A Glimpse of Hope: What My Grandmother Taught Me About Strength
I didn’t understand her words back then. Now they’re all I have
Some things survive when they shouldn’t.
Not buildings. Not bridges. Not borders. But things like grace. Like tenderness, dignity.
Things like kindness. Things like hope.
This journal was never meant to just report. It was never only about survival. It has always been about those things that are harder to name.
Things that are fragile. Almost invisible.
The ones that wait until everything else has fallen away.
That’s why I’m starting something new.
Every weekend, I’ll bring you here A Glimpse of Hope.
Not because the war is over. Not because we’ve found peace. But because even now, especially now, there are moments that hold.
A neighbor who shares their last piece of bread. A child who hums a lullaby their mother once sang. A grandmother who writes a single sentence that carries a whole lifetime inside it.
These glimpses aren’t distractions. They are the small lights that show us the way forward.
This column won’t follow headlines. It won’t argue policy. It won’t predict what happens next. It will simply tell you about the moments that remind us who we are.
The quiet victories. The human ones.
Because this war stopped being just about Ukraine a long time ago. It became about what kind of people we still dare to be.
What we still choose to protect. What we’re willing to carry through the fire and into whatever comes next.
If we can still find beauty where it should’ve disappeared, if we can still be gentle in a world that wants us hardened, then we’ve kept something the war could never take.
So every weekend, I’ll bring you that. A memory. A reflection. A moment that refused to vanish.
A glimpse of hope from a country that still believes in it.
And I hope it finds you exactly when you need it. Because if this glimpse still exists, it’s for one reason only: someone is holding it.
And if it’s you holding the last piece of light, please know that’s enough.
That’s how it stays alive.
LET ME TELL YOU WHAT MY GRANDMOTHER ONCE WROTE TO ME.
It wasn’t long. Just one sentence. But it stayed.
“The most important journey is the one you take with yourself.”
She wrote it in blue ink, on a folded piece of paper tucked inside a worn recipe book.
I was too young to understand it. Too restless.
Too busy trying to become something.
Someone.
And at the time, I didn’t get it. But she knew what she was doing.
She had seen too much to waste words.
This was a woman who had survived famine, war, silence, betrayal.
She had watched her country change names and faces, over and over, without ever leaving her kitchen.
She had loved people who never came back home.
She had forgiven things no one asked forgiveness for.
And still, she remained kind.
Her strength didn’t march. It didn’t shout.
It showed up in the way she peeled apples. The way she folded towels.
The way she looked at you like she already understood, without needing to say a thing.
She never told me how to live.
She just lived.
With dignity. With patience. With that invisible kind of wisdom you only earn through loss and love and time.
So when she gave me that sentence, I didn’t know yet what it cost her to write it.
But now, after everything, I think I do.
I think she meant:
Learn to be your own companion.
Make peace with your quiet.
Respect the road inside you, even when no one else can see it. Because the real fight isn’t just around you. It’s within you.
Without applause. Without witnesses.
That battle you fight alone, without anyone even knowing.
And the hardest part is staying human through all of it.
.
Perhaps you’ve had someone like her, too. Someone who gave you one sentence. One gesture.
One unforgettable memory that still speaks long after they’re gone.
If that person exists in your story, then this is your moment to carry them forward.
Even now, especially now, I think of her.
And I realize that growing up might be exactly this: letting the lives that passed through yours stay with you.
Not just their faces. Their ways.
The quiet moments. The soft words.
That love that asks nothing but still leaves everything behind.
And still, somehow, staying yourself.
Even when it hurts.
Even when no one’s watching.
Even when the world says, “You should’ve broken by now.”
Even when you feel like the last one standing.
But you didn’t fall.
And I didn’t.
Even now, the body fights. Even now, life insists.
Not softly. Not politely. But wildly.
Like something that refuses to vanish.
That’s the kind of hope I believe in.
Not perfect. Not clean.
But alive.
.
And I’ll bring it to you. Every weekend.
One glimpse at a time.
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To my grandmother Sofia and all the grandmothers of the world, thank you for all the infinite and everlasting love and inspiration.
🔖 I write so that silence doesn’t win. If you’re in a place to support that, I’m deeply grateful. Every paid subscription helps keep this story alive and open to everyone.
📖 “The Divine Comedian: Ukraine’s Journey Through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise” is my first book: about Ukraine, seen from inside the fire, and the hope that refuses to die. Download it for free (PDF & Kindle).
That was beautiful. Thank you. We, too, will carry your grandmother's words forward.
You are an amazing writer. Thank you for sharing your gift. Please stay safe!