Beyond the Headlines: One Ukrainian's Story of Living Through War

I have intentionally distorted this photograph to protect Anna's identity. But the distortion also serves another purpose. It reflects what life has become for her—and for millions of Ukrainians living under the shadow of this war. Their world has grown increasingly blurred, its colors slowly fading, even as their suffering slips from the attention of much of the world.

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Ever since Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine began, I have wanted to document it. Circumstances have kept me from going.

Not a day passes that I don't think about the people living there. What troubles me almost as much as the war itself is how little sustained attention is given to the ordinary Ukrainians enduring it. Headlines report military advances and political maneuvering, but they rarely linger on the quiet cost borne by those simply trying to survive.

My dear friend, Anna, lives in Kyiv. We stay in touch through social media—the only reliable way we have to communicate. During the first year of the invasion, I also met periodically, through virtual technology, with a small group of Ukrainian women who were teachers. More than once, as we talked, our conversation was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of explosions. It was surreal to be sitting safely at home while they calmly continued speaking from a city under attack.

Every so often, Anna sends me a photograph of herself. With each one I notice the same thing: a little more weight lost, a little more light gone from her eyes. The youthful spirit I once knew has gradually been replaced by exhaustion. There is a weariness in her expression that no one should have to carry.

For now, my own injuries make the journey impossible. But when I have fully recovered, if the war continues, I intend to go on my own dime. I don't want to photograph battlefields nearly as much as I want to witness the lives of those caught in the middle of them—the families, the teachers, the elderly, the children, the people whose stories are too often overshadowed by maps and military briefings.

Imagine living in a place where you never know whether you will wake the next morning, or whether you will survive the coming day. Drone strikes arrive without warning. A building standing one moment can be reduced to rubble the next. Air-raid sirens become part of the rhythm of everyday life.

I remember talking with Anna during one of Kyiv's bitter winters after Russian attacks severely damaged Ukraine's electrical infrastructure. Entire neighborhoods were left without heat while temperatures remained well below freezing. It is difficult to comprehend that reality from the comfort of a warm room.

In a recent message, Anna told me that many Ukrainians are now fearful of another winter without reliable heat. She worries that limitations on Ukraine's air-defense capabilities could leave critical infrastructure increasingly vulnerable to future attacks. Whether one follows the war through politics or military analysis, it is easy to lose sight of what those decisions ultimately mean: families wondering whether they will have electricity, warmth, or even a home when winter arrives.

That is the Ukraine I hope to document—not the machinery of war, but the resilience of ordinary people determined to live despite it.

For millions of Ukrainians, however, it was simply another day of enduring a war they never chose.

I have decided to present the most recent email I received from Anna, so that you can read from her own words.

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Life in Kyiv During the War
by Anna Tkachenko

The following letter was written by my friend Anna, who has lived in Kyiv throughout Russia's full-scale invasion. I have reproduced it with her permission, exactly as she wrote it.

“Every person carries within them an entire world — a world of memories, dreams, losses, hopes, and encounters. Some moments of life fade from memory like footprints in the sand touched by the wind, while others remain forever in our hearts and souls. 

We all have our own unique life story. It contains joy and sorrow, triumphs and setbacks, moments when we wanted to laugh with happiness, and days when it seemed that the whole world had become too heavy to bear. Yet it is precisely these moments that make up the story of a human life. 

I was born in the beautiful city of Kyiv, a city with a rich history. It is a place that has always inspired me. My childhood, like much of my life, was not easy. I remember the days when we had almost no food at home and how my sister and I would rejoice over pasta with cheese as if it were the finest meal in the world. 

Life in Ukraine in the early 1990s, when the country gained its independence in 1991, was difficult primarily because of a deep economic and social crisis. It was a challenging time for many people. Yet it was also a period of great hope. For the first time in many decades, Ukraine became an independent nation, gaining the opportunity to determine its own future, develop the Ukrainian language and culture, and build its own state institutions. 

