Lotz of thoughts

At the beginning of every year, I choose a word. Not a resolution with deadlines or targets, but a quiet guide to accompany me—something to return to when life becomes noisy or unclear. Last year, my word was choice . I didn’t know then how central that idea would become. I found myself navigating a series of decisions, big and small, that shaped my days and defined my energy. I had to choose what to say yes to, what to say no to, where to invest, and where to let go. I realised how often we are offered the illusion of control, while in reality we are simply choosing how we respond to what life puts in front of us. But what last year taught me most deeply is that not every choice is ours to make. Some things are taken from us without warning or permission. This past year, I experienced loss—real, irreversible loss—and it shifted something in me. It reminded me, more than any theoretical understanding ever could, that time is not guaranteed, that presence is not something we can postpon...

Some people don’t enter your life all at once. They arrive slowly — through habits, through presence, through the ordinary days that quietly shape who you become. Leentjie came into my life as my mother-in-law, but she became much more than that. She became part of my learning — how to mother, how to hold space, how to love without needing softness all the time. She was not someone who announced herself. She showed who she was through consistency, through showing up, through hands that knew what to do. These memories are not written in order, because that is not how love lives. They come as moments, details, gestures — a way of holding a baby, a cake baked without being asked, a sentence said at exactly the right time. Together, they tell the story of how we learned each other, how trust was built, and how love grew — slowly, firmly, and deeply. This is not a tribute meant to idealise her. It is a remembering of her as she was — strong, practical, opinionated, fair, and deeply loving. ...

Christmas has a way of filling the air with sound—wrapping paper tearing, cutlery clinking, and familiar songs playing softly in the background. The table grows crowded with food and stories, little jokes that only make sense to us, and the joyful chaos of being together. And yet, amid all that fullness, I always notice the empty chairs. Some are momentary—empty not because of absence, but distance. When we are in South Africa, I miss the voices of Greece. When we are in Greece, my heart aches for the rhythm of our life back home. My family has always lived stretched across two continents, two time zones, and two homes. And every festive season, no matter where we are, someone is missing. Technology helps. It pulls us closer. We send photos, call across dinner tables, and share a laugh through screens. It’s something—and I’m thankful for it—but not everything. It doesn’t fill the seat. It doesn’t carry the smell of the food, the warmth of the hug, or the overlapping chatter of a shar...

  The other day, my son came home visibly unsettled. During a conversation at school, a classmate—confident, influential, and a natural leader—dismissed cricket outright. "Cricket is a bullshit game. It’s not even a sport. Who wants to play cricket?" And just like that, the atmosphere shifted. The classmate’s words didn’t land softly as one boy’s preference—they hit like a verdict. My son, who happens to love cricket, suddenly felt that something he enjoyed was being mocked and invalidated. Not just by one person, but by the silence and subtle agreement of others around him. It stung. That moment has been sitting with me. And what it revealed is something deeply simple but often overlooked: the power of the words “for me.” "I don’t like cricket—it’s boring for me." "Dancing isn’t my thing." "Academia is not the right space for me." When we add “for me,” we open the window to plurality. We signal that this is my truth, not the truth. I have a p...

Over the years, I have attended more conference presentations than I can count — and given quite a few myself. Conferences can be energising spaces: you learn new things, see fresh perspectives, and sometimes even stumble on ideas that initiate amazing collaborations. But let’s be honest—not every presentation makes the most of that opportunity. At a recent conference, a professor described conference presentations as wine tasting .  I won’t claim the metaphor, but I will happily borrow it: in a conference session, you don’t drink the whole bottle — you get a small taste. Just enough to decide if you would like to explore further: read the paper in detail, ask a question, or maybe even start a collaboration. And, like wine tasting, some sips stay with you long after, while others you politely move on from. So, what makes me want to “drink more” after a presentation? Five things I like in conference presentations A clear and intriguing opening. The best talks don’t waste time ...

