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...