My childhood took place during difficult times. Yet the greatest hardships were not only about a lack of money or the uncertainty of the future. My father was a cruel man, and because of that, our home did not always offer warmth or a sense of safety. Some memories still hurt, even though many years have passed. 

However, those trials taught me to be strong, to empathize with the pain of others, and to value people who bring kindness into the world. Even now, because I am unable to live separately, I have to remain under the same roof as the person who destroyed my life and my dreams—the person who made my mother cry every day. That is deeply painful. 

Sadly, many women go through the same kind of hell. 

My father started a family to be like everyone else, but he never truly cared about his wife or his children. He lived only for himself. 

When my younger sister was born, he bought neither food nor clothes, nothing at all. I had been studying to become an interior designer, but I had to give up my dream in order to provide food and clothing for my mother and little sister. Unfortunately, at that time there was no opportunity to both study and work at that university. Students could only begin working alongside their studies after two years. 

It was a difficult period. My mother had broken her leg and was unable to work, and my younger sister was still very small. I could not wait that long, so I left university and went to work. 

I hardly had any days off. I worked fourteen hours a day. Sometimes I felt as though I could not endure it any longer and was ready to give up, but I knew I did not have that choice. I was responsible for my mother and my little sister, and they depended on me. 

I remember that time... When I was working, I never bought anything for myself and barely had enough to eat. Later, my boots tore apart. They were autumn boots, but winter had already arrived, and I kept wearing them in the freezing cold with a hole in the sole. My boots were always wet and cold. One day, I became seriously ill and almost died. 

There was so much in my life—so much pain and disappointment. Yet even now, I still believe that one day everything may change. 

Every person should live with hope in their heart and, even in the darkest days of life, keep searching for the light. 

My childhood was not easy either. I remember working to earn money for my school notebooks and uniform. I simply knew that life was difficult for my mother, and I wanted to help her in any way I could. 

At that time, my mother paid for my English lessons, which were very expensive. My mother has always been my light and my hope. She taught me that no matter what happens, we should keep smiling and keep dreaming. 

Whenever I was given a little money for food at school, I never spent it on myself. Instead, I gave it to homeless people and children. I did this because I believed that, at the very least, I had a bed to sleep in and a home to return to, while many of them had nothing—not even enough food to eat. 

There is something truly beautiful about seeing happiness in another person's eyes. Sometimes the smallest acts of kindness, or a kind word spoken from the heart, can give someone hope and help them carry on. 

If someone had told me a few years ago that one day I would be writing these words, I would not have believed them. 

I would not have believed that ordinary things could become priceless. That silence could feel like a gift. That a simple message saying, “I’m home,” could bring such relief. That a person could live between fear and hope for so long and still find the strength to smile. 

I remember mornings without air-raid alarms. I remember a time when the word “war” seemed like something distant, something that belonged only in the pages of history textbooks. I remember dreams that were easy to build, as if the future were something guaranteed. 

Then the war came. Nearly five years have passed since the beginning of this bloody war. 

It changed more than just the country. It changed us. It taught us to count our days differently, to value simple things, and to find courage where we had never thought to look for it before. It showed us how fragile life can be and how strong the human heart can become. 

My life, like the lives of millions of Ukrainians, has been divided into two parts. There was a “before” — filled with ordinary worries, plans, dreams, and hopes. And then came the “after” — when every day became a reminder of how fragile the world we once believed to be unchanging truly is. 

War takes away so much. It steals peace, a sense of safety, and confidence in tomorrow. But it also reveals things that people often never realize they possess: the strength of their own hearts, the value of human kindness, and the ability to find light even in the midst of darkness. 

Every new day is a gift, and every moment of life is priceless. When you live in a country at war, you do not know whether tomorrow will come for you. It is like a roulette wheel — you either survive or you die. It is a lottery of life and death. 

