My name is Helena, and I am from Ukraine.

My story began in 2014, the year Russia occupied Crimea, the southern part of Ukraine along the coast of the Black Sea. At that time, I was living in Kyiv with my husband and our daughter. But Crimea was my home, the place of my force. I loved to come back to Crimea.

Even though I hadn’t lived in Crimea for a long time, I was overwhelmed by a deep, unbearable pain and a sense of losing a part of myself, a part of my life. Crimea was where my strength came from, the place of my childhood. I loved visiting my parents there. Losing it felt like losing a piece of myself—deeply, painfully, with no cure. The pain was constant, an ache that never fully left.

Later, we were able to visit my parents in the occupied territory. But the place I loved—and the memories I had—were no longer there. Even my school had erased me; Russia had removed all the alumni boards that included graduates from the years of independent Ukraine. My school didn’t acknowledge I had ever been there.

2018

As time passed, the pain began to ease. My family and I moved to Kramatorsk in the Donetsk region for work. Kramatorsk had been liberated from Russian occupation not long ago, having been under Russian control in 2014, along with parts of Luhansk, Donetsk, and Crimea. Our son and daughter grew up in Kramatorsk, attending school and nursery, swimming lessons, and even ballroom dance competitions. Life took on new colours—we fell in love with the city. I even began pursuing a second degree, and we found joy in the rhythm of our new life.

And then… the morning of February 2022. At 5 a.m., we woke up because our daughter came into our room, terrified, unable to speak. We read the news: “Putin has declared war.” Explosions echoed through her room, which faced an airfield under heavy attack.

Panic, despair, disbelief—all rushed in, along with an overwhelming urge to escape from this reality. We had prepared an emergency suitcase with documents and essentials and had filled the car with fuel in advance, seeing how close the Russian forces were approaching Ukraine’s border. Thanks to this, we avoided the 10-kilometre lines at the fuel stations that morning and began our journey to safety, leaving eastern Ukraine for the west.

Without fully understanding the gravity of what was happening, we set out for Dnipro, in central Ukraine, hoping for some refuge from the storm unravelling around us.

On the way from Kramatorsk to Dnipro, we passed through a town that had recently been shelled. Abandoned, bullet-riddled cars lined the road, with the bodies of people who, just like us, had been fleeing westward to safety. In that moment, you feel the urge to stop, to help somehow—but you choose not to, for the sake of your children, your family. I didn’t want to become part of a tragic story. So we drove past, leaving them to the care of territorial defence, soldiers, police, and other rescue teams. Yet that image still haunts my dreams.

On our way to western Ukraine, we saw others who had barely survived, people fleeing occupied areas where Russian soldiers were indiscriminately killing. They were taking refuge wherever they could: sleeping in school gymnasiums, makeshift camps, and aid stations. In larger cities, people huddled in metro stations, seeking shelter underground.

Finally, we reached Dnipro and checked into a hotel, planning to rest for a couple of days and buy some groceries. But all the stores, markets, and shops were closed. Some storefronts had been smashed and looted. The hotel offered us snacks and water, which felt like a luxury given the situation. The few places still open only accepted cash, but we’d already spent ours on the hotel. ATMs were down. I refused to give up, though, and by the end of the day, I managed to find a slow cooker and some basic ingredients to prepare a hot meal.

Air raid sirens and bombings kept us awake. The hotel staff asked all guests to go down to the underground parking garage, where we stayed until it was safe to return to our rooms. I knew how serious the situation was, but still, it didn’t fully sink in until the next morning when we saw that part of the hotel had been destroyed, along with a military facility just next door.

The following morning, we moved on. It was becoming far too dangerous to stay in central Ukraine. By then, Russian forces had occupied Nikopol, a city just 40 kilometres from Dnipro, across the river.

Before we left, I wrote my children’s names, surnames, blood types, home addresses, and family contact numbers on their backs with a marker—just in case anything happened.

The road ahead felt endless, tension filling the air everywhere we went. We didn’t know where we’d sleep that night, but we pressed on. Friends and family called constantly, wanting to know if we were still alive.

While searching for a place to stay for the night, I called every hotel I could, but there were no vacancies anywhere. Finally, around 4:00 p.m., my friends informed me they had found a room at a roadside hostel, and one spot was still available. We rushed over, but darkness fell before we arrived. Fear gripped me as I realised we were past curfew; violating it could mean facing a firing squad.

As we approached a checkpoint, a territorial defence guard stopped us. With a harsh tone and his rifle aimed at me, he demanded we get out of the car, reminding us that travelling with children after curfew was strictly forbidden, as though we were casually out for a drive. Only after hearing where we were coming from did he allow us to proceed to the hotel.

