. Right now, this phase of life feels a lot more like pacing than sprinting, taking in what’s around me, staying steady, and hoping that somewhere along the way, someone I don’t even know is quietly rooting for me too.

I learned a new word this week, which, I’ll admit, feels slightly embarrassing to say out loud. The word is sonder, and it means the realization that every random person you pass is living a life as vivid and complex as your own, complete with their own routines, worries, and inner worlds, in which you’re just a background character.

What the fuck? How did I not know this word?

But also, how is there a word that perfectly captures everything I’ve been feeling this week?

Because standing in a new city, carrying something heavy, watching strangers push themselves to their limits, and quietly rooting for people I’ll never meet, it all started to click. Everyone is in something. Everyone is pacing something you can’t see. The person next to you at the bar, the runner crossing mile twenty, the stranger passing you on the street. They’re all in the middle of their own version of this.

So here I am, every Friday, sitting down and trying to make sense of whatever the week decided to throw my way. The travel, the gratitude, the grief, the random emotional spiral triggered by endurance sports. It doesn’t always tie up neatly, and maybe it’s not supposed to.

Maybe this is it.

Not some polished, perfectly understood version of life, but this middle space where you’re just moving through it. Feeling more than you expected, carrying what you carry, and hoping you’ve got enough in you to make it to the next mile. Hoping, too, that somewhere along the way, there are people you may never see who are clapping, cheering, or ringing a cowbell in your direction.

Here’s your challenge this week. In the spirit of sonder, forward this to three friends (or frienemies) or family members. Not because you have to, but as a quiet reminder that everyone is carrying something you can’t see. Everyone is mid-race, managing their own miles, and trying to make it to whatever comes next.

And if you can, be the person on the sidelines. The one rooting for someone else, even if they have no idea you’re doing it. Because it matters more than we think, and one day, whether you realize it or not, someone will be doing the exact same for you.

And before I sign off, I’m fully aware this is week two of me talking about sports. Honestly, still a better option than politics. We’ll mix it up next week… probably.

Same place, same time next week - 

Chris

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