‘I told a story about a sex toy at my mother's funeral. The priest was mortified, but Mum would have loved it'

Irish Times

06-07-2025

By the time Aoife Dunne and I finish a pot of tea in the Atrium of the College Green Hotel in Dublin, we've both cried twice, and laughed, and ranted about capitalism, and shared details of our relationships, and said the word 'dildo' repeatedly. Luckily for us, the staff in the hotel are so well trained that they pretend not to notice any of this, even if the tone of our conversation is more emotional and raucous than a typical meeting in this elegant, tasteful and respectable venue.
But that's what comedian and storyteller Aoife Dunne inspires – a deep dive into earnest, open-hearted empathy, full-bodied laughs and emotional honesty. The 38-year-old, from
Kinvara in Co Galway
, first came to attention with her comedy videos on Instagram – hilarious dissections of Irish shame; our pathological inability to accept compliments; our refusal to communicate directly, even when it matters most. But her feed also offers sun-drenched montages of sea swims and friendships, poems about grief and healing, raw recordings of herself in tears, and reflections on the long, complex afterlife of loss. They feel like digital postcards from someone who has survived something devastating – not by hardening, but by softening, by staying present and porous.
This unique blend of comedy, poetry and authenticity is the Venn diagram behind her show Good Grief, which returns to Dublin this autumn following a sell-out run in Whelan's. The performance fuses stand-up, storytelling, poetry and memoir to explore the disorienting force of grief, and the radical, joyful possibility of recovery.
'I just couldn't write a show that was all jokes,' she says. 'It would feel too hollow. Life isn't just funny, and it isn't just tragic. It's both. I wanted to make a show that lets all of that breathe.'
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Dunne's mother, Maria, died suddenly of an aortic dissection in 2010 when Dunne was 23 and travelling in Argentina. 'Basically, her heart broke,' she says. 'That's the poetic version. But even doctors now, when I say 'aortic dissection', they pause. It's so rare.'
Her mother's spirit lives on vividly in Dunne's stories; she is wild, generous, gleefully irreverent. 'We put this photo on her mass card where she's hanging off the back of a moving vehicle, doing this mad pose. The priest told us not to use it. We insisted. That was Mum.'
Maria worked in a pharmacy. She was not a pharmacist, Dunne explains, but had a particular interest in health foods and supplements. 'Farmers would come in for blood pressure meds and leave with St John's Wort.' She was the sort of woman who would claim the wrapped present she was giving her son for his 18th birthday was a dildo (it wasn't, but his friends appreciated the slagging opportunity), but was also so respected and trusted in her community that she was once asked to prepare the body of a neighbour for his wake.
At her funeral, the church was packed with hippies and farmers, and a priest who referred to her 'four children born out of wedlock', which prompted her partner – a towering man – to interrupt the eulogy to declare her his 'delicious, divine, sexy woman'. Dunne's own contribution was telling the dildo story. 'The priest was mortified. But Mum would have loved it.'
After her mother's death, Dunne – the eldest of the four siblings – became the adult in a house of grieving teenagers. 'I have so much compassion now for my younger self. I thought I was doing everything wrong. I wasn't a good enough sister, partner, friend. But I was 23, trying to parent my brothers while grieving. Of course I couldn't do it all.'
I was hurting myself in ways I didn't even realise – cheating on people, withdrawing, pushing people away – because I felt I didn't deserve love or joy
—
Aoife Dunne
The support came not from within, but from around. 'I didn't raise myself. The village did. My mum's friends started a fund to help my brothers get through college. There were grants. There were no fees then. Ireland was more socialist.'
She becomes animated as she talks about this form of community and State support, and rails against how increasingly isolated, individualistic and neo-liberal Irish society has become. The
housing crisis
and
cost-of-living crisis
has made merely surviving a struggle for so many people, which makes recovering from a major life event such as bereavement all the more difficult.
'That's why I'm so angry about the way things are going. We survived because of community and support. If we'd been expected to go it alone, we'd have fallen apart. Resilience isn't a personality trait – it's a measure of your resources.'
Aoife Dunne: The support came not from within, but from around. 'I didn't raise myself. The village did." Photograph: Alan Betson / The Irish Times
These moments of community support and kindness are littered throughout her story. Not long after her mother's death, Dunne started a Master's in human rights law. 'I was completely disconnected. I wasn't crying, I wasn't feeling. I thought I was broken. I dropped out halfway through – I'd never quit anything before.'
One day, she was sitting in her family home in Kinvara when there was a knock on the door. 'Some of the girls from my Master's, who I barely knew, just showed up. With tea and biscuits. They didn't ask if they could – they just acted like I still belonged to the world. That saved me.'
She had, she says, internalised an idea of what a 'good' grieving person looked like – composed, functional, moving forward. 'I thought if I wasn't crying in the right way or being productive with my grief, then I was doing it wrong,' she says. In reality, she was self-destructing. 'I was hurting myself in ways I didn't even realise – cheating on people, withdrawing, pushing people away – because I felt I didn't deserve love or joy. I thought my sadness made me contagious.'
