Letters from Athens

Reflections on the move that’s changing everything.

Twenty days ago, I moved to Athens, Greece.

I am an American, born and raised in Los Angeles—the daughter of an Iranian immigrant mother and a Greek-American father. My upbringing was an equal melting pot of both cultures: raised Greek Orthodox, I spoke Farsi with my mother and grandmother, joyously celebrated Nowruz every year, and meals in our household were fragrant and saffron-filled. Words will never encompass the gift my mother has for cooking.

I work in the motion picture industry as a filmmaker. From the outside, Los Angeles seems like the perfect place to be as a multicultural creative: my friends are there, my work is mostly there, and my family is there.

So why did I move to Greece?

Let’s jump timelines back to 2024. I had just wrapped an excruciating contract in September. I poured every ounce of myself into that job, and when we called wrap, I was a puddle. I don’t know if other creatives feel this way, but sometimes caring so much—about not disappointing clients, about giving it your all—can be highly destructive. I didn’t recognize myself when I looked in the mirror on wrap day. I was gone.

My North Star during that gig was knowing that I had booked a three-week sabbatical to Greece. My first solo trip in a long time. Upon arriving in Athens, something awakened in me: a curiosity I hadn’t felt in years. I became excited again. Roaming the streets, I looked forward to turning every corner… a yiayia, a child, a cat, a cloud of smoke, young lovers, a priest, the smell of incense and souvlaki. I had no plan or agenda, only to rely on my curiosity, senses and restore my soul.

To my surprise, I experienced love at first sight, and met my now-partner—a wonderful Greek man. (Side note: single ladies, find yourself a good Greek man. Trust me.) My life changed during that trip. I left room for the magic to take place. And for those of you who appreciate a little “woo-woo”… all of this occurred during the Harvest Moon and eclipse season. What a moon.

Stelios and I didn’t know how we’d make it work, but we trusted that we would. After an eventful year of long distance (2025), both of us left our homes - he had lived in London for nearly a decade, and I had lived a lifetime in LA. We chose Greece because this country held the space for our fateful encounter, and I thought my great-grandparents would get a kick out of their kin moving back to her roots.

I came back home.

Now, I do not speak an ounce of Greek (although I am committed to learning), and in many ways I took certain things for granted - like having access to a dryer. I now hang my clothes and sheets on a line - and I’m here for it. Being consciously present while wringing the last bit of water from your sheets, then airing them out in the open air, is somehow soothing. Life has slowed down a lot for me.

So, why Greece? Because somewhere deep inside me, I felt my soul communicate that it was home. My nervous system dropped. I love that I am in the country where my ancestors lived, and though I am unable to go to Iran at this moment, knowing that my mother’s country is close by gives me peace. This is where I am from.

And still, in the months leading up to this move, I oscillated between going and staying. Fear of the unknown kept bubbling up.

I spent hours with my therapist talking through this possible move, asking whether I was crazy to do it. And he, an educated scholar, professor, and doctor, looked at me deadpan and said: Yes, it’s crazy… but it’s crazier not to do it.

I have worked tirelessly over the past fifteen years, like many artists, to make “a name” for myself and build a steady career. In the last year, I somehow reached that point - but my gut still told me to go. Leap. Take the risk. Expand my horizons. To create a possible, full, and inspiring life beyond living and working in LA. Am I crazy? Maybe. But we only get one go-around at this life. That reminder was what catapulted me.

Twenty days ago, on January 4th, 2026, I made the move.

No one prepares you for the waves of emotions that move with you: grief, fear, excitement, joy, doubt… the unknown. My grandmother is about to turn 92. Would I ever see her again? Existential thoughts, worst-case scenarios - you name it.

I was reminded of Coldplay’s song Death and All His Friends. The title of my album: Moving and All Her Friends. Oof. The process is real. Don’t suppress it - and don’t let it overpower you. I can hear my therapist now: Be the eye of the storm, Sophia.

Today, I live a five-minute walk from the sea. I’ve gone winter swimming with a group of local papous (grandfathers) a couple of times, and after their dive, I watch them play backgammon in the quiet corner of the taverna.

When I stand at the shores of the gentle sea, I can’t help but mourn for my brothers and sisters in Iran. These past weeks have been brutal, and being far from my own family doesn’t help the pain. Witnessing what’s happening in America from Greece, and comparing it to the peace of my neighborhood… I can’t understand how we tolerate and allow discrimination and violence toward our neighbors and children.

What Greece is showing me is that things can be simpler, and more peaceful, if we allow ourselves to make the move… to make changes… and to observe who we are, and the world around us. Everything comes down to the choices you make.

More observations about the transition and about life soon. In the meantime, take care of yourself and may you always be open to the curiosities calling to your soul.

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From above, a view of Greece below.

x Sophia

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