I Still Choose Life

I watched someone I love choose fear over life. I won’t let my country do the same.

THERE’S A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN surviving and living. I’ve seen both.

I could talk only about bombs. About the hunger. The poverty. The despair.

God knows there’s enough of it in Ukraine to fill every page of every journal in the world. And people probably expect that from me.

That’s what a war journal is supposed to sound like, right?

But I don’t want to spend all my days talking about death.

Because even in a war like this, we are alive.

We are breathing. We are thinking. We are dreaming.

We still have a life to live.

And I’d rather talk about that.

I know how bad things are. I’m not naïve. I see the ruins, I hear the sirens, I feel the weight of it all.

But I also see something else: ideas, energy, resilience, beauty.

Our people still offer kindness to strangers. We still plant flowers in shattered courtyards.

We still try to fall in love, to learn a language, to build something.

That choice has never meant more than it does now.

It reminds me of something very personal. Something that shaped how I see all of this.

Many years ago, I went through a long and complicated chapter with my mother.

She was already in her later years. Her health wasn’t perfect, but it also wasn’t tragic.

She still had strength. She still had independence. She could have had a good life, still rich in meaning and activity.

But something shifted in her.

Especially after losing my father, she started living more in the shadow of what could go wrong than in the light of what could still be beautiful.

Every little pain became a premonition. Every tired day turned into a reason to worry.

And slowly, she stopped looking toward life. She started seeing herself only through the lens of fragility.

I remember how much tension this created between me and my brothers. They were always rushing to hospitals at the smallest sign of anything.

They thought I didn’t care, that I was negligent. I thought they were blind.

But I was the one closest to her every day. I saw something they didn’t.

I saw how her thoughts were shaping her body. How fear was doing more damage than age ever could.

So I stayed. I talked to her. I encouraged her to go out, to enjoy the small pleasures that were still very much available to her.

I didn’t want her to just exist. I wanted her to live.

And I believe, truly, that I helped her do that.

She’s gone now. Almost fifteen years have passed.

But I know in my heart that she lived the best life she could while she still had it.

That’s what I tried to protect.

Not her from disease, but her from forgetting how alive she still was.

If you’ve ever watched someone you love stop believing in life, you’ll understand what I’m trying to say.

Because I see the same thing again now.

This time, in my country.

Ukraine reminds me of her.

A country that’s been hurt. That’s lost so much.

That’s been told a thousand times how broken it is, how hopeless.

But we are not hopeless.

We are wounded, yes. But we’re still full of strength.

We’re exhausted. But not defeated. We’re in pain. But still alive.

And that’s where I want to stay. Not in grief, but in life.

In that part of us that still believes we have something beautiful to offer this world.

That we are not only victims.

That we are still builders, still dreamers, still Ukrainians in every sense of that word.

Many of us are still waking up under fire.

Many are holding their children closer tonight, not because of what was lost, but because of what we still believe we can save.

I know we need help. Of course we do.

But we also need hope.

We don’t need to define ourselves only by what was taken from us.

Because we still have something that nobody could steal:

Our will to live.

Our love for each other.

Our ideas for the future.

That’s what I want the world to see. And I believe Ukraine needs to see in herself too.

And you, all over the world, are helping us to see that

Every time you think of us. Every time you read one of these words. Every time you refuse to scroll past.

You’re not just observing. You’re reminding us that we still belong to this world.

That we are not forgotten.

You’re helping us remember that we are still worth believing in.

That belief is what I once fought to protect in my mother, and what I’m still fighting to protect in my country.

So no, I won’t write only about bombs. I will write about life.

Because that’s what we still have.

And that’s what I want Ukraine to keep choosing.

That’s what I hope you keep choosing too.

Because you don’t need a war to come close to give up. It’s easy to lose faith, even in peace.

But when you stay with us, when you read, when you remember,

You become part of what keeps us going.

A part of what we keep choosing.

Not fear.

Not despair.

Life.

🇺🇦

---

---

🔖 There’s no team behind this, just me, writing from Ukraine. And every paid subscription helps me keep this open for everyone who needs to read these stories. Thank you so much for considering it if you can.

---

📖 “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).