This Isn’t a Newsletter. It’s a Lifeline

When I lost my country, you helped me find myself

I DIDN’T THINK ANYONE WOULD READ THIS JOURNAL.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I was writing because I needed a place to breathe. Somewhere to put the words that were piling up inside me.

I never expected thousands of people to show up. I never expected you.

But here you are.

Quietly, one by one.

More than 50,000 of you, somehow drawn to these thoughts from a stranger in a country at war. I don’t even know how to make sense of that number.

You’re more than just an audience. You’re something else. Something warmer. Something that felt like a hand on the shoulder.

A whisper saying, I see you.

It gave me faith. Not in platforms or reach. But in people.

I still don’t understand how that happened. But I know what it did to me.

It brought me back to life.

This part breaks my heart. Because I can’t answer everyone.

Sometimes I see a message and lose it before I can reply. Sometimes I just run out of time.
And sometimes… it’s not even about time.

But it’s about living in Ukraine.

The blackouts. The broken towers. The unstable signal that disappears in the middle of a reply.

It’s the power cuts that come without warning. It’s the hours crossing villages and checkpoints with no network at all.

It’s the moment I finally reconnect, only to find that lovely comment is gone, swallowed somewhere between bad signal and war-torn infrastructure.

And I sit here, staring at this old screen, knowing someone sent me something beautiful… and I missed the chance to say thank you.

It’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I care too much.

If I could spend half my day doing one thing, it wouldn’t be writing. It would be replying.

Personally. Carefully. To each one of you who gave me a piece of your time.

Because your words aren’t just feedback. They’re lifelines. You may not realize it, but you have already saved someone here. With your attention. With your presence. With your words.

Your messages are proof that people still care. That people can still be kind.

That something as fragile as a sentence can hold enough hope to keep someone alive.

What you might not know is that I’ve always been a quiet person. Extremely shy. Withdrawn.

I’ve never had many friends. I avoid small talk. I avoid eye contact. I’m that one who waits for the elevator to leave so I don’t have to say good morning.

But I love people. Maybe too much.

I see them through the prism of their pain. I notice their silences. I hear what they’re not saying. And certainly, I always wondered if anyone would ever see me the same way.

Then I opened this journal.

And somehow, you were already waiting.

I thought I was writing from the margins of the world. From a country under siege. From cities that still goes dark at night.

You wrote to me like I mattered. Like my nation mattered.

You shared stories, memories, truths. You wrote things that made me cry quietly in front of my screen.

Not because I was sad, but because I felt seen.

I’ve been told I might belong to some neurodiverse spectrum. What I do know is that I’ve lived most of my life thinking I had nothing inside worth offering.

But here you are. Thousands of you. Sending me messages I never thought I’d read.

Telling me that my voice has weight. That what I write means something. That maybe I was wrong to believe I had nothing to give.

Some part of me still struggles to accept it. Because I’ve spent years believing the opposite. I’ve lived inside the silence of self-doubt for too long.

That I was just… Watching the world go by. Taking up space.

But now something’s changing. You’re helping me change it.

You’re every day helping me believe this isn’t just survival. That I do have something inside that matters. That the old idea I used to hold, the one that says everyone has a treasure within, is true after all.

I wish I had found this through joy. I wish I had learned this through peace. But life didn’t give me that. It gave me war. It gave me loss. It gave me silence and rubble and empty streets.

It gave me Ukraine in winter with no light and no heat.

It gave me the sound of generators humming through the night like a heartbeat that refuses to stop.

And somehow, from that, this journal was born.

From this journal, you came.

So here we are.

I want to say thank you. For every comment. For every message.

For every moment you chose to say something kind to this stranger in the other side of our planet.

Even though I can’t answer all of them, I read all of them. I carry them. And they bring me a motivation and a warmth that I couldn’t find anywhere else.

If these words ever made you feel less alone,

If something here reminded you that your pain matters,

If you’ve ever thought, “I needed to read this today”

Then maybe that’s why you’re here.

Not just to read. Not just to scroll. But to hold this space with me.

To keep something alive that almost disappeared. To be part of something quiet, and real, and still beating.

Because this isn’t a newsletter about Ukraine. It’s a shelter in the middle of chaos.

And it only exists because you’re in it.

🇺🇦

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📝 I’m still gathering your messages to the Ukrainians of the future. If you haven’t sent yours yet, now’s the time, so it can be part of the book I’m putting together in the coming weeks:

📖 “The Divine Comedian: Ukraine’s Journey Through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise” is more than my first book: it’s Ukraine, seen from inside the fire, and the hope that refuses to die. Download it for free (PDF & Kindle) and see what survival really looks like.