  Last night, my two boys were deep into a board game. You would think it was a matter of national security the way things escalated—there was a fierce disagreement about one of the rules. The younger one was cheeky, confidently mocking the older one. The older one, already frustrated, stood up to leave. I asked him to stay—not because I wanted the game to continue at all costs, but because I wanted him to hold his ground. His reply came quickly: “If I stay, I’ll end up using violence.” And I understood. I really did. I told him that sometimes walking away is the best thing we can do. Sometimes we need distance to calm down, to find our balance. But I also reminded him of something else: we don’t shy away from what matters to us. From our wants, our needs, our boundaries. We can hold our ground without losing control. We can stay in the conversation without hurting others. That’s not weakness—it’s strength. And then, almost smiling, I said: “But boys, read the manual! Before you ar...

 I was standing just offstage, moments before dancing my solo. My teacher introduced me—not just with my name, but with a few words that caught me completely off guard. She spoke about my journey, my efforts, and how I kept dancing while being a mother of two, a full-time professional, and a woman spinning many plates. And suddenly, something in me softened. I don’t dance for applause. I don’t show up at rehearsals, exhausted after a long day, for recognition. I do it for the joy, the grounding, and the sense of self it gives me. And yet… it mattered. Her words mattered. Being seen mattered. Why does it matter when others recognise our efforts? Why do we care, even when we tell ourselves we don’t need it? Maybe it’s because so much of what we do as women—especially as mothers, professionals, caretakers, and silent warriors—goes unnoticed. We keep it together, we hold it all, we show up, and we often do it quietly. There’s a strange pride in being “low-maintenance,” in not asking fo...

I am not the biggest fan of Marvel movies. The explosions, the superpowers, the endless battles—it’s just not really my thing. But my sons and husband love them, so there I was, curled up on the movie chair next to them, watching Fantastic Four . Somewhere between the portal malfunction and the formation of yet another superhero team, I found myself surprisingly drawn in. Not by the action, but by the metaphor. Because each character doesn’t just gain a power—they struggle with it. They don’t wake up thrilled about their new selves. They are confused, isolated, scared. Sound familiar? It does to me. I have been going through a phase lately. A quiet one. One where I don’t quite believe in myself. I know the checklist of what I have done, what I am doing, who I am. But somehow, self-belief slips through the cracks when I am tired, when I feel like I am not doing enough, or when I compare myself to some version of what I should be by now. And that’s when Fantastic Four hit differently...

I am officially on leave. Out of office. Unavailable. In theory. In practice… it’s complicated. Because even when I put up the out-of-office reply and silence the notifications (well, some of them), I can’t quite silence the chatter in my own head. What’s happening while I’m gone? Are the projects moving forward? Has anyone noticed I’m not there? Or worse… has no one noticed I’m not there? Welcome to the spiral. That special cocktail of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), curiosity, and just a touch of control-freakery. Served with a generous splash of guilt. At first, I tried to justify it. “I just want to make sure everything is okay.” “I’ll just check this one email.” “It’s easier to answer this quickly than to deal with it in a week.” But the truth is: stepping away is hard. Especially when you’ve built your professional life on being present, responsive, involved. And yet—life went on. Emails were answered. Decisions were made. Projects progressed. Students found their way. Co...

 Last week, my system crashed. Not my laptop or my phone. Me . No warning screen. No alert saying “low battery.” Just a quiet shutdown — the kind that only you notice, at first. The kind you convince yourself is just a bad day. Until it isn’t. I thought I was doing well. Managing the calendar, showing up, staying on top of deadlines, even remembering birthdays. But then, one morning, I couldn’t get out of bed — not because I was just tired, but because I was done . My body said stop. And the doctor confirmed it: I was physically sick. A clear diagnosis. So, on the surface, it was easy to attribute it all to that. But deep down, I knew better. The virus was just the final straw — not the whole story. Because what had been building wasn’t only physical. There are different kinds of tired. Mental tiredness is the kind that dulls your sharpness — when even simple tasks start to feel like heavy lifting. Physical tiredness settles into your limbs, making movement sluggish and sl...

