I did something I never thought I'd do, on the Easter bank holiday weekend. I rode around an empty St Stephen's Green with my son, on BMX bikes.
And I experienced a feeling I didn't think possible right now - euphoria.
It was exhilarating. Just us, and cops and cycle couriers. It was like we owned the city. This is our 2km radius. I felt a sense of pride of place, a sudden rush of release. In the middle of a lockdown, I felt free.
Something shifted that day, Good Friday. There was change in the air, toward hope. A survey by Core Research found almost two-thirds of adults were optimistic Ireland can overcome this crisis. This sense of pragmatic positivity was "influenced by the solidarity of actions from all stakeholders in society".
Earlier that afternoon, Leo Varadkar had addressed the nation, reminding us of how this was a day of suffering and sacrifice and sorrow, but also one of new beginnings; the promise of rebirth and renewal and better days to come.
In that context, the announcement of a lockdown extension to May 5 was not bad news. It represented a point of progress, a light ahead.
It flipped a switch in my brain. After so long pushing uphill, the view from the mountaintop was coming into vision.
Instead of counting days spent in lockdown, we could now count down days to easing out of it, even if only little by little.
In the midst of harrowing daily death tolls, we can remind ourselves we have saved thousands of lives by our national effort. As a direct result of collective action, we have brought the R-zero levels of infection down from six to one. Now we have to aim for zero.
The depth of sacrifice was illustrated that evening on 'The Late Late Show's' opener, which showed scenes from across a shutdown Ireland. It was a record of how we have mobilised as a force on this one that would make the North Korean People's Army look amateur.
Grafton Street, O'Connell Street, Ha'penny Bridge: deserted. An aerial shot of St Stephen's Green that I'd cycled around just a few hours before. Athlone, empty. And my hometown of Blessington, Co Wicklow, where my mother is. I have not seen her for the longest stretch of time in my life.
But isn't that a huge show of love - to be willing to take the agony of separation during an existential threat, because of how much you care?
It says: I will do anything to keep you safe.
What else could have tested our devotion so? I heard Dr John Crown saying something similar on the radio recently, when talking about how he could not visit his 93-year-old mother in her nursing home. She was heartbroken, he said: "But she knows I love her."
Up to now, I had been denying myself permission to find good in any of this time, with such tragedy all around. But if there is one thing we can gain from this bastard of a thing, it's lived experience. I am no longer going to allow it to rob me of that.
We will find new pleasures, that we would otherwise never have discovered. We will be granted opportunities we should not have got. If we're so fearful and focused on the future, we'll miss the experience of what is happening now.
We've gone back to community-living and have discovered there is meaning to be found in needing each other. We have our local volunteer Sue's number on the fridge door, in case of emergency.
We finally have real time to spend with kids, and their joy in this simplicity is a wake-up call. Only now can we truly understand what it's like to feel isolated, or oppressed, or suffer from mental health issues or loneliness. We know too that we need to share a common humanity if we are to endure as a species.
It's like the 1980s. I have the wireless on, the Dettol on the go full-time, the cooking pot out. My street is full of neighbours talking over the walls to each other. In nearby Mercer Street flats, I see women out every day, laughing and gabbing, their kids at their side, all standing two metres apart. I've started saying things like: "Please God" and "Your health is your wealth" and I'm seriously thinking about hanging an Irish flag out of the window.
I'm going to try to smile for the memory of those we have lost; to galvanise my grief into usefulness. I'm going to try to be brave enough to face the uncertainty of the future, strong in the knowledge that as a nation, we will survive this.
We can't know who will come through to the other side, to that mythical place we all talk of now called: When All This Is Over.
But whether you make it or not - we should find ways to enjoy this weird pause that has been forced upon the world. Incredible to think, but a time will come when we look back and it will seem like the blink of an eye. It would be an awful loss to have not seen the glory in it, while we could.