When the visions begin, I reach for my µατι. Gripping tight, I feel the glass eye heat in my hand. The pupil marks a dot in my palm as jagged edges of light shimmer across my eyes. I’m not enough of a believer to think that the µατι fully protects me as I am awash with illness, but holding on to something in this moment where the world feels light and wispy is a comfort I cannot bear to part with.

My family once knew the relief of ritual. It has edged out, dissolving as generations grow more Australian than Greek. But I’m an anomaly; I hold on to superstition fiercely. I cannot rely on language to connect me, the ability to speak Greek effortlessly is lost on my generation. My cousins and I cannot speak to one another in our mothers’ tongue. But superstition and fear—those are the wires connecting me to a Greek identity.