The pandemic brought another turning point. Stripped of routine, work and relationships, she found herself collapsed on the wooden floor of her flat in Portobello in Dublin, sobbing. 'And I remember thinking, 'Is this it? Is this the thing I've been afraid of for 10 years? Just ... crying?' That was when I started therapy. And breathwork. And meditation. And little by little, I started putting myself back together.'
Those things had once included acting. She'd loved drama since childhood, attending local pantomimes and community theatre, and begging her single mother to drive her 40 minutes every Saturday to attend a Galway drama school, where she met Bridgerton and Derry Girls actress
Nicola Coughlan
. 'It was three hours. Mum would grumble a bit, but she did it. It cost more than we could really afford, but she knew I needed it,' Dunne says. 'And that's where I met girls who really wanted it – girls who had confidence and drive. I didn't. I had the want, but I didn't believe I deserved it.'
She remembers performing at the National Theatre in London with her Galway youth theatre group at 20 – an opportunity that should have felt exhilarating, but instead left her feeling unworthy and small. 'All these other girls were talking about drama schools and RADA, and I just said, 'I go to youth theatre,' and immediately felt stupid. I looked at their clothes, then looked at mine. That was the first time I realised – I don't belong in this room. Not because of talent, but because of class.'
Aoife Dunne on her mother's death: 'I was completely disconnected. I wasn't crying, I wasn't feeling. I thought I was broken.' Photograph: Alan Betson
This internalised shame – around money, ambition, worth – stuck. She abandoned her dreams of acting, feeling, as she says, 'like even wanting it was presumptuous. Too much of a notion'. She spent her days teaching English as a foreign language.
Years later, during a deep meditative session – part of a healing process she describes as one of the most transformative of her life – she was guided to return to an early childhood memory. 'He said, 'Walk to one of your earliest memories of being a child doing something.' And I was five. And he said, 'Go to that child. She's so happy to see you. Imagine she sees you – this older version. And what do you tell her about who you've become?'' She pauses. 'Do I tell her that I hate myself? That I've spent 10, 12 years running away from the things that are good for me because I'm so scared?'
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At this stage we're both crying, before Dunne nods with a sense of determination. 'And then I thought – no. I want to tell her that we became an actress. That we made it back to the stage. And in that moment, I just thought – oh my God, I'm going to change my life. I'm going to make her proud.'
That path led to a profound psychedelic experience with ayahuasca in Brazil when she was 35. 'I saw my whole life – every tiny moment. Teaching. Helping my brothers. Laughing with friends. Every second I thought had been a failure. I saw it all. And I fell to the ground and said, 'I love my life.' That was the first time I truly meant it.'
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After that, she started saying 'yes' more often. 'Yes' to a storytelling night, and then 'yes' to a six-month storytelling course in Amsterdam. 'Yes' to flying to New York to perform 20 minutes at a comedy club, even though she wasn't sure she was a comedian. 'Yes' to a slot in Whelan's, after MCD took a chance on her. 'I said, 'I don't know if anyone will come.' It sold out in six hours. Then we added another show, and that sold out even faster. And I just thought – oh no. I need to write a show now.'
Early performances have received rave reviews, with audiences and critics praising how she fluidly combines heartbreak, wit, humour. The ayahuasca retreat is now complete with descriptions of losing her luggage, having Brazilian shopkeepers try to discern her butt size, and the attempt to reach transcendence while wearing an ill-fitting thong. (Guessing butt sizes is a rare skill, apparently.)
She has more than 130,000 followers on Instagram who appreciate her honesty and authenticity, as well as her passion for social justice. Alongside her comedy videos and poetry, she campaigns for equal rights, supports Palestine, and once posted a lengthy poem criticising Conor McGregor and the far-right men who revere him.
Dunne is sharply critical of gendered silence – both online and off. 'My female friends are doing the work. Therapy. Journaling. Talking to each other. And our boyfriends are ... not. They've never been taught how to speak their feelings.'
Mum never judged anyone at face value. She'd always ask, 'What's underneath that?' That's why I try to ask, even when someone is cruel – what are they going through?
—
Aoife Dunne
She's particularly incensed by the inaction of male influencers. 'There are men with huge platforms saying nothing. If you're not using your platform to lift others or say something meaningful, what are you doing?'
Dunne's political views – and position as a woman online – mean she has faced her share of abuse. But she handles trolls with the same blend of empathy and clarity that her mother modelled.
'A woman once left horrible comments on three of my videos. I posted them publicly. Then she DMed me. She told me her mother had died, that she was a full-time carer, that she was having a bad day. I told her, 'If you post it publicly, I'll respond publicly. But thank you for saying sorry.' We ended up talking back and forth. And she's coming to the show now.'
She credits her mother for that capacity to hold people tenderly even when they lash out. 'Mum never judged anyone at face value. She'd always ask, 'What's underneath that?' That's why I try to ask, even when someone is cruel – what are they going through?'
Asked if her mother would be proud of her now, Dunne doesn't hesitate. 'Yes. She didn't believe in herself, but she believed in me. If she were here now, she'd be front row in the theatre, clapping the loudest.' She pauses, laughing. 'And then giving out that I swore onstage.'
Aoife Dunne's Good Grief will be at the Ambassador on September 20th.