In the dark parking lot, we noticed faint glows of cigarettes encircling our car. Desperately trying to stay calm, we hurried inside, and only then, within the walls of the hotel, did I finally feel a small sense of safety.

The next morning

I remembered breathing exercises that helped me calm my mind and reconnect with my body. We meditated, had a small breakfast from what I’d packed, and continued our journey. On the road, my parents called. We were relieved to finally have a clear signal to speak with them. Learning of the massive traffic jams on the way to western Ukraine, where people waited in line for days, my parents arranged a hotel for us in a safer area—Ternopil—for two nights. Grateful, we changed course, heading toward this quieter city.

In the first weeks of the war, civilians became actively involved. No one wanted to abandon their cities; people were ready to fight. Many joined Ukraine’s territorial defence forces, receiving military uniforms and forming queues at recruitment centres. Each town and city set up defence posts at their entrances, staffed with trained ground defence units who stopped every car to check documents. These checkpoints caused huge traffic jams leading into each town.

When we finally reached Ternopil, we were caught in a traffic jam from 6 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. with no way forward. Our route passed an airfield that was being shelled as we waited. The air raid alarm blared continuously, and soldiers regularly came by, advising us to lay the children down on the floor or at least on the seats. The fear was so intense that I felt disconnected from my own body. I don’t remember much about how we entered the city—I only recall finally checking into the hotel.

For two days in Ternopil, we had meals, water, and a chance to feel secure. It was a brief moment to decide our next steps. I wasn’t thinking far into the future; we decided that, for now, we’d move to Mukachevo, a small town 40 kilometres from the Polish border. There, we lived in a hotel for three months, as housing was completely booked. In May 2022, we finally found an apartment—a comfortable place with a kitchen and bathroom. We began working and rebuilding our lives.

I tried to keep myself grounded, focusing on the present and avoiding thoughts that might make me lose my sanity. I volunteered at a refugee camp, my husband found work, and our children started attending kindergarten and school. Then, my husband’s company informed him that he would need to work in Dnipro—a city just 30 to 40 kilometres from Russian military forces. Residential areas in Dnipro were bombed nearly every night, with over 50 civilians lost in a single attack.

Faced with this reality, I knew I needed to make an impossible choice. Should I stay, ignore the sirens, brace for bombings, and be ready for the unimaginable at any moment—all to keep our family together? Or should I take the children and leave, to protect their safety and mental well-being?

The question haunted me: How could I leave my husband behind in Ukraine at such a terrible time? It felt like betrayal. I was broken, but I realised that I needed to put our children’s future first. Together, we made the heartbreaking decision.

In such circumstances, the only things that kept me going were discipline, responsibility for those who depended on me, and a promise I made to myself to keep moving forward.

Most of the women I knew were forced to leave Ukraine to protect their children’s mental health. Many people simply couldn’t afford to rent housing in western Ukraine or survive in crowded shelters, so they left, hoping for better living conditions. But I know many of them will never return; the pain of leaving and the wounds of war are too profound.

During this time, I recalled my grandfather’s words. He had survived the Second World War and returned home with this belief: “The most important thing is to save your life and the lives of your loved ones.” These words anchored me, keeping me from sinking too deeply into the overwhelming events happening around me.

Every time I return to Ukraine, I feel like I am stepping back into those early days of the war. Panic and unbearable pain rise up as I see how people have changed, hardened by the trauma, and how the war has left a deep impact on their mental health. A great divide has grown in Ukrainian society between those who left and those who stayed, and once again, just as I felt in 2014, I am overwhelmed by the pain of losing a part of myself. The loss feels like a burning ache inside. I want to cry, to scream, but nothing eases it.

After two years, my family is no longer whole… Not a day goes by that I don’t feel the weight of guilt. But each day, I’m slowly learning to make peace with myself, over and over again.

I understand that life goes on, and I must begin again in a new country, with a new language, where my education and experience mean little. But every morning when I wake up, I thank God that I am alive, that my children are with me, and that I have the chance to rebuild. War is the most terrible thing in the world.

I have always been an ambitious person, with two degrees, always eager to learn new things and apply them in my life. I was happy in Ukraine and never thought, in the 21st century, that a real war was possible. But reality has taught me otherwise.

War has taught me to let go of long-term plans, to appreciate what I have, and to be grateful for each moment. Now, I’ve moved to the UK, starting from scratch with my two children and a wealth of hard-won experience.

I wish you peace in your life every single day, because life is too short spend it for war or conflicts.

This article is copyright by the author. For permission to reproduce, contact the editor Wyken Seagrave at wyken@unacov.uk.