Nettles. They sting.

Me and nettles haven’t exactly been best friends over the past few years, but that is changing. If you will allow me to get a bit metaphorical, I will explain.

When I first moved to Ireland, I didn’t know what to expect. I was head over heels in love and braying-like-a-donkey excited about embarking on this new chapter of my life. As anyone who knows me personally will attest, my most profound challenge after relocating to Ireland was obviously not “marrying a farmer.”

It’s pretty easy to be married to my husband, no matter how rough things have gotten. The hardest part was something I naively never anticipated: losing the stubborn identity that went along with a career that, for better or worse, defined me.

It’s not like I had a six-figure salary, nor was I the president or CEO of a Fortune 500 company. When I moved to Ireland, I was working in the wacky world of advertising, producing television commercials that schlepped global beauty, fashion and food brands. The work often involved collaborating with A-list directors and took me around the world. Before that, I was a production assistant at an Emmy award-winning television show in NYC.

Let’s just say that memories of maniacally running around the west village in search of rare redcoat army figures for Tom Hanks, or toy shopping for Cruise-Kidman clan will forever more be imprinted on my brain.

I was passionate about my production work because I got to be creative and work with people who inspired me on a daily basis. The experience was very social and there was always something new on the horizon. I lived, breathed, ate, and drank production. I was so consumed by it that there was room for little else in my life (ahem, like Irish farmers).

Sure, at times, I would become keenly aware that I needed more balance. And those days became more frequent as Richard and I became serious about our relationship.

When we decided it would be best for me to be the one to relocate, I genuinely assumed I would still be able to work here as a producer. If not for the agency I had been with for five years, then in a freelance capacity in Ireland. I was excited to experience new opportunities. But it didn’t quite go to plan.

The sting

This brings me to why I’ll never forget my first nettle sting. I was working in my garden on a spring afternoon and accidentally brushed up against a nettle. The sting was painful, but didn’t warrant my reaction. I swore at that blasted nettle. I damned it.

Then, oddly, I began to cry. One of those horrendous, heaving cries.I cried about the hurt of the damn nettle sting. I cried for my late father. I cried about the bloody Irish weather. I cried that my baby boy would never play Little League. I cried the kind of cry that keeps your cheeks a slappy shade of red for the rest of the day. Then I rang Richard and blubbered at him for the nettle abuse too. It was ridiculous.

Yes, life had a bit of a sting to it at the time.

This is why me and nettles haven’t been on the greatest terms. But, this is all changing. I’ve been bravely experimenting with nettles. We’ve had a few good natters, the two of us. We’ve made a deal – if I wear gloves and blanch them in hot water then they won’t make me cry.

In fact, I discovered that if you put them in hot water for long enough, you will create a most flavourful and completing cup of tea. Yesterday, I made nettle soup. It was flavoured with peas and smoked ham, but it fulfilled me in ways I never imagined.

Just like my new life.