The godforsaken—high-pitched—cursed sound of Justin Bieber’s “Baby” is playing on my friend’s phone.
“Alex, aren’t you embarrassed?!” I scoff.
It’s not even about Justin Bieber or babies or anything remotely rational. I just can’t risk people knowing I’m not half as hardcore as I pretend to be.
I’m 14 years old now, and I know everything.
Right?
Right…?
…Right?
Let’s be real—I don’t know much of anything. I can’t even do math without crying.
All I know is that is not dead—and it won’t die on my watch.
“What?! I love him!” Alex says, in the most 2010s dramatic way possible.
Chill. Don’t Gangnam Style on me. Spare the poor metalhead-diehard-teenage girl with the incredibly cool hair.
—
When you’re a teenager, life feels different — in some ways more straightforward than it actually is, and delightfully mysterious.
You’re trying to navigate everything happening around you. Most of the time, you latch onto the familiar because it’s all you know. It feels safe, and when you blend in, you’re more likely to appease your social circle.
Some of us never followed that road — not to rebel, just because something else was wired into us.
Some are naturally wired differently (neurodiversity, philosophical musings from their parents, etc.), and I believe this adventurous nature is ingrained in our DNA. The more we fight it, the more miserable we become.
—
Through the exploration of life and self, I’ve started noticing a very interesting phenomenon within myself.
Everything I used to run from — I return to. But I don’t come back with shame or confusion anymore. I come back knowing what I left behind when I disappeared — and what I’m finally ready to reclaim.
I used to wonder why that was, but through some hard-earned wisdom, I realized: no one can truly offer advice, solutions, or insights of real substance unless you can go deep within yourself to transmute it.
—
It reminds me of ensō—the hand-drawn golden circle in Zen Buddhism that symbolizes enlightenment, the cycle of existence, and the beauty of imperfection.
A monk I occasionally speak to once told me: One can return to the past — not to dwell in it, but to review it from a mature perspective. And from that place, create something profound.
That stuck with me.
In 2024, I almost lost the essence of who I am.
Burned out, stretched thin, creatively and emotionally numb.
So how do you come back from that?
You go back—as far as your heart will let you.
You stand in old rooms with new bones.
You smell the dust of forgotten summers.
The core lies just beneath a thin, milky layer of ice.
—
Here’s something I never used to admit out loud.
When I was a teenager, I was into punk rock, metal, and classic rock — and I stuck to that. Anything I deemed remotely cringy was immediately blacklisted.
The radio never, ever played Greek pop, Justin Bieber, or anything close to those genres — or I would’ve combusted. I would’ve preferred jumping into a pool of sharks over listening to “Baby” for even a minute.
—
This extended into traditional music, too.
In Greece, every town and region has its own folklore, music, dialect, and traditions. In Ioannina, in particular, we have Epirotika. They’re named after the region of Epirus — soulful music, sometimes erotic, mostly mourning. Themes are heavily centered around the loss of beloveds to diaspora, love, death, retribution, and the beauty of the mundane.
I was heavily influenced by our folk music — more than metal ever achieved to influence me.
Still to this day, when I put on songs like Halasia Mou («Χαλασια μου»), Kaigomai Kai Sigoliono («Καίγομαι και σιγολιωνω»)…I envision all those evenings spent at river Acheron, the people dancing in the icy waters, my parents sitting at the worn and cranky wooden chairs of a restaurant and enjoying the bliss of mundanity.
It’s not always the easiest to listen to, but it has a beautiful melody underscored by heavy use of clarinet, violin, flute, and long-necked lute.
I used to play this music in secret, when I was home alone or had my headphones in. Hiding it became my little secret. I didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing me that deeply.
My father especially tried to get me to listen to this music, to learn the traditional dances, to connect emotionally and spiritually with the region, its culture, and its history. Out of sheer teenage defiance, I refused.
I did try to learn the dances, but I have two left feet, and due to a condition, I struggle with balance — so I never became the dancer my father wished for.
Thank God for that.
—
So yeah, I kept it for myself.
Even a decade later, when I was in a relationship with a long-term boyfriend, he found out I listened to folk music — and, for lack of a better word, he was shook. He couldn’t believe I’d ever listened to Greek pop — let alone folk.
It’s kinda funny to look back on, and honestly, I think it was a pretty harmless secret to keep.
—
A lot has changed in the last year. And after a long time of not listening to folk or Greek music — or really indulging in any of the arts — something clicked.
I reconnected to all the little secrets I kept to myself. Folk music was one of them.
I don’t hide it now. I still don’t really talk about it — unless someone asks.
—
Naturally, you might read this and wonder:
“What’s the point of running away, searching for meaning elsewhere, only to return to the same spot?”
The truth is, not running, not questioning, not searching, not trying, not experiencing — that might be ‘safer.’ But it’s never fulfilling. It’s not truly your own choice.
It’s a comforting reality to accept everything your surroundings are saying, doing, and offering. But how blind might one become if that’s all they ever learn to see?
Embarking on a solitary path — one with harsh lessons and equally beautiful experiences — is not for the faint of heart, nor for the soul that prefers inactivity and superficiality.
But it is the most gift-bearing and transformative path.
We don’t come back to the same place.
We come back — changed. Authentic. Willingly.
—
My monk friend once said:
“Nina, you’re asking questions even I don’t have answers to.”
So I stopped looking for answers.
Now they find me—sometimes through poetry. Other times in a folk song. Or even a meme.
And just like that—the circle of teenage meta-embarrassment closes.
I’m cranking up this bad boy, and I regret nothing:
https://youtu.be/OgVgbCYFXhE?si=rnIpYNjD6s61JFpr
