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For more than two decades, I led hospitals before I realized what I had been searching for all along.
 
I started as a registered nurse, where you learn very quickly that control is mostly an illusion. You can chart every vital sign and still watch someone you love slip away. I carried that lesson with me through years as a Chief Nursing Officer, where the illusion simply wore a different uniform—more responsibility, more people depending on me, more conviction that if I could just manage enough, care enough, or show up enough, everything would hold together.
 
For a long time, it worked—or at least it looked like it did. I loved my work. I was trusted. I was needed. And somewhere along the way, I quietly mistook being needed for being faithful.
 
What I didn't understand was that Christ had never asked me to hold everything together.
 
He was asking me to abide in Him.
 
That understanding didn't arrive all at once. It unfolded slowly, the way most real transformation does—in hospital hallways at two in the morning, around the family table, through seasons of joy and loss, and in the quiet places where the Lord gently revealed that His strength was never meant to be added to mine. It was meant to replace my striving altogether.
 
I'm also shaped by my Cretan Greek heritage, where the table has always meant something more than a meal. It is where stories are shared, burdens are carried together, forgiveness is offered, and everyone is welcomed. Over time, I began to see that every earthly table quietly points toward a greater invitation—the One Christ Himself extends.
 
Somewhere along the way, I started writing.
 
First, they were prayers when words wouldn't come. Then letters to my children. Eventually those pages became Come to the Table—a book that isn't ultimately about me, but about Christ's invitation to weary people who have spent too long believing they must earn what He has already freely given.
 
I'm not a theologian or a pastor.
 
I'm a registered nurse.
A wife.
A mother of six through marriage and grace.
A Yiayia.
A granddaughter of Crete.

And, by God's mercy, a woman still learning that the Christian life isn't built by striving harder, but by remaining close to Jesus.
If there's one thing I hope every page of this website reminds you, it's this:
 
Christ is enough.

 
The peace we long for isn't found by becoming stronger, wiser, or more disciplined. It is found in Him.
 
If you're tired of carrying what was never yours to carry, I'd be honored to save you a seat at the table.
 
If these words resonate with you, I hope you'll stay awhile.
 
Read a devotional.

Browse the journal.

Join me around the table.
 
More than anything, my prayer is that every page points you beyond me and toward Christ—the One who welcomes weary hearts, carries every burden, and offers the rest we could never earn.
 
There's always room for one more chair.





 
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