When I was young, my mother used to read old fairy tales to me. She would tell me all the stories she grew up with in remote Ireland - tales of Faeries stealing children in the night, human girls rescuing spider-spun princes, fiddles that played only the songs that the river and the meadows knew, melodies that the suns of strange skies whispered and another world with oceans made of silver and clouds made of gold. 

She started every story with “Once upon a time….” 

One day, I remember asking her why every story had to start like that. She looked me right in the eye, deadly serious and said “Only the most worthy stories can start with a once upon a time Hally.” Then she laughed and cuddled me closer. “Everyone has a story Hally, maybe, one day, when you tell someone all about your story, you’ll start it with a once upon a time too.” 

Back then I was happy to believe that my life might one day resemble a fairytale. Maybe to you, it does. 

For some reason that memory has stuck with me. And as I sit here preparing to tell you all about my story, I find myself wanting to start it with once upon a time. 

But the life I have lived is no fairytale, and it doesn’t deserve to start like one.

This is my story; it has princes and magic, demons and Faeries, but it won’t start with a once upon a time. 

This is my life and it’s no fairy tale.