Be. Love.
Enjoy.

Those questions wouldn’t let me go.

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I had just turned 30. On the outside, everything looked great—a high-paying job, a man I was in love with, friends, family. But inside, I was drowning. Trapped. Restless. Completely confused.

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It had been just over a year since I’d moved from Thessaloniki to Athens to pursue a career at Greece’s biggest TV network. Everyone said I was lucky. It was the middle of a financial crisis, and I was thriving.

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But something felt very wrong.

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I grew up in a middle-class family with an adventurous, romantic mother and a practical, well-respected businessman father. I love them both deeply—and I’m forever grateful for every lesson, the good and the hard.

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As the youngest in a male-dominated household, I was quiet, respectful, obedient. Patriarchy lived in our home like an honored guest, and I learned early not to question it—not out loud, at least.

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My mom was my quiet rebel. After I turned 18 and moved out, she moved onto her boat full-time, sailing the Aegean Sea—sometimes battling storms, sometimes just herself. She’s still my closest friend and wisest teacher, full of ancient wisdom, shaped by her love for Greek philosophy. She taught me to see life as a play.

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My dad, on the other hand, was always worried about “what people would say.” He lived by rules and approval.

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Those two influences lived inside me, always at war. The dreamer and the skeptic. The free spirit and the obedient daughter.

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Eventually, I reached a breaking point.

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I packed a suitcase and flew from Athens to New York.

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I didn’t go chasing answers—I went chasing silence. I believed that if I could get far enough away from everything I knew, become no one in nowhere, maybe I’d finally hear my own voice.

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But within a year, I was called back home. My father’s health had suddenly declined. A few days later, I was sitting beside him as he took his final breath.

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That moment—witnessing the exact second when a life ends—split something open in me. The grief was bigger than anything I’d ever known. And suddenly, my carefully curated crisis of identity seemed irrelevant.

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A new question emerged:
What does it mean to die well?
And then:
What does it mean to truly live?

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Michael Singer once wrote, “It is truly a great cosmic paradox that one of the best teachers in all of life turns out to be death.”
He was right.

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What followed was a decade of deep inner work.

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I studied meditation, NLP, and ThetaHealing. I attended workshops, sat in silence, practiced surrender. I questioned everything. And slowly, I started to remember who I was beneath all the roles I had performed.

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Life became less about answers and more about exploration.
What if it’s not like that? became my mantra.

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And then—what the doctors said was impossible, happened.

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Despite two miscarriages and medical reports telling us we couldn’t have children, I gave birth to my first daughter in 2017. And then another in 2019.

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I became a mother. Against all odds.

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I had to learn to trust my body, trust life, and release control. Over and over again.

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When the pandemic hit, everything paused—but something inside me lit up.
I knew it was time to share my story. Not from a mountaintop. Not as an expert. Just as a woman who had walked through fire and found her way home.

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So I started coaching.

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I began guiding other women who felt lost, stuck, or quietly burning out in lives that looked “fine.”
I didn’t offer answers. I offered space. Reflection. Truth.
I invited them to look within—and I walked beside them as they did.

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This became my calling.
My deepest transformations became my greatest service.
My love of honest, creative dialogue became a career.

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I don’t coach to fix people.
I coach to help them remember who they are—and who they’ve always been.

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At 45, I went back to school to study psychology.

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Why? Because I’m still becoming. Still curious. Still asking better questions.
Because reinvention doesn’t have an age limit. And I’m not done yet.

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I believe in the impossible.
I believe in shedding what no longer serves.
I believe that when women wake up to who they truly are, they don’t just change their own lives—they change everything.

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And I’m here to walk that path with you.