The Smile of a Country Living With Depression

Because sometimes, the happiest faces come from the most broken places

YOU SEE THE CAFÉS AND THE MUSICIANS in the subway.

You see the weddings, the bookstores, the new murals painted on broken walls.

And sometimes, if you're not careful, you may think life here is normal. Like some people in bad faith sometimes want you to believe.

That is the most dangerous illusion of all.

Because Ukraine today is not a country at peace. It’s not a country recovering.

It is a country in depression.

And I don’t mean depression in the way politicians mean “economic downturns.” I mean it like someone who’s lived it.

Just like so many of you I’m sure, I’ve been already through this devastating mental disorder.

Twice, maybe more.

And the moments people thought I was happiest, those were the days I most wanted to disappear.

You learn how to smile with your lips while your eyes beg not to wake up tomorrow.

You learn how to say “I’m good” because the truth is too heavy, too humiliating, too hopeless to carry into words.

You manage how to hide, how to protect others from the truth of you.

The truth that you are feeling like dying inside.

Like nothing is left.

That’s what I see now, but in a larger scale.

An entire country.

When we have depression, it’s so hard to find love for ourselves. But at least it’s not that hard to find love for Ukraine.

The love for our country reminds us that we are still able to find love for ourselves.

But it’s all part of the same masking behavior.

This country may be loved, but I would be lying if tell you we’re healthy.

We are just surviving.

Such a familiar feeling. But now, felt collectively.

When you see a photo of Ukrainians dancing, please know that we’re not dancing because we’re healed.

We’re dancing because we don’t know how many days we have left.

Every dinner out is a tiny rebellion.

Every violin on the corner is a scream disguised as a lullaby.

We are not showing joy. We are showing the last strength we have to keep pretending we’re okay.

Because the world forgets fast.

And nothing helps it forget more easily than a photo of people smiling in a place that’s still bleeding.

But what you don’t see in the picture is that we never stopped dying.

Every night, someone here goes to bed and does not wake up.

Every night, there’s a mother who cannot find her child in the rubble.

Every single night in these last 1,200 days or so, I lost count, somewhere in this country, the air raid siren is real.

And the missile is real.

And still, people say, “But I saw a video, and it looked so peaceful…” or “are you sure Ukraine is really living a war?”

Friend, I beg you: If you have ever suffered of depression, or saw someone who you really love suffer of it, you already understand what’s happening in this country.

If you’ve ever worn that mask just to make it through the day, you already understand Ukraine.

We are not okay.

We are not healed.

But we are still here.

And that, in some way, no one knows how, is enough to keep going.

So the next time you see a celebration, a wedding in Kharkiv, a jazz band in Kyiv, a writer like me trying to bring you hope…

Please don’t mistake it for peace or recovery.

Don’t mistake it for normal.

It’s the mask of survival.

It’s what depression looks like when it refuses to die.

It’s what a broken country looks like when it still chooses to love life anyway.

That’s not weakness.

That’s not deception.

That’s us, holding on to the only thing we have left:

Each other.

🇺🇦

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🔖 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.

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🔖 Please check out also my second journal I just launched recently:

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📖 “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).