John Wallace

It was a grey afternoon in Dublin, Ireland, when I stood outside the philosophy department, my breath misting in the cold. The city had become my sanctuary in the past year, far enough from Waterford to feel the distance, but close enough for its shadows to linger. I had just finished a lecture on Nietzsche, a thinker who seemed to scorn everything that once defined my life.

I’m 27 now, but I sometimes feel older, as if the weight of my family’s secrets aged me prematurely. My father, a priest, was my hero for most of my childhood. He spoke with conviction, his sermons echoing the righteousness we were taught to revere. But the cracks began to show last year, when the scandal broke. It wasn’t just the betrayal of vows; it was the trail of pain he left behind. Victims came forward, their voices raw and filled with truths that ripped apart the man I thought I knew.

Studying theology had been an attempt to make sense of it all, to reconcile the contradictions in my life. But the more I delved into it, the more hollow it seemed. How could an institution claim moral authority while burying its sins so deeply? Philosophy offered no comfort, but it did offer clarity. Ideologies, I’ve come to believe, are chains we willingly wear, mistaking them for purpose. If there is to be progress, we must shed them. Only then can we move forward as a society, free from the lies we cling to for security.

I haven’t spoken to him since the scandal. Forgiveness feels like a foreign concept. Perhaps one day, I’ll find peace, but it won’t come from absolution or prayer. My mother still tries to bridge the gap, urging me to call, but I can’t. For now, I find solace in the search for truths that aren’t dictated by pulpits or doctrines. Walking home through the drizzle, I let the cold bite at my skin, a reminder that I am alive, unshackled, and free to question everything.