The room goes quiet when someone tells the truth. Aidan does exactly that—about bullying that tried to break him, a voice he built to protect the boy inside, and the diagnoses that keep reshaping the map. Anxiety, depression, ADHD, and, just today, borderline personality disorder: each name explains a piece of the chaos, none of them tell him who he is. He talks about the girder moments—performing through pain in panto, collapsing on the kitchen floor, a letter written in the dark, and the exact day he chose sobriety for himself and nobody else.

We get into how a manager’s insight opened the door to an ADHD diagnosis, why five medications in nine months didn’t bring relief, and how BPD finally put a name to the paranoia and splitting that wrecked family life over something as small as a forgotten Coke zero. Aidan explains the persona “Aidan G” as a shield that lets him sing when the real Aidan would run from the mic, and how that split can be a lifeline, not a lie. Then we pivot to craft: turning online hate from a Pride performance into a defiant pop song, learning production, saying yes to small gigs, and building Eurovision dreams through relentless songwriting camps.

This is an episode about mental health, recovery, Irish pop, theatre life, and making art that tells the truth without swallowing you whole. It’s warm, raw, and weirdly joyful, because he’s decided the next six months are for bringing joy while feeling joy. If you’ve ever worn a label you didn’t choose, this conversation gives you a way to hold it differently. Listen, share with a friend who needs it, and if it resonates, subscribe and leave a review so more people can find the story and the songs.

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A childhood spent counting coins at the shop till and scooting groceries home taught Shelly how to be responsible. But nothing prepared her for the emotional calculus of young motherhood, chaos around addiction, and guiding her daughters through their father’s final months with love and honesty. This is a story about choosing steadiness when life keeps throwing curveballs—and finding your true self long after everyone thought your story was set.

We sit with the early independence of growing up in Newbridge, the move that muted her freedom, and the uneven rhythm of a blended family split between two houses. Shelly shares how teenage anxiety and nights out blurred into an on-off relationship with Paddy, a pregnancy that reset her priorities, and the relentless work of being the constant parent. When hope briefly returned—help sought, an engagement, a new baby—reality hit harder. She made the call to leave, not out of anger, but out of care for her girls and herself.

When Paddy’s vague symptoms were repeatedly dismissed, it was a gentle insistence from her partner, Talt, that led to the scan and the truth: cancer. Shelly chose to bring the girls into that truth with her—visits, pizza, little jokes—so that goodbye wouldn’t be a shock but a held moment. That decision softened grief and shaped their memories. Then, slowly, another truth surfaced. Shelly realised she’s a lesbian. With therapy, patience, and honesty at home, the label finally matched the life. The house exhaled, her style and energy aligned, and even dating—tentative, curious—became part of a kinder rhythm.

We talk about co-parenting after loss, bringing children into grief with care, coming out later in life in Ireland, and redefining what a family can look like without apology. Through it all, Shelly and Talt model a rare kind of loyalty: love that changes shape but not intention. If you’ve ever felt out of place in your own life, this conversation offers proof that clarity can come late—and still arrive right on time.

If this story moved you, follow the show, share it with a friend who needs courage today, and leave a quick review to help others find it.

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Start with the truth: a teenage girl cried for a year after the “good first day back” and a mum climbed in beside her with Harry Styles on the stereo, late‑night drives, and a plan to let light in. That’s how Just Two Girls was born—out of burnout, misdiagnosis, and the stubborn belief that honesty saves lives.

We open up about the early years—meltdowns in supermarkets, running and hiding, sensory pain around showers and hair brushing—and how a neat dyspraxia label hid what was really going on. School called Kate “a pleasure to teach” while she masked so hard she wrote “help” on sheets of paper in class. We dig into the system ping‑pong between disability teams and CAMHS, why girls are so often missed, and how a late autism diagnosis at 17 changed everything. The shift is immediate: permission to be herself, language for needs, and the confidence to say “autistic and proud” even when someone stares at curled hair and says the quiet part out loud.

There’s humour in the grit—airport assistance in pink cowboy hats, the learning hub that couldn’t compute “autistic” with “put‑together,” and the moment we asked a school to take down puzzle‑piece imagery. There’s also a practical spine for anyone navigating similar terrain: why medication became a bridge out of despair, how to design routines that regulate, what ARFID looks like beyond “picky eating,” and how sensory‑friendly hours and apartments can make travel survivable. We don’t accept “just stay home.” Access isn’t a perk; it’s parity. And advocacy isn’t branding; it’s letting someone else breathe easier because you spoke first.

If you’re a parent searching for hope, a teacher trying to help the “quiet” student, or a teenager wondering why you feel like an alien in a crowded room, pull up a chair. We’re building the thing we needed: clear language, small wins, and the courage to be seen on the bad days as much as the good ones. Subscribe, share this with a friend who needs it, and tell us: what would make public spaces kinder for you?

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.