What Self-Doubt And Putin Have In Common

One is an impostor syndrome, the other is just the regular impostor you would have in mind.

HAVE YOU EVER FELT LIKE YOU’RE JUST pretending to have it all figured out? Like you’re doing your best to build something meaningful, but all the while you’re questioning if you even deserve to be doing it?

They call it impostor syndrome, and I feel it a lot. Especially now. Especially here. And this time, it goes beyond our Russian impostor, even though he doesn’t make things any easier.

When you live in a country torn apart by war, you start to see things differently. You start to understand that life is about moving forward, even when everything around you is crumbling.

And you realize that sometimes, the strength to keep going has nothing to do with talent or skill or certainty. It’s just about showing up. Over and over again.

Maybe that’s something Ukraine can teach the world. That life isn’t about feeling ready or prepared. It’s about finding the courage to act even when you feel completely lost. Because no one ever really feels ready. Not when bombs are falling. Not when everything you’ve ever known is shattered.

But even without the bombs and the devastation, that feeling of being ready never really comes. It’s just part of being human.

I feel that same doubt every day. Sometimes, I look at my 37 years and think, “I’ve lived through enough. I’ve learned things. I have experience.” But then, there are those days when I feel so naive. So shallow. So unprepared.

Like everything I know is nothing compared to those incredible writers who’ve spent more years perfecting their craft than I’ve spent living. People who make words dance effortlessly. People who seem to own the art of storytelling in a way I could never touch.

And here I am. Just trying to put words together that might reach you. Just trying to translate emotions into words.

Next week, I’ll be 38. And a part of me hopes that somehow, I’ll find a way to deal with all of this a little better. That maybe turning a year older will mean I’ve grown a little wiser. A little calmer. A little more certain of what I’m doing.

But I’ve learned something through all of this. Something Ukraine has taught me. Clarity only comes from pushing forward, even when nothing feels certain. It comes from refusing to give up, even when everything feels impossible.

And these three years of writing about war have given me the clarity to understand that if the world looks away, Ukraine’s struggle will become just another forgotten tragedy.

But there’s something else clarity brought to me. I write because I hope it matters to you.

You could be reading something written by someone who’s spent their entire life studying how to tell stories. People who understand the world with more depth and skill than I ever will. But somehow, you’re here. With me. And I don’t take that lightly.

And if you’re still here, reading these words, then you’re already part of something real. You’re part of the reason this keeps going. Because if you’re paying attention, it means hope is still alive.

I’ve come to understand this isn’t about having talent or credentials. It’s about showing up even when the doubt feels crushing. It’s about trying to give you something that feels alive. Something you can feel in your bones.

Maybe I’ve managed to push through my own doubts enough to create something that matters. And if I can do that, if I can keep writing and reaching you even without all the things I think I should have, then certainly you can overcome whatever you’re struggling with, too.

Because what I’ve learned from Ukraine is that even when the world feels like it’s falling apart, you don’t stop moving. You don’t stop trying. You don’t stop hoping.

More than three years of war. That’s how long this has been happening. It feels like a lifetime. It’s too much. And it’s exhausting.

For everyone.

But what if paying attention, even when everything feels repetitive, is exactly what makes it matter? What if refusing to look away is the only real act of strength we have left?

Maybe that’s another thing I’ve learned from war. That no problem is unsolvable. No situation is unmanageable. As long as there’s life, there’s hope. And if I can keep writing, keep trying, keep living in Ukraine, then you can keep going, too. No matter what you’re facing in your life, in your community, in your country.

And you don’t need bombs and missiles to see that the real strength is just to keep going. You already have everything you need. Just go, without thinking too much. Even when the path feels endless.

The movement of life is the same, no matter what part of the world you are reading me now.

Every time doubt tries to pull me down, I remind myself of something simple:

“I can handle whatever comes my way. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.”

Because this isn’t just about writing. It’s about resilience. It’s about connection. It’s about showing up, even when everything feels impossible.

And I’m not going anywhere.

🇺🇦

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📖 “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: