Memoirs of a Small Town Girl with a Big Story.

  I’ve always loved writing. If I ever publish a book, it’ll be a memoir—my story, in my words. I may not have traveled the world, but I’ve lived through more in my little hometown than some people experience in a lifetime.

  Growing up in Ukraine in the 1990s, after the fall of the Soviet Union, wasn’t for the faint of heart. Most people were barely scraping by. Poverty, crime, and chaos were everywhere. I’ve mentioned pieces of this before, but it’s worth repeating: I believe my contradictory personality—both tough and tender—is deeply rooted in the environment I came from. 

Heart Problems and Hospital Walls

  One of the defining struggles of my childhood was my congenital heart disease. That, paired with the instability of the time, made things especially hard. I was homeschooled for a few years because of my condition and spent more time in hospitals than playgrounds.

  My worst hospital experience was at nine years old. I had double pneumonia and was sent to an awful infectious disease hospital that hadn’t been renovated since 1952. Mold covered the walls. Paint peeled like scabs. Cockroaches were our only consistent visitors. I was there for over a month—alone. My parents weren’t allowed to visit. They could only pass food and clothes through a tiny window. I was placed in a room with orphans who bullied me relentlessly—stealing my food, calling me names, throwing slippers, smoking indoors. Later, I was moved to another room, only to face more bullying.

  And if that wasn’t enough, my doctor thought it would be a great idea to use me as a teaching tool. He brought medical students to observe how heart disease affects the lungs. I felt like an animal in a cage. I begged him to let me go home for Christmas. He agreed, but I wasn’t fully recovered. I ended up back in that dreadful place soon after, worse off than before. 

Kicked Off the Trolleybus

  Another moment seared into my memory: because of my heart condition, I had a pass that let me ride public transportation for free. One day, after a swimming lesson, I got on a trolleybus with my friends and brother. The conductor looked me up and down and said, “You don’t look disabled.” Then she kicked me off the bus. I didn’t have money for the fare, so we walked home—9 or 10 kilometers uphill in the summer heat. After that, I never used the pass again. I was too ashamed, too afraid of being humiliated like that again.

  Then there was the night before my heart surgery at the Cardiac Hospital in Kyiv. A nurse’s aide came in to administer an enema, but it didn’t work. She lost her temper and slapped me—called me a brat—right in front of my mother. Later, it turned out the enema device was broken. My mom was devastated. She didn’t even know if I’d survive the surgery the next day. My mom had bribed the surgeon, the anaesthesiologists, the nurses… but apparently, she should’ve bribed the aide too. That was the state of healthcare in my country.

  But it wasn’t all bad. Despite the hardship, I was lucky to know kindness. When I turned 10, my whole class and teachers came to visit me. They did it again for my 12th birthday, just a month after my surgery. Those were two of the best birthdays I’ve ever had.

  Our neighbors helped too. They lent us money for the surgery and supported us in ways I’ll never forget.

When I Wasn’t Sick, I Was Wild and Free

  When I wasn’t in the hospital, I had the most wonderfully normal childhood. My parents didn’t hover, so my summers were full of wild, messy adventures. If I could turn back time, I’d choose one more sun-soaked day from those years.

  I had a whole gang of neighborhood friends. We stayed outside from morning ‘til night—refusing to go home even to eat or drink. We’d pee in bushes rather than risk being called in for the day. We climbed trees, caught insects and frogs, stole fruit from gardens, played on construction sites, and visited friends’ homes to play Nintendo or Sega. No smartphones. No internet. Just freedom and scraped knees.

  It’s honestly a miracle we survived. We jumped off metal garages like we were doing parkour before it was a thing. Ran through underground tunnels. And once, around age 8 or 9, we found a woman’s corpse—rolled up in a mattress and burning in a dumpster. Only her charred leg in a shoe was visible. We called the adults, and I remember the police running in, guns raised, shots fired into the air. She’d been drinking with two men who ended up killing her. It was horrific, and unforgettable. 

