What I know

Most lives end up reduced to a few lines, a handful of memories, fragmented versions of who someone was.

It doesn't have to be that way.

I grew up in Ireland, where silence was a virtue and secrets went to the grave. For all the gift of the gab, the craic, the warmth and the wit — the silence was sometimes deafening. Beneath the surface ran a thin veneer of respectability — and beneath that, hidden shame.
Things happened and were never spoken of. Lives papered over because the truth was considered too dangerous. Generations carried words that died with them

That's where I come from. It shapes everything I write.

I raised my family in Aotearoa New Zealand and spent years writing at the heart of government — formal, structured, human-centred work that taught me the importance of a considered word.

For me words can preserve dignity and restore clarity.

I work with people from all walks of life, those in the winter of their lives who want to leave more than photographs. And those who have simply decided to break the silence.

I don't rush it. I'll meet you wherever you are, in the I don't know where to begin — and I'll gently guide you until the words come. And when they do, they're yours, not mine.

If you don't tell your story, someone else will — inaccurately, briefly, or not at all.

I’d love to chat. hello@tellingstories.art