Some days, it is easy to brush things off—to let the little frustrations roll away. Other days, a single comment, a dismissive tone, an unfair assumption lingers, and suddenly, there is a storm inside. I feel first.  Annoyance, anger, disappointment. The reaction is immediate and hard to ignore. But is it about this moment, or is it something deeper? Is it just this person, or am I responding to a pattern I have seen before? I remember when someone casually dismissed my work as "interesting, but energy economics is not really economics." On the surface, it was just an opinion, but deep down, it triggered years of having to prove the value of my research in rooms where my field wasn’t always taken seriously. That comment wasn’t just about that person—it was about every similar moment that had come before it. I think next—sometimes too much.  Was it intentional? Am I overreacting? Should I give the benefit of the doubt, or is this a boundary being crossed? Thought can help ...

  If you are a woman in academia, you have likely heard of “ academic housework .” It refers to all those tasks—administrative duties, committee work, student advising—that often fall on women while others, particularly male colleagues, seem to get a pass ( inspiration article ). And here is the kicker: we, as women, sometimes perpetuate this system ourselves. Have we internalised a sense of responsibility for these tasks? Are we complicit in doing them because we think no one else will? I am no stranger to this experience. Over the years, I have been called upon to take on multiple academic roles. While I always wanted to contribute meaningfully, balancing the academic housework with my research and career progression wasn't always easy. It took me a long time to realise that saying yes to every request doesn’t always benefit me or my career. The Invisible Labour of Women in Academia Many women, myself included, have internalised expectations from an early age to be accommodating,...

It all started with an innocent mistake. Dimitri, while preparing for his English test, confidently declared that “together” is a verb. I giggled at the time, gently correcting him, explaining it is actually an adverb. But later, as the moment lingered in my mind, I realized something deeper: Dimitri wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe, in its truest sense, together is a verb. Think about it. Together is not just a state of being—it is an action. It is something we do. To come together, to work together, to support one another—all of these require effort, intention, and commitment. Togetherness does not happen passively; it is a practice, a choice we make daily, in every interaction. In a world that often celebrates individual achievements and self-reliance, the act of together can sometimes feel radical. It asks us to pause, listen, compromise, and empower others even when it might be easier to go it alone. Whether it is in families, friendships, workplaces, or communities, togethernes...

Eighteen years... That’s how long it’s been since I first landed in South Africa, wide-eyed and full of curiosity, ready for what was supposed to be a two-year adventure. Back then, I was a young Greek student chasing academic dreams, imagining I would pack up and return home once the ink dried on my degree. Little did I know that two years would stretch into something far bigger—a life. Eighteen years is significant, isn’t it? It’s the age when we celebrate adulthood, when we are considered grown up and ready to take on the world. And as I reflect on this milestone, I can’t help but feel that my life here has gone through its own kind of coming of age. When I first arrived, South Africa was an exciting whirlwind of contrasts. The sounds, the colours, the languages, the stories—a world, unlike anything I had known. I struggled with the small things, like adjusting to unfamiliar rhythms of life (sleeping times ...hmm...), but I also fell in love with the big things: the warmth of the pe...

I have given up on making resolutions. I have failed at keeping them so many times that I don’t even bother anymore. Instead, I choose a word for the year—a single guiding idea to keep me grounded. I can’t even claim credit for this clever approach; I must have stumbled upon it somewhere because it feels far too creative to be mine. This year, my word is choice . Where am I planning to apply this word? Everywhere, really. In my personal life, it is about choosing where to spend my energy—on people, activities, and myself. Am I showing up for the things that truly matter? In my professional life, it is about being intentional with my projects and commitments. Not every opportunity needs a “yes,” and that is okay.  But the first week of this shiny new year triggered a deeper, slightly uncomfortable thought. If I am going to embrace choice as my mantra, I need to give others the freedom to make their choices, too. This is where it gets tricky—because the most challenging “other...