The Ukranian National Mausoleum (Pt. 2)

I used to think I was more or less unbreakable, that no matter how battered the world around me became, I could hold myself together. But then I went to Ukraine. Every ounce of that sturdy façade I’d cultivated across thirty years of living crumbled the moment I set foot in that museum, witnessing an agony so profound it seeped into my bones. 

I remember standing in the stillness of a vacant playground, its swings motionless in the wind, and realizing that children once laughed here—children who might now be among the frightened faces crammed into makeshift shelters, or worse yet, buried right under my own boots. 

In that silence, a mother knelt by scattered debris, tears carving raw paths down her dust-caked cheeks. She clutched a broken photo frame as though it was the last thread tethering her to hope. One moment I was watching her, the next I found myself sobbing, hands trembling at my sides, wishing I could do something—anything—to erase the devastation etched into her eyes.

I never used to cry. For years, my tears were locked away behind the tough exterior I thought I needed to function. But every night in Ukraine, the mental images of mothers clutching children, fathers gazing hollowly at the wreckage of their homes, entire families torn apart by sirens and explosions—those images would replay behind my eyelids, merciless, vivid. And in the quiet, private sanctuary of my bed, away from any watching eyes, I felt my chest tighten, my throat burn, until tears streamed unbidden.

Now, back home, I find no solace in the distance. The weight of Ukraine follows me through every conversation, every simple morning ritual, each moment I’m alone with my thoughts. I remember the air thick with dust and despair, the hushed whispers of people who have lost the language of hope. And it hits me like a tidal wave of anguish, a reminder that there are thousands upon thousands still enduring that same nightmare.

I wish I could wipe away the tears clinging to every Ukrainian’s face. Instead, I carry the haunting guilt of leaving them behind, living my relatively safe life while they continue to wake each morning to the echo of bombs. My heart fractures with the knowledge that, no matter how often I weep, their suffering doesn’t evaporate. And in this terrible realization, I’m compelled to use my grief as a spark for something better—to turn my tears into the fuel that propels me toward finding a purpose and maybe, just maybe, helping piece together even a fragment of a shattered world.

I still have air-raid sirens on my phone as a living reminder of life in Ukraine and I have no intentions of turning them off until this war is over.