Hi friend. I’m so glad you’re here with me today.
Our Sunday looks a little different than usual. We’re typically out and about with the girls, soaking up the sun, but after a late night at the Greek Fest and an extra moody wake-up from our 20-month-old, we’re taking it slow.
Today’s post carries a different kind of energy. A bit more tender. A bit more nostalgic.
Most people who meet me tell me what a beautiful name I have. Katerina. And then, almost always: “It’s such a special name.”
They’re right. It is.
I was named after my dad’s sister, my theia, Katerina. A woman full of strength, warmth, and depth.
She lives in Crete, in a small village called Neo Horio, where my father was born and raised. She’s always held a very sacred space in my heart. And lately, that space has felt especially tender. Her dementia has worsened. She no longer remembers my dad. Her own children. Or me.
Her memory has faded—but mine hasn’t.
I remember the balcony that wrapped around her home. The big lemon tree on the right side, dropping fruit in the summer until the whole corner of the balcony was covered in yellow. The smell of citrus and sea breeze. The fresh oranges she’d juice every morning.
Her cooking was unforgettable—french fries made over an open fire in her fireplace, crisp and golden, the kind of flavor that lives in your soul. Her giouvetsi, rich and tender, the taste of love after long salty days at the beach.
She’d pull out stacks of black and white photographs, and suddenly my grandparents—who passed before I was born—came alive again through her stories. My pappou with his curled mustache and pipe in hand. My yiayia, strong and soft all at once. Those stories, that laughter, her incredible humor—some of her tales brought out the kind of belly laugh that fixes a bad mood in an instant. Her home was where memories and old photos were shared, and childhood was stitched back together with every visit.
Ten years ago, I tried to live in Greece for a while. I was there during a difficult chapter, with someone who wasn’t the right one. And my theia somehow always knew. She’d call me, invite me over, and when I stepped into her home, I was no longer lost. I was home.
She reminded me who I was. She helped me leave.
She understood pain. She lost her husband while pregnant with their third child. She faced health battles. She did it all on her own. She was resilience in human form.
It’s been ten years since I left Greece. Life carried on—I met my now husband, had our beautiful girls. But I never made it back. And now, she doesn’t remember me. Or them.
I grieve that loss deeply.
We always think we have time. That next summer will work better. That we’ll book the ticket eventually.
But some things don’t wait.
I know I won’t get to sit on her balcony the same way I used to. I won’t get to hear her stories, her laugh. But I know this: she still lives in me. And in my girls. Her strength. Her spirit. Her sweetness.
She is in the way I tell stories at the kitchen table. She is in the way my daughters laugh at something silly. She is in the lemons in the summer air.
Until next week, hold your loved ones close.
Xo, Katerina
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