It wasn’t all baklava and bouzouki music, let me tell you. The journey to "finding my people" sometimes felt like navigating a busy Greek fish market: loud, chaotic, and more than a little smelly at times. But, if you keep your eyes open, your wit sharp, and your heart curious, eventually you walk away with something fresh and nourishing. For me, finding the right community—my people—wasn’t about casting a wide net or shouting across the marketplace. It was about learning to recognize what truly felt like home.
Lost in Translation in Athens
Growing up in a bustling Athenian home, surrounded by olive trees, feta-stuffed family dinners, and spirited debates, you’d think I’d have had “belonging” figured out early. But my family’s love language was, well, yelling—affectionate yelling, but yelling nonetheless. Somehow, I was the odd one out, the overthinker who’d rather dissect Aristotle’s thoughts on friendship than argue over who finished the last koulouri. As a kid, I found belonging not in boisterous conversation but in quiet shadowed corners of libraries or over solitary walks near the ruins that whispered secrets of their own.
And when I left for London to pursue an MBA, thinking myself worldly and ready to revel in cosmopolitan charm, I found that Brits don’t bond quite the same way Athenians do. My attempts to introduce myself over extended philosophical monologues were met with pained half-smiles and an “I’ll just scoot over here, cheers.” Suddenly, I had to rethink what it meant to connect. Because clearly, Aristotle couldn’t help me make pub friends.
On the Island, on My Own
Then came Santorini, with its whitewashed walls and sunsets that can make even the most cynic feel romantic. My time running a boutique hotel brought me fleeting, ephemeral connections. Visitors came, fell in love with the island (and occasionally with each other), and then left. As the seasons shifted, the transient nature of it chipped away at me. I’d organize Greek dancing lessons for the guests, laugh with them over mishaps involving ouzo, and cheerfully wave them off just days later. It felt like one long loop of goodbyes.
It was then I realized: proximity and convenience don’t create “your people.” Authenticity does. You can share drinks, landscapes, and experiences with hundreds of strangers, but the real question is: Who sticks around in your story? Who makes you want to dig deeper, to show up as your unpolished, honest self—and who feels natural sharing theirs in return?
How I Finally Mustered the Courage to “Date” My Community
A great community, I’ve learned, resembles a great plate of moussaka—it takes layers, patience, and a decent oven (figuratively speaking). Here’s what I discovered when I finally decided to go beyond surface-level mingling:
1. Take Time to Define “Your People” (Hint: It’s Not Everyone)
Back in Athens, I had this misguided notion that I had to be liked by everyone or risk feeling like the loneliest man on Syntagma Square. It was only after countless cross-country moves that I realized belonging isn’t about universal appeal—it’s about resonance. Just like you wouldn’t want tzatziki on every dish, you don’t need everyone to be “your person.”
Your people understand your quirks without explanation. For me, it was finding folks who could laugh with ease but also dive into nuanced debates about Kazantzakis or how Greek coffee can actually predict the future.
2. Sweatpants Conversations Over Cocktail Parties
Sure, there’s something glamorous about sipping cocktails under the stars, exchanging pleasantries with people who name-drop gallery openings. But after a while, I realized: I craved sweatpants-level connection. The kind where you can sprawl on someone’s couch eating takeout gyros, mid-deep-dive into absurd philosophical hypotheticals.
Your people don’t care if your metaphorical toga is perfectly pressed. They relish the messy authenticity—the real, the raw, the “wow, did you seriously just yell at Top Chef contestants on TV like they could hear you?”
3. Look for Signs of Truly Open Hearts
In Santorini, I bonded most deeply with a German couple who’d return to the island annually. Over plates of home-cooked spanakopita, we’d swap vulnerable truths: their struggle with raising a child in a foreign country, my longing for permanence amidst perpetual change. It wasn’t about big gestures or shared history; it was about exchanged empathy and safety.
Your people are the ones who make you feel seen—dimples, doubts, and all. They’re the ones who let you breathe easier in their presence.
4. Don’t Force Connections; Let Them Simmer
I used to treat finding my tribe like strategic networking—a numbers game that just needed effort and perseverance. But chemistry doesn’t work that way in relationships OR communities. Some of my most meaningful friendships started with a soft nudge of interest, then marinated over months of quiet “getting to know you.”
True connection grows slowly, patiently: like wine stored in cool cellar caves, aging until the right moment of uncorking.
5. Celebrate the Failures, Too
Not every attempt to find your people will succeed. There will be misunderstandings, mismatched vibes, and sometimes outright rejection. I remember joining an expat philosophy group in London, only to find myself surrounded by, shall we say...enthusiastic mansplainers. Instead of feeling enlightened, I left feeling depleted—but these missteps taught me something invaluable: knowing what doesn’t work sharpens your sense of what does.
And sometimes? Trying and failing becomes its own funny anecdote for later nights with your people. (“Remember when I thought Aristotle fan clubs could be a thing? Yikes.”)
Home Isn’t Always a Place—It’s a Feeling
Eventually, I found what I was searching for—not in a specific town or island, but in the relationships themselves. I leaned into humor with other misfit philosophers in Athens, embraced my messy, emotional Mediterranean-ness with new friends in London, and shared soul-deep talks over lazy Cretan meals with locals and visitors alike.
Finding your people isn’t about building an empire of connections. It’s about the delicate, careful weaving of a few relationships that feel like home. They might not always speak the same language you do—literally or metaphorically—but they’ll offer the same soulful warmth you’d expect around a Greek family dinner table (minus the affectionate yelling).
So if you’re still searching, don’t worry. Look for the ones who hand you a metaphorical fork and say, “Here, taste this—it’s too good not to share.” The ones who laugh with you, cry with you, and maybe debate the merits of Plato versus Netflix now and then. Hold onto them. That’s your tribe. That’s where you belong.
