Looking back at the past, the old version of me, and my life before the war, I see how much has changed permanently. It feels as if I became older for decades and my heart aged prematurely. My whole worldview and beliefs were shattered. The war affected my husband’s family, and even though I live a thousand miles away from Ukraine, it still traumatized me. Through the news, experiences of family and friends, activism, and translation work, the war came so close that I often couldn’t tell in which reality I was: in Ukraine or the U.S. I caught myself looking at people around me, not touched by the trauma of war, with envy and even anger. They continued to live in the bubble I once lived in, and part of me longed for this blissful ignorance, while the other part despised it and was in constant fight mode.
Last year, one person asked me what was the best wish they could give me for my birthday. I immediately answered that it was the end of the war with a Ukrainian victory. Before that, happiness, love, achievements, travels, success, etc. — cannot be experienced fully because they are overshadowed by constant grief and anxiety.
I think I’ve been burnt out for many months, trying to regain the balance but then falling back again. It’s like there is a huge hole in the ship you are sailing on, and you try to patch it with plastic tape. No matter what you do, you can’t fix it, and the hole continues to suck all the energy and life in. At some point, you understand that you need to keep living, so you sit on the deck and meditate, knowing it won’t make the hole smaller, but maybe it will help you accept the situation.
The more bad news I see, the more desperately I try to help with fundraisers, send medicine and equipment to the frontlines, and advocate on social media so people continue supporting Ukraine. It’s a protective mechanism that keeps my mind occupied and chases the dreadful feeling of helplessness away. I realize that no matter what I do or how much money I raise, I can’t save the people I care about. This understanding paralyzes me at first and throws me into action the next moment.
Before the war, I was shy about asking people for help and money, but now I have no shame in begging and asking again and again. I was polite and patient in trying to reach people’s conscience, but now I’m not afraid of sounding rude or cutting off all contact. The war changed me, but I welcome this change. It burned the outer layers of pretense, exposed the true nature of people, and showed me who I am and what I stand for.
It is summer, and my phone gallery is full of photos of flowers, sunsets, homemade food, and walks in nature. This is how I try to stay sane and regain energy. Among those are pictures of my friends on the front, military equipment, combat medical aid, and screenshots of the fundraisers. This is how I try to stay focused and contribute to the end of the war. The hardest thing is to keep the balance. During the lowest moments, I tell myself that I do my best and, somehow, continue to keep the ship afloat despite everything.
A few photos from June:
Warmly,
Darya
Email: daryazorka@substack.com
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Your essay reads like a meditation on grief especially the anger and confusion of watching people going about their life untouched by something that’s ripped one’s soul apart. Such beautifully sad/sadly beautiful writing Darya. Thank you for sharing.
Nice words, thoughts, and pictures. Thank you for sharing them