How I was leaving my home Day 1
February 24, 2022
At 5 AM, I was awakened by the sound of explosions.
Realising that I was living near the one of the country's main strategic locations — Boryspil* — my internal decision on what to do was obvious for me. But in reality, it looked like this: I made a coffee, opened the kitchen window to listen more closely (as if I could gauge the danger by the intensity of the shelling), wandered from room to room, and hesitated to wake the children up.
It’s always a pity to wake them up…
I didn’t have an emergency suitcase or important documents prepared in advance. As for cash, I had only $300 hidden in Taleb’s "Black Swan".
At 6:30, I started calling hotels in Lviv to book a room, but they asked me to call back after 9 AM because their workday hadn’t started yet.
I woke my mother and told her something was going on...
My mother is a highly organised person. Her denial lasted 30 minutes but quickly ended when she read online that Putin had announced the start of a “special war operation” in Ukraine. She then took out two suitcases and began packing.
I found all the documents quickly, despite feeling like a zombie — meandering around the apartment, staring at things, and debating irrelevant details, like whether to pack a new skirt from Zara or not. After all, it was so beautiful.
“Olya, do you really need a summer skirt in winter? You’ll come back here sooner than you think. So, you don’t need it,” I told myself.
Books? Well, they’re sacred. But which ones? I initially chose the most important ones — about 20 of them. Then I thought, This is ridiculous. I decided that if I took nothing, it would mean I was certain to come back very soon.
But then there were the jackets and jeans… Which ones should I pack?
I understood this was high-level stress — when you can’t answer even simple questions.
I took a shower, dried my hair, did a quick styling and some light makeup. Thankfully, years of solo parenting taught me to do it all at the speed of a Navy SEAL. I had no idea then how many days and nights we’d go without a proper bathroom, a toilet, or any real comfort... But that morning — the first day of the full-scale war — I was ready, more than any soldier. Well, figuratively speaking.
By 8 AM, we had packed two suitcases, a bag, and two children who had no idea what was happening but were thrilled they didn’t have to go to school.
Everything was packed, explosions echoed outside, yet, for some reason, we didn’t leave. We just couldn’t. Finally, I realized we were paralyzed, grabbed the suitcases myself, went down to the car, and started loading them into the trunk.
Our neighbors stood by the entrance, smoking, watching me without judgment or comment. Their gazes seemed to ask: Is she doing the right thing? Should I leave too? But none of us had answers. In moments like these, everyone makes their own decision, and you never know if it’s the right one.
I hadn’t booked any rooms for that moment. I knew we would head west, and I’d figure everything out once we got there. For a moment, I waited for the company I worked for to provide solutions or protocols for this situation. But an inner voice said, Olya, why should the company be responsible for your life? You must make this decision yourself. And with that, any attempt to shift responsibility disappeared.
I loaded the trunk. My beloved ones came downstairs and stood there looking at me in confusion. My mom brought out the last bags, water, and food. She said she’d turned off all the lights and locked the apartment.
I didn’t say goodbye to my home.
At 9:20 AM, we set off westward.
The journey from Boryspil to Lviv - I briefly considered heading to Truskavets or Ivano-Frankivsk - began with weaving through Kyiv, where traffic jams clogged every road. Cars swerved into oncoming lanes, honking incessantly and creating even more chaos.
People walked along sidewalks with suitcases and pets. The image of a refugee with a suitcase and a pet carrier would haunt me for the next six days and six nights. But I didn’t know that yet.
I was energized, knowing we had to go.
As we drove, the roads became filled with military equipment. Tanks in long columns — more than I had ever seen. Whenever I see tanks and weapons, I cry almost instantly. I didn’t know that over the next six days, I would cry often.
The tanks moved steadily, and people in traffic jams got out of their cars, waving, offering water, fruits, and even blowing kisses to the soldiers.
As for me, I sat silently in the car with my two sons and my mother, gnawing my fist. I put on sunglasses to hide my tears and clutched the steering wheel tightly. I didn’t know then that in six days, I would become one with my car — its engine, its breathing, and its sounds blending with my own. I would even imagine pouring my blood and tears into the diesel tank if it meant we could keep going.
On February 24, I didn’t know that my prayers would soon include, Please, just let us get there safely. Just imagine - I hadn’t had time to change the timing belt in my Renault Kadjar, and in December, I’d been warned it was dangerous to take long trips.
But we kept going.
At some point, I couldn’t hold it in anymore and began sobbing openly. I told the kids, “I need to cry. It’ll calm me down.” This honesty helped; they stayed calm, even when their mother was sobbing.
There was even a brief dialogue between them:
- Mom, are you crying again?- Don’t worry. She’ll cry and feel better, - one of them said matter-of-factly.
This moment reassured me that I wasn’t failing. My boys had developed resilience — they could handle my tears without fear or confusion, embracing the foundations of emotional literacy.
Along the crowded roads, people walked with backpacks, children, and animals — all heading west. On foot.
It took us 23 hours to reach Lviv. That’s my personal record, one I never prepared for.
In those hours, I learned to:
Drive nearly nonstop for 23 hours;
Care for my loved ones while shifting gears as quietly as possible;
Recover with 15-minute naps in traffic jams;
Push through stiff arms and legs, knowing it would pass;
Suppress dark thoughts of explosions and stray bullets, though unsuccessfully.
This marked the beginning of my personal war. A war with the motto: You won’t take me or my children easily, you bastard. If you dare, I’ll devour your liver and wear the rest as a necklace.
This internal fire helps me keep my dignity and look my kids in the eyes, knowing I’ve done everything possible. My guiding principle is: Leave no room for regret — give 100%.
By 8 AM on February 25, we arrived at a hotel in Lviv. Thanks to a wonderful colleague of mine, Galya, who managed to book two rooms for us — something I’ll never forget.
The reception was empty; the administer was napping by the phone.
The second day of our journey had begun.
To be continued…
*Boryspil International Airport