When I decided to put myself forward for the presidency, Michael D Higgins was not expected to run again. The assumption was that if he did, there would be no contest.
That mattered, because I believed there was space for another voice – an independent, a woman, a candidate shaped more by community work than by political machinery.
I felt an obligation to step into that space, even though I knew it would not be easy.
What I did not realise then was that fear would become the strongest emotion of the campaign. Not ambition, not anger, not even hope – but fear.
‘Serious concerns’ over conspiracy theory group forming shadow system of county councils
Houses are being built in Ireland, so why can’t ordinary people buy them?
A week with Kneecap: ‘Liam Óg doesn’t like much attention. This is quite a lot of heat for him’
New Dublin suburb of Ballyboggan may be renamed Broombridge-Hamilton, have 8,500 homes
There were moments of pure joy. Seeing my name on a ballot paper for the presidency of Ireland was surreal. It is something very few people will ever experience and I will carry that moment with me forever.
I travelled the length and breadth of the country, meeting people in community centres, town halls and schools. Some told me they had never voted before but would now, because they felt I understood them. For those weeks I was not only carrying my own hopes but theirs as well. That responsibility, though heavy, was an honour.
And then there were my two little grandchildren, Erika and Sarah, who were just four and two years old at the time. They did not really understand what a president was, but they were convinced I was going to become Queen of Ireland.
To them, it all seemed wonderfully simple: their granny was going to be a queen. Their innocence, and the joy they took in the adventure, was a bright light through some very heavy days.
[ The Irish Times view on the presidential race: contortions and expediencyOpens in new window ]
But for every high, there were lows that tested me more than I could ever have imagined.
Public scrutiny is relentless. Every word, every expression, every decision is dissected. That is as it should be for someone seeking the highest office in the land. But what I was less prepared for was the intensely personal nature of the attacks.
The most painful moment was not something said about me, but about my children. In the middle of the campaign, they were unjustifiably targeted when their privacy was exploited for media gain. As a mother, I cannot describe the anguish of seeing those I love most drawn into a battle that they never chose. That is when I understood in a visceral way the real cost of public life.
Yet I was also very protected. My campaign team led by Richard Mulcahy, together with my family formed a shield around me. They made sure that I never read a single comment on social media – good or bad. That protection was a gift, because in the middle of the storm I could be spared the endless noise of online opinion.
Fear became my daily companion. Fear of saying the wrong thing. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of letting down the people who had placed their trust in me.
I would often lie awake at night, running over every interview, every speech, every headline. At times I felt exposed and alone, standing on a stage with the whole country waiting for me to falter.
[ Can you have too much democracy?Opens in new window ]
One evening, in the midst of all this, my family gave me a small gold medallion. Engraved on it were the words: “Courage is not the absence of fear, but the determination to act in spite of it.”
I have never taken it off since. That medallion became more than jewellery – it became a lifeline. A reminder that fear was not a weakness to be ashamed of. Fear was proof that I was human. Courage was not about eliminating fear, but about standing up anyway, speaking anyway, staying in the race anyway.
There were days when the pressure felt unbearable. My sleep disappeared. My sense of self was shaken. Running for president is often portrayed as glamorous or historic. The truth is, it can feel like walking through fire with everyone watching to see if you will burn.
And then there were the more ridiculous challenges of the campaign trail. After weeks on the road, the days blurred together. More than once, I had to pause mid-speech to double-check what county I was actually in. By the end, I was not always sure if it was Tuesday or Friday – or whether I had eaten lunch in Cork, Galway or somewhere in between.
Was the price too high? That is the question I have wrestled with since. For someone without wealth, political machinery or a skin of armour, is the price too high? Perhaps. The danger is that only those already powerful – financially secure, party-backed, media-savvy – can survive the ordeal. And if that is the case, then democracy loses something vital.
But I do not believe the answer is to lower expectations or shield candidates from scrutiny. We need leaders who can withstand pressure. What I believe needs to change is the culture and the structure around campaigns: how the media frames debate, how finances shape outcomes, and how private lives are drawn into the public arena in ways that serve no democratic purpose.
We must create a path that allows more people – teachers, carers, community leaders – to imagine themselves as viable candidates. That means stricter boundaries on personal invasions, campaign rules that level the financial playing field, and a media environment that tests ideas without destroying individuals.
If we are serious about encouraging a wider, more diverse pool of candidates, then the road to Áras an Uachtaráin must be one that challenges without crushing, scrutinises without shaming and tests without breaking.
Would I do it again? Immediately after the election, I thought I would never put myself through it again. The wounds were too raw, the cost too high. But time has given me perspective.
Despite the fear, despite the scars, I would do it again. Not because it was easy – it was the hardest thing I have ever done – but it mattered. Because people need choices. Because democracy only works when someone is willing to stand, even knowing what it will take from them.
Running for president is not for the faint-hearted. Fear walks beside you every step of the way. But so can courage.
I wear that little gold medallion as a reminder. Not of politics, not of power, but of what it truly means to stand up in the face of fear. And for all the highs and lows, the days I could not remember what county I was in, and the delight of two small girls who thought their granny was about to become Queen of Ireland, I will never regret that I did.
Joan Freeman is a psychologist, founder of Pieta House, former senator and 2018 presidential candidate
