Phantom Spring
Non-Inspirational one.
I wake up at 5 a.m. every morning since February 24. That’s 4 a.m. in Kyiv. My youngest son still has the habit of sleeping in his clothes — a reflex born of the stress when we drove for six days straight in our car, never taking off our winter jackets. My eldest constantly argues and talks back. And as for how many packs a day our grandmother smokes, I’d rather not count or even think about it — it’s too frightening to face.
We’re all coping with this forced relocation in our own ways.
Even two months after arriving in Warsaw, the daily grind of logistics and everyday routine still weighs heavily on me. Tasks that used to be simple — finding an office on a map, remembering the necessary documents, keeping my head on straight, not mixing up times, getting there, enduring the well-meaning pity of Poles for us Ukrainians, solving or not solving the issue, and then returning to our apartment — now require a Herculean effort.
It took me two months to finally remember that when it’s 9:00 in Kyiv, it’s 8:00 here, and to realize how this time difference benefits me, an ultra-early riser. Now, when messaging colleagues, trainers, and new acquaintances worldwide, I’m in the habit of asking, “What time zone are you in?” and responding with, “CET.”
Today, in the botanical garden of Warsaw University, I finally identified the feeling that has been brewing inside me and found the analogy that best describes it.
Most people who fled Ukraine on or after February 24 feel this way.
Remember when you were in a hospital recovering from surgery or something similar? Your cautious steps toward rehabilitation, that first fragile walk in the hospital garden. You barely breathe, find a bench, and freeze there. You’re wearing a hospital gown and pajamas, counting the days until you’re discharged, but the discharge date is still far away. Meanwhile, beyond the hospital walls, life goes on as usual. You know you’ll recover, but for now, that life is not yours. Your friends will visit soon, bringing treats and comfort, but then they’ll leave, and you’ll return to your room to continue healing.
That’s what being a refugee feels like.
You walk through this breathtakingly beautiful city, your breath taken away by its orderliness, care, and the incredible dedication with which everything is built and maintained. My kids wave Ukrainian flags from the car, and Polish drivers honk and smile at us. The city is stunningly gorgeous. No matter where you look, you’ll see a Ukrainian flag. Every store has a collection point for humanitarian aid to Ukraine, and there’s always someone outside collecting donations too.
Sometimes it feels like Poles have no other concerns.
I won’t even begin to describe the kindness of our landlords — it’s beyond my understanding. I didn’t know such generosity was possible.
Poland’s support will become the stuff of legends, and I will be one of those who write those legends down.
And yet, amidst all this, you stand there like my son Platon in the photo I took at the digital illusions museum, unable to connect all this external beauty and order to your own inner chaos. You feel as though your closest loved one is in the hospital, and you’re at home on the couch, restless and uneasy.
I wanted to write a glowing recommendation for those in Warsaw or planning to visit, urging them to make the breathtaking botanical garden a must-see. You can momentarily feel like you’re in the pages of a classic novel or movie and feel a bit better.
But no, I’m not burying myself or refusing to "live life," as many psychologists now advise. It’s just that this is how it feels, and for now, it’s the only way I know how.
Thanks to my years studying psychology at Kyiv Shevchenko University and two years of psychotherapy learning course, I’ve learned to treat even the smallest emotional manifestations with care and to read the states of those around me.
Yes, it’s emotionally exhausting, but it means you’re dealing with pure, unfiltered feelings. You don’t have to dig and search to reconnect with your emotions — because that connection is your life. It helps you adapt and recover faster.
I can say with certainty that these are the most authentic feelings and behaviors for now.
Everything else would feel like violence or a lie, or simply repression or denial — which, of course, are also necessary for survival but will make the road to recovery longer.
May 1, 2022