Salt in My Veins, Secrets on the Wind. My Lemnos Never Let Me Go

My name is Sofia, and I was born with wind in my hair and saltwater in my veins. That’s what my grandmother used to say, every time she caught me barefoot on the old volcanic rocks of Lemnos, staring out at the Aegean like it was going to answer all my questions. I’m 45 now. I own a tiny herbal apothecary in Myrina, right between the old Venetian Castle and the bakery that still bakes koulouria the way they did when my yiayia was a girl. I sell local herbs, ointments, and secrets. Not the scandalous kind. The kind you whisper to dried chamomile and rosemary because they’ve seen more heartbreak than any priest ever will.

This island… she’s quiet. People don’t come here for flashy parties or Instagram likes. Lemnos is not Mykonos. She’s stubborn and plain in the way only truly beautiful women are — the kind you understand only after sitting with them through silence. We’re made of fire and ash — literally. The island’s volcanic past gives our soil a secret strength, and that strength runs through everything: our women, our bread, our goats, our gossip.

When I was twenty-one, I left. I ran to Thessaloniki thinking I’d be someone else — a graphic designer in high heels, sipping cocktails and talking fonts. I lasted three years. The city was too loud, and I couldn’t sleep without the wind. You see, on Lemnos, the meltemia are more than weather — they’re old voices. Some say it’s the breath of Hephaestus himself, god of fire and forge, whose anvil rang out from this island when Olympus rejected him. Others say it’s the dead fishermen calling their children home.

Whatever it is, I came back pregnant.

Yeah. There’s the spice.

I never married. The father was a gentle-eyed professor from Drama. We met at an art exhibit. He liked the way I talked about typography. I liked the way he didn’t flinch when I said I came from a wind-bitten island with goats that outnumber people. It lasted three months. He was older. Married. I didn’t know. When I found out, I didn’t scream. I just packed my things, bought a one-way ticket, and walked back into the arms of Lemnos like a prodigal daughter.

People talked. Of course they did. That’s what we do here — we weave stories like fishermen mend nets. Carefully, with just enough room for something to slip through. For a while, I hid. I grew thyme and self-pity on my father’s plot of land near Kontias. My mother stopped asking me when I’d get married. My uncle offered to "have a word" with the professor. I said no.

But then something happened. Something ordinary, but it split me open.

A German couple, mid-fifties, came into town looking for natural pain remedies. The woman had arthritis. They wandered into my garden by mistake. I didn’t have a shop then, just dried herbs in jars and a baby on my back. She cried when she smelled the lavender. Said it reminded her of her grandmother’s pillowcase.

That’s when I understood: Lemnos was not just where I was from. She was what I had to give.

So I opened Votana tis Sofias — “Sofia’s Herbs.” I mixed local sage with beeswax and olive oil to make balms for joint pain. I distill helichrysum — the “eternal flower” — for skin. Tourists come, yes, but more often it’s locals. Widows with rheumatism. Teenagers with sunburns. Old men with secrets.

And then came the whispers.

They said I was a witch. A kind one. The kind who blesses your baby’s fever away with tsikoudia and prayer. They said my herbs worked because I talked to them. They weren’t wrong.

Do you know about anastenaria? The fire-walking ritual in northern Greece, where people dance barefoot on burning coals, entranced? It doesn’t happen on Lemnos, but we have our own ways of walking through fire. We call it ipomoni — patience. Not the passive kind. The kind that holds you up like a spine.

Lemnians are practical mystics. We believe in God and in garlic. We kiss icons and count on goats. We light candles and drink wine on weekdays. We know that everything is both miracle and biology — and that sometimes, a good sourdough starter is holier than holy water.

What did this story do for me? It rooted me. Every choice I made — the good, the messy, the beautifully ill-advised — taught me that shame is a tool, not a life sentence. That you can leave, and still belong. That motherhood doesn’t need a wedding ring to be sacred. And that soil remembers your name if you kneel in it long enough.

So here’s what I’ve learned, for those who need it:

• Never underestimate a scandal in a small village. It might just set you free.

• If your herbs grow well, your heart will, too.

• There’s more healing in laughter and lemon balm than most doctors will admit.

• You don’t have to explain your path to anyone — especially if it’s windy.

• When in doubt, trust the goats. They always know where the safe ground is.

If you ever come to Lemnos, ask for Sofia with the wild hair and the basil-scented hands. I’ll make you tea. We’ll sit under the fig tree, and I’ll tell you where the real secrets are buried.

Hint: They’re not in the herbs. They’re in the stories.