Summer Camps, Deaf Cliques, and Crimean Dreams

  Not all memories are dark, though. I remember being sent to a summer camp for disabled kids. I was placed in a group with children who were deaf and mute. Only one girl could talk, and she wasn’t interested in befriending me. I felt left out and alone. Ironically, one of the deaf girls was my first childhood friend that I played with daily when I was 3 or 4. We were neighbours. Her family had a color TV, and I’d go to her house to watch Ducktales each week. I still don’t know how they understood it without sound, but somehow, they did.

  Anyway, I got sick after the first day of that camp and went home. The rest of my camp experiences were far better—set in the stunning landscapes of southern Crimea. I went to summer camps for regular kids. Almost every year we stayed near the sea, surrounded by pine and juniper trees, spending our days on the beach or hiking. At night, we danced at discos under the stars. To this day, when I hear those old songs, I can feel the breeze, smell the salt air, and remember everything. I still keep in touch with two of my camp friends.

 Books, Poems, Candles, and Faith

  In an earlier blog post, I mentioned how we didn’t have electricity in the evenings. I’d do my homework by candlelight, then read for hours. That’s when I became a true bookworm. Out of boredom, I’d also write poems. I was surprisingly good at rhyming. One of my poems, Hyperborea—about Slavic pagan gods—won a literary competition in my town when I was in middle school.

  Later, as a university freshman, I wrote an article about the Armenian Genocide and my ancestors. It was published in a book compiled by one of our professors. 

  These days, with work and internet distractions, I don’t write poetry anymore. But I still keep a journal. And sometimes, I write here.

  Another vivid memory: home Bible study groups. We didn’t have electricity, but we had each other. We’d read the Bible, sing worship songs, talk about our weeks, and drink tea with cookies. It was simple but I cherish those memories. 

The School That Shaped Me

  One more thing that shaped who I am today was my school.

  After I recovered from heart surgery, I enrolled in a public middle school—though calling it “public” doesn’t quite capture what it was. This was a new, prestigious school built specifically for the children of Russian military personnel stationed in Ukraine. This school was built by the governor of Moscow, Yury Luzhkov. Even after Crimea became part of Ukraine, Russia maintained its military bases and the Black Sea Fleet. My father had worked at one of those bases for 35 years before being laid off in the ‘90s. Still, I was accepted to the school, even though he no longer worked there.

  It was, without exaggeration, the fanciest school in town—and probably one of the best in Crimea. We had excellent teachers, modern equipment, and a beautiful new building. There were school events, excursions, field trips. I remember one especially vivid memory: we visited the Russian warship Moskva. One of my classmates' fathers served on board, and we were buzzing with excitement as we explored the ship. Decades later, in 2022, Moskva was sunk by Ukrainian forces during the war. That memory now feels like a strange bridge between eras—between childhood curiosity and adult awareness of war’s cost.

  We also had mandatory classes in "Basic Safety," which was really a kind of soft military training. We learned how to throw grenades, assemble and disassemble rifles, load magazines, shoot, give first aid—clearly grooming future soldiers. And many of my male classmates did, in fact, go on to become Russian military personnel.

  But while the school was academically exceptional, socially I stood out like a sore thumb.

  I was the only visibly non-Slavic student in the whole school. There were three other kids who were mixed, but they blended in better than I did. I drew a lot of unwanted attention. My immediate classmates and teachers were kind—I was friendly, studious, and easy to get along with—but older boys who didn’t know me often harassed me. I had to avoid certain places where I might run into them.

  There was also the wealth gap. Russian military families were relatively affluent. Their salaries were high compared to what most people in town earned. My dad, at the time, was unemployed. I wore hand-me-downs. I didn’t have the cool stuff—no trendy shoes, no new backpack, no fancy coat. I wasn’t popular, and I never even tried to be. That may have been the seed of my fascination with fashion. As shallow as it sounds, appearance matters—especially when you grow up feeling like an outsider. The way you present yourself often determines how others treat you.

  Still, despite the bullying and the sense of not belonging, I’m deeply grateful I went to that school. It gave me a top-tier education, especially by post-Soviet standards. It set the foundation for my future.   

  There are so many more stories I could share, but I’ll stop here for now.

  This blog is mostly for me. A reminder of who I was. I was a pure, innocent kid. And sometimes, I need to remember her.