Today’s date might seem ordinary - just another square on the calendar.
But for me, it’s something else.
While walking alone, headphones in, thoughts spinning, I realized something I never fully admitted to myself:
My strength was born from my pain.
Yes, I know how it sounds - like a cliché. But when it hits you for real, in your bones, it stops being a phrase. It becomes a truth.
Right now, Linkin Park is playing in my ears. “It’s more than I can take.” And I feel every word. Sometimes my life looks worse than my nightmares. Not metaphorically - literally.
Every time I think, “It can’t possibly get worse,” it somehow does. And still, I survive. Even broken. Even when my mind feels like it’s dying.
But I survive.
And with every round of pain, I get stronger. I know not everyone would make it through what I have. Especially… after the kidnapping. But here I am.
Still fighting.
Fighting myself.
Fighting my depression.
Fighting for justice.
And representing what happened to me - to us - to Ukraine.
Today, my friend Marina said something I haven’t stopped thinking about:
“I know this will sound harsh, but maybe this situation is what you needed. Maybe it’ll change you… spiritually.”
And the truth is - I think she’s right.
War changed me.
Losing my home changed me.
Watching russian missiles hit the house I grew up in changed me.
Hearing explosions for the first time changed me.
Living through this hell changed me.
If none of it had happened… would I be happier? Healthier? Probably.
But would I be this strong?
Would I have found my voice again?
Because for a long time, I lost it.
You see, I started writing books when I was just a child. Stories saved me. Gave me worlds to escape into. And right before the war began, I signed a contract with a russian publishing house. My book was supposed to come out. I believed in it. I believed in myself.
But instead - they stole it. Released it without me. Erased my name. Sold my words.
And something in me broke.
I stopped writing for 8 years.
Eight years of silence. Eight years of believing I wasn’t enough. Eight years of carrying a wound that only grew deeper.
But then - full-scale war. And I couldn’t stay silent anymore.
The need to speak, to scream, to tell the World what was happening - it was bigger than my fear. Bigger than my brokenness.
And that’s how writing saved me again.
Now, even when I feel awful… even when I’m mentally shattered… I write.
Because when I write - I feel alive.
Truly, painfully, beautifully alive.