One More Birthday in Ukraine

This isn’t the birthday I dreamed of. But it’s real. And I’m grateful.

TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY. I TURN 38.

And I’m not really wishing for anything you can wrap or buy.

What I want this year is something we’ll have to build together. A little more kindness in a world that keeps trying to crush it.

A little more space for love to breathe.

It’s still there.

But it gets pushed by fear, by fatigue, by the noise we’re all trying to survive.

So on this March 31st, maybe we can rescue it before it disappears completely.

To be honest, I didn’t expect to be here. Not like this. Not in this moment.

Three years ago, my life looked completely different. I wasn’t just uncertain. I was completely lost.

In the days after the invasion, a part of me was still feeling defiant for my nation. But inside, I was the most emotionally broken person you could imagine.

Without my family. Without my home. Forced to relocate to a part of Ukraine I had never been before.

I was carrying more fear than I could hold. Waking up each day unsure if it would be my last.

I wasn’t living anymore. I was waiting.

Waiting for the unexpected to come again in the face of a missile or a blackout. Waiting for the moment when all of this would stop, one way or another.

At some point, I started believing I didn’t have much time left. Maybe just a few weeks. Maybe less.

And that’s when I started writing.

Not with a plan. Not with a goal.

I just reached inside myself and tried to find whatever good was still left here. Whatever feeling that hadn’t been taken yet.

Whatever drop of love, of hope, of something good I could collect from my soul.

I wasn’t writing for myself. I was writing for my country. For the world. To offer something to my planet before there was nothing left of me to offer.

It looked so small. So insignificant. Just feelings, just words. Which won’t make any difference to the destiny of the world.

But somehow I thought that maybe that mattered. Maybe someone would read it. I needed to try. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just kept writing. I wasn’t sure anyone would find me here, in middle of all this.

But you did.

And people listened. You listened.

You listened when I wrote about the silence between explosions. You listened when I wrote about grief, about stray cats, about the sound of sirens at night. You listened when I said things I was afraid to say.

And you never turned away.

You made me feel like I wasn’t alone. Like I still had something to give. Every time you showed up, you gave me one more reason to keep going.

I don’t know how, and I try to avoid thinking too much about, but this probably became the most successful thing I’ve ever done in my life.

That still feels strange to write. Because success and war don’t belong in the same sentence. There’s nothing glamorous about this. There’s nothing easy or clean or proud.

I still don’t know what to do with that. I’ve written through missile attacks and blackouts. I’ve written while holding back tears. I’ve written with my heart tight with fear that maybe this time, nobody will care. That maybe none of it was ever real.

But Ukraine taught me something I keep coming back to.

You don’t have to feel ready to be brave. You don’t have to be whole to build something that matters. You don’t need silence to speak. You just keep going. Even if your hands shake. Even if you doubt every word as you type it.

That’s what this country does every day.

So today, I want to say thank you.

To those who read me. To those who support this work. To everyone who sees value on what I’m building here.

You gave me a second chance at life, and I’ll never forget that.

I know birthdays are supposed to come with parties and surprises and cake. But I don’t want any of that. I want peace. I want love to survive the noise. I want to believe that it’s never too late to become someone you’re proud of.

And I hope wherever you are, you’re holding on.

Because if I made it to 38, writing from a war zone, finding meaning in words I almost didn’t write, then maybe there’s still hope for all of us.

So thank you again for being here.

That’s the best gift I could have ever asked for.

🇺🇦

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🔖 I’ve made it to 38, and I’m still here, still writing. That’s already more than I expected. If these words have stayed with you, and you have the means, a paid subscription helps keep this story going. For me, and for every word that still needs to be written.

📖 “The Divine Comedian: Ukraine’s Journey Through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise” is more than a book: it's my attempt to capture Ukraine’s unbreakable spirit in our darkest and brightest moments. If you want to see this war through the eyes of those who refuse to surrender, I invite you to read it. Download it for free in PDF and Kindle formats: