One Month: How I Got Here

Today marks one month since I stepped off a plane into a country where I'd never been before and tried to call it "home." I've been going back and forth: "do I blog about it? is that even something we still do in 2026?" but here we are, and the impulse to write for some unknown audience remains.

If you had told me a year ago that this is where I'd be today, I wouldn't have believed you.

In September 2025, I applied for a job. My spouse and I, both transgender Americans with varying levels of inconsistent identity documentation, were getting nervous as we watched the window of possibility for leaving a hostile country closing around us. I decided I'd better know what my options were. After all, I got this PhD to take me places--right? (Well, that and to escape the gendered honorific system--my nonbinary, genderqueer self really prefers being called "Doctor" to any other title that people tend to choose for me.)

My professional credentialing organization in the United States has mutual recognition agreements with 5 other nations. That means it would be easiest for me to get a job using my specialized skills in one of those 5 places. On the day I decided to search for job openings across those 5 nations, there was exactly one position posted that matched my qualifications and experience. I had 5 days until the application deadline.

I remember saying often at that time, "If there is only one ticket out for me, I better at least get in line."

In mid-November, I had an interview for the position. By late November, I had an acceptable job offer.

I had 6 months to resign the tenure-track job I loved, figure out a pathway to Ireland for myself and my spouse, sell our house and most of what we owned, rehome our 3 beloved pets, pack up the rest, and get here. All while teaching graduate coursework, trying to maintain my program of research, and keeping two neurodivergent bodyminds alive. It was the fastest 6 months of my life.

This is the last picture I took of our two cats before we had to send them to a foster home. I miss them more than I can tell you.

We spent the first two days of June 2026 in Dublin, adjusting to the time zone and exploring a bit. I highly recommend a visit to EPIC: The Irish Emigration Museum--it was a fantastic way to solidify our own identity as immigrants and start to form a connection with Ireland. We even got to see an incredibly bright double rainbow on our very first day, as if the island was telling us "Welcome home, queers, and happy Pride month."

The double rainbow, as seen from our hotel window. It was even brighter outside in the rain.

Then it was time to move on to our actual destination: Limerick. After one terrible night in an overheated budget hotel and two much better nights in a hotel we decided to splurge on, we were fortunate to find temporary accommodation in a shared house not too far from the campus of my new university. It's been more than 20 years since I've lived with strangers, so this is a bit of a shock (to say the least). We will move into a more permanent, just-for-us rental in a couple of weeks.  

I've read that for the first month living abroad, you pretty much run on adrenaline. It's all a shiny new adventure: everything is exciting and nothing feels real. The adrenaline is wearing off, and reality is starting to set in.

So far, I've found most of the rumours that Americans tell each other about Ireland to be true. Yes, Irish people are friendly and welcoming. Yes, the food is generally amazing--it's almost entirely local and fresh. Yes, everything is beautiful, and there are mountains and castles in the distance. Yes, there's a lot of green. 

However: it's not all sunshine and shamrocks. Even though people are friendly, I don't have any friends here yet. I've accidentally brought us to the country with the worst transgender healthcare in the EU. Although I love having more-or-less reliable public transit and living in places where I can walk to most everything I need, I miss the convenience of having a car and getting to go wherever I want on my own schedule. Getting a driver's license will require taking driver ed all over again (I can't blame the Irish for not accepting American drivers immediately--good call, honestly). It's not terribly hot terribly often, but when it is, there's no air conditioning anywhere. I'm homesick for the familiar: a dialect where I knew all the figures of speech, the ubiquity of drip coffee, a sense of community and belonging.

Immigration is no holiday. It's a plea for safety and an exercise in simultaneous grief and self-care.

Well, look: I'm sure I'll be grand.

View of King John's Castle and Saint Mary's Cathedral in Limerick, as seen from the Sarsfield Bridge across the River Shannon.