Philomena Lee & The Burden of Irish Guilt

Irish guilt. Sure, the feeling of guilt and shame—the uncanny ability to gaslight yourself into a tailspin—isn’t unique to the Irish, but the phrase “Irish guilt” exists for a reason. We may not own it outright, but we certainly have a big stake in the disorder.

Some of the older generations might not even consider it a disorder. It served its purpose, after all. It kept many of us in line and obedient for generations. But it also kept many of us sick, drunk, and mentally incapacitated to some degree. And again, that’s not solely an Irish issue, but there’s something undeniable there, isn’t there? A whisper. A knowing nod. A quiet acknowledgment that there’s a truth we don’t want to fully admit. Why would we?

Yes, Irish guilt. It’s often the butt of our own self-deprecating jokes, but it’s also the reason so many of us end up in therapy—if we’ve managed to break the generational curse that told us to bury our feelings deep. And you’d have to have come a long way to willingly walk into therapy with the whispers of Irish neighbors behind you, even if those whispers are only in your own head.

As children, we were taught that feelings equaled shame. Everything was kept “private.” When that’s drilled into you, with a brow-beating here, a sideways glance there, a whispered prayer, and a flick of holy water, you learn quickly that anything that tugs at your heart—good or bad—is shameful, dirty, and surely a ticket straight to hell.

So, yes, a lot of Irish guilt starts there, but it’s also deeper than that. It’s woven into our very bones. It’s in our DNA. It existed before we did. Some of us—maybe all of us to some extent—can’t fully separate ourselves from it.

Where the hell does it come from? The Catholic Church, of course. And let me just say, I’ve come far enough to know I’ll never step into a confessional box again, yet just writing that makes me wonder if I should be going to confession.

Why am I talking about Irish guilt today? I recently read The Lost Child of Philomena Lee by Martin Sixsmith, and it left me gutted—raw and torn open. But, sadly, not surprised.

Without giving too much away—because I’d love for you to read the book or watch the film (I haven’t watched it yet, I’m not ready)—it’s the true story of Philomena Lee, a teenage girl forced into the Magdalene Laundries for the “sin” of getting pregnant out of wedlock. She gave birth to her son, Anthony, in a mother-and-baby home and worked as slave labor for the Church, snatching what little time she could with him each day. When he was three years old—old enough to know his mother, to love her deeply—he was taken and sold to an American couple by the Catholic Church in what was nothing short of a child trafficking scheme.

Philomena desperately searched for her son, and her son—renamed Michael—never lost the longing for his mother, as if they were tethered across distance and years. Yet for decades, the Church, which held all the answers, lied. They burned records, hid information, and did everything in their power to keep mother and son apart. Even as Michael grew into adulthood, pleading for the truth, they continued their deception, going so far as to convince him that his mother didn’t want him. This, despite the fact that they had stolen him, shattering his mother’s soul in the process.

But that heart—his heart—the one that wasn’t supposed to feel or long for anything for fear it might be sinful, knew his mother hadn’t abandoned him. He held a certainty that couldn’t be buried or burned: his mother still carried him in her heart.

Which Jesus did those nuns, priests, and bishops follow? Because my Jesus isn’t the same.

Secrets protect the guilty. And the sins of the Catholic Church, in the case of the Magdalene Laundries and the mother-and-baby homes, where girls and women were tortured and babies trafficked, were secrets so vast they could only protect the devil himself.

It’s such an interesting dichotomy. We Irish are often seen as happy-go-lucky, dancing, singing, and joking our way through life. But the truth is, Ireland has a deeply tragic and dark history. From the forced starvation during the Famine—let’s call it what it was, an attempted genocide—to the abuse and identity erasure under English rule, and the horrors inflicted by the Catholic Church, the scars run deep. Generation after generation, we’ve carried that trauma, and it still lingers within us today.

The Lost Child of Philomena Lee is heavy reading, but it’s necessary. It’s the story of both Philomena and her son, Michael, and their lifelong search for one another. And it’s the story of thousands of Irish mothers and children torn apart. And it’s only the tip of the iceberg. Look up Tuam in Galway, but be prepared to have your mind truly blown.

The legacy of trauma, shame, and silence didn’t end with the Magdalene Laundries. It lives on in the way Irish guilt manifests in our lives today, making us feel unworthy, ashamed, for burdens that were never ours to carry.

But Irish guilt can end. It can only end if we acknowledge it, if we understand where it’s rooted, and if we bring it into the light. We must do the hard work, not look away from the pain of our ancestors. Some of that pain is just a generation or two behind us. Some of it is still happening today. Some are living through hell right now.

Let them talk. Give them your ear. And help them on their journey—because their journey is our journey too.