At first, you do not want to accept that life can end at any moment. You resist the thought and try to hold on to the belief that there will always be another tomorrow. But with time, you simply learn to accept it and understand that it has become a part of this harsh reality. 

The war changed everything. 

It taught us to live from one air raid alert to the next, from one news update to another. It taught us to cherish every message from our loved ones, every phone call, and every morning when everyone was still alive. It brought a pain that is difficult to put into words, yet at the same time it revealed the incredible strength of the human spirit. 

I have seen fear. I have seen tears. I have seen the exhaustion in the eyes of people who continued to live despite everything. But I have also seen courage, kindness, and resilience. I have seen people helping strangers, supporting one another, and finding the strength to rise again after the hardest blows. 

I pray that one day we will wake up under peaceful skies. This is my wish for everyone in this world who is living through the horrors of war. “

Nature Has No Agenda

This morning, I sat in my well-worn leather recliner, a calico cat stretched comfortably across my left arm while my right hand filled another page of my journal. It is part of my morning ritual whenever I am not on the road.

Eventually, I came to a stopping point. The pages of my journal remained open, but my pen rested quietly across them. I sat for a few moments longer, looking out the window. The sun had risen, and patches of blue sky had begun to appear through the dense green canopy of the trees.

My first reaction, almost instinctive, was relief. The violent storms and heavy rains that had swept through the night had either moved on or exhausted themselves somewhere beyond the horizon.

Then my thoughts drifted to another morning several years ago.

I had driven to Florida's Gulf Coast to witness Hurricane Michael firsthand—one of the most powerful hurricanes ever to strike the United States. I wanted to see, firsthand, what a hurricane of that magnitude was truly like.

As I watched the storm unfold, I understood why so many who lived in its path described it as violent. The winds were relentless, the rain blinding, and the sheer power of the storm inspired both fear and awe.

Yet the greatest revelation came not during the hurricane itself, but the following morning.

I had spent the night in Fairhope, Alabama, many miles away from where the hurricane made landfall. As I walked the short distance from my hotel room to the breakfast area, I stopped almost involuntarily.

The sky was an impossibly deep blue. A warm, gentle breeze drifted steadily through the air. Everything felt peaceful.

Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I had been sitting in my Ford Expedition fewer than two hundred miles away, witnessing Hurricane Michael's fury. Now the air was calm, the sky inviting, and the world seemed almost untouched.

It was as though nothing had happened.

Later that morning, I drove toward the areas where the storm had passed. Even there, the skies remained brilliantly clear. As I continued west toward Pensacola, I passed dozens of surfers taking advantage of the larger waves the storm had left behind. Once again, beneath cloudless skies, life was already moving forward.

It was then that I realized something I have never forgotten.

Nature has no agenda.

The hurricane was not angry. It was not seeking revenge. It was not punishing anyone or intentionally destroying anything. It was simply responding to changes within the natural world, rebalancing itself according to forces far older than humanity. It just happened that people and their homes lay in its path.

For much of human history, storms, earthquakes, volcanoes, and floods were believed to be the wrath of angry gods. People offered sacrifices in hopes of calming divine tempers and preventing another catastrophe.

Standing in the aftermath of Hurricane Michael, I saw something entirely different.

Nature was not lashing out.

It was simply being nature.

The trees did not resent the wind. The birds did not curse the rain. The shoreline did not seek revenge against the sea. Everything simply adapted and continued.

Perhaps that is where we differ.

We often assign intention where none exists. We interpret hardship as hostility. We search for someone—or something—to blame. But nature offers another perspective. It reminds us that not every destructive force is driven by malice. Sometimes the world is simply responding to circumstances beyond our control.

This morning, as I sat once again in my recliner, the blue sky returned after another night of storms. It looked much the same as it did that morning in Alabama.

And once again, I was reminded that while nature eventually returns to balance, we humans often carry yesterday's storms far longer than we need to.