There’s a curious thing that happens when someone truly sees you. It’s not just about hearing your name or remembering your coffee order (although, let’s give a standing ovation to the baristas who remember I take my espresso strong and slightly bitter). No, it’s deeper than that. It’s like someone holds up a mirror, dusts it off, and lets you see yourself clearly for the first time. My mirror wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, served fish fresh off the boat, and was nothing short of an oracle.

Let me take you back. I was wandering—not literally, but in that existential, mid-twenties type of way. Fresh out of grad school in London with an MBA that sparkled much brighter than my actual clarity about life, I retreated to Santorini. My family had a small boutique hotel perched on a cliffside—the kind of place travel influencers would now kill for. Back then, it was just home. I didn’t go for the sunsets or to “find myself.” I went because I had nowhere else to be.

And that’s where I met her. Eleni. The woman who saved me from myself.

A Chef’s Knife and a Slice of Wisdom

Eleni was a calamari-slinging force of nature who ran the kitchen in our family’s hotel like a general commands an army. She was strictly no-nonsense, with an affinity for black eyeliner and a habit of humming retsina-soaked folk tunes as she worked. She’d yell at you for not peeling the tomatoes efficiently and then hand you a plate of food so perfectly seasoned it felt like a love letter to your taste buds.

But Eleni wasn’t just a chef. She was a seer. She could take one look at you across the kitchen—over the bubbling pots and the stubbornly sand-covered wine glasses—and say something utterly profound. And on a scorching June afternoon, she did just that.

“Dimitri,” she said, dropping an octopus onto the counter with a satisfying slap, “you’re not living. You’re waiting.”

I paused, knife hovering over a pile of onions. “Waiting for what?”

“That’s for you to figure out,” she said, winking, like she had all the time in the world to let me marinate in confusion.

The Not-So-Greek Tragedy of Self-Doubt

I didn’t know it yet, but Eleni had pinned me to the wall of my own indecision. Back then, I was stuck in the same trap many of us fall into when we’re too afraid to leap because we don’t trust that the net—or the wings—will appear. I told myself I was “helping the family business,” but I mostly just shuffled around the hotel, refilling water glasses and dodging difficult questions about my future.

Eleni gave me no choice but to confront myself. And let me tell you, avoiding life’s big questions while peeling shrimp for six hours straight is harder than it sounds.

One evening after the dinner rush, she waved me over to the back terrace where she sat smoking her nightly cigarette, a glass of ouzo in hand. She had what I now call her Battle Stare, which meant I was about to get a truth bomb dropped on me.

“You remind me of my son,” she said.

Oh. This wasn’t what I expected. “I didn’t know you had a son,” I replied.

“I don’t,” she said dryly, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “He’s still just a dream, but you remind me of the kind of man I’d want him to be. Someone smart, kind…but someone who shouldn’t waste those gifts waiting for someone else to tell him where to go.”

And just like that, I was undone.

What Changed?

Here’s the wild thing: Sometimes all it takes is one person to believe in you. To point out all the potential you’ve hidden behind years of self-doubt. For me, Eleni was that person. I didn’t pack up my bags that night or launch into an Eat, Pray, Love-style adventure (although, let’s be real, the Greek setting would’ve been ideal). But I started asking myself different questions.

What did I want? Why was I afraid to chase it? Was I viewing my life like a checklist instead of the labyrinth it actually is?

Eleni didn’t give me answers. She gave me belief. And she cooked me one hell of a moussaka, which honestly felt just as transformative.

How to Spot—and Be—Your Own Eleni

Now, you might be thinking, “I don’t have an Eleni. My neighborhood doesn’t come equipped with a wise Greek chef-slash-psychologist.” That’s fine. Here are a few lessons I picked up from her that you can apply to your own life:

  1. Listen for the Truth Bombs: The people who see us best are often the ones unafraid to give us hard truths. Whether it’s a friend, mentor, or the overly chatty person at your local coffee shop, stay open to others recognizing something in you that you might be too scared to.

  2. Step Into the Kitchen: Sometimes, clarity comes not from grand gestures, but from doing something grounded, physical, and (yes) slightly mundane. There’s therapy in washing dishes or chopping vegetables. Honestly, if all else fails, make tzatziki. It’s life-changing.

  3. Find Your Inner Mirror: Eleni saw through my excuses because she had clarity in her own life. If you feel stuck, ask yourself: What parts of your reflection are too fogged up to see? Clean the metaphorical mirror by journaling, talking to people who inspire you, and—most importantly—risking small failures.

  4. Put Your Potential to Work: Eleni didn’t want me to simply realize my potential, she nudged me to act on it. I started writing small stories about the guests at the hotel, which evolved into my first travel essays. Those essays eventually got published, and, well, here we are.

  5. Be Someone’s Eleni: The words you casually say to someone may stick with them forever. Use that power wisely. Notice the people in your life and if you see a light in them that’s flickering, say something. You don’t have to slap an octopus on the counter to make an impact (but points for flair if you do).

Seeing and Being Seen

The act of “seeing” someone is underrated. What Eleni gave me wasn’t just advice, but visibility. She acknowledged my fears and dreams in a way that made them feel valid. It’s a gift we all deserve but one we often deny ourselves. So whether you’re waiting tables, peeling shrimp, or finding yourself stuck in the daily grind, remember: You are seen. And maybe, when you least expect it, an Eleni will come along and remind you just how vibrant your potential truly is.

Until then, consider this your gentle nudge from me. Your proverbial octopus slap on the counter. You’ve got this.