The goosebumps came in long before the first note’s of Michael Kiwanuka, right after we sat beneath the stars at the legendary Odeon of Herodes Atticus, tucked at the foot of the Acropolis. This ancient amphitheater, built in 161 AD by Herodes Atticus in memory of his beloved wife (whom he was also accused of killing later), is one of the most breathtaking venues in the world. Its marble tiers have held centuries of voices—from philosophers to emperors—and today, some of the most renowned artists on Earth. To witness art in such a space while literally touching centuries of history in the stones beneath your feet—grounding and humbling, to say the least.

And then Michael Kiwanuka appeared on stage—invisibly, delicately, performing the first song facing away from us while playing piano. No grand entrance, no introduction. Just music, beautiful and raw, performed with his band. It was clear: the focus is on the sound, not the personality.

Michael’s music, for almost a decade, has been more than sound for me, especially through my heaviest years. It has been medicine, company, and transformation. During my hardest, loneliest nights—when sadness, uncertainty, or simply the weight of my own life choices felt too much—his songs were a mantra. “Cold Little Heart,” “Love & Hate,” “Home Again,” “One More Night”… each and every one soaked in my tears.

Honestly, I wondered—would I be sobbing when I heard them live? Or would I find my past folded neatly into the places it was meant to be, respectfully put together for good? You know, music has a way of sprouting emotions you thought were buried for good.

And yet, on that night, in that sacred place, seated on ancient stone with my family beside me, his music felt… light. As the piano began and his voice soared into this melting summer night, I saw my past self—the confused and sad version of me—not as someone to grieve, but as someone to respectfully remember. A version that shaped me, but no longer defines me.

I have to mention that by the end of the night, I nearly fainted—from the +34°C heat (the kind that makes your eyelids sweat, your vision blur, your body melt), from emotion, and from the music echoing through time. But oh well—I’m human. Nothing more than human.

It wasn’t just a concert.
It was a pilgrimage, a healing, a homecoming to something I had been a little afraid to face.

Thank you, Athens.
Thank you, Michael.
For the memory.
For the music.
For the reminder.
For the reality check.