What Is It Like to Be a Mother in Ukraine?

"I don't even try to imagine what it's like to be a mother in Ukraine," an old friend from another continent writes to me. She has two children, and she worries about them all the time. They appeared in her life quite late, when she no longer expected it. And the whole world seems hostile and dangerous to her.

"I don't even know how to tell you what it's like to be a mother in Ukraine in 2024," I replied, and it's completely honest. Because being a mother in my country is about the same as trying to sing a lullaby while standing on a wobbly stool with a noose around your neck. And at the same time feel happy despite the fact that the world is flying into the abyss.

...Being a mother in Ukraine is waiting every second for the laconic "+" in Signal, which your daughter-in-law helped you install. And then reread these pluses like an endless novel, adding your own meanings to each.

It is giving birth in a bomb shelter and sending the first photo to your husband who last contacted you three days ago. And to have faith that the three of you will have a chance to see each other. Because in this world there is nothing else to have faith in.

It is running from positions under fire and shouting loudly to the sky: "My God, not today. Today is the little one's birthday. Leave him at least this holiday. Not today, please!". And in a few hours, lie about the weak Internet and send best wishes by a voice message, not by video call, for the kid not to see what a horrible sight you are.

It is hugging the son's brothers-in-arms like there is no tomorrow. Hugging everyone who came to his funeral. Bearded men and girls with empty eyes. Clinging to their shoulders and begging them to stay alive. Living. For yourself and for him. Breathing in the smell of their uniform with closed eyes and believing for a second that he is with you.

It is treating your grown-up daughter to ice cream at the train station in Kramatorsk, where she has arrived for just an hour to see you before the fast train "Kyiv–War " departs in the opposite direction. Taking stupid selfies, telling jokes and not admitting to yourself that you are actually bidding farewell to her. Because your position is going to be attacked at night. And the chances of survival are slim. Let her remember you smiling. Let her be a child for another hour.

It is fighting for the right to give birth to a child from a fallen husband. Listening to half of the country, breaking the law, gathering conferences, forgetting about anguish and pain, for which there is simply no time. Being strong because there is no longer a wall on which you could lean. But he wanted children so much. You wanted children so much... Let them come into this world.

It is talking to an adult child in another city for half a night and soothing her during panic attacks because she is far from the nearest shelter, and two walls did not save anyone in the neighboring house last week. And all she can cling to is your voice, drowning out the sirens and ringing sounds in the ears. "Don't be afraid, my dear. I'm with you. That damned MiG will soon land and you will be able to sleep."

It is hugging a child so tightly that when the tired emergency workers finally reach your bodies under the rubble of the house, nothing will be able to break this hug. It will be stronger than the walls that failed to protect you from the enemy missile.

It is breathing in the smell of the back of the baby's head and crying with happiness and fear. Because you don't know what to teach a new person in this world. Because the world you are used to is no longer there. And in the one that is, there is no place for this fragile happiness.

It is collecting endless parcels or donations or driving cars from Europe, chastising yourself for not even having time to kiss goodnight your adult seven-year-old son, who understands everything, doesn't ask for anything and tries to support you. Even when you scream at him out of helplessness, as if it could change the crazy world.

It is carrying some cans of homemade preserves to tired men who were taken to a nearby village to rest. Forcefully taking dirty clothes from them for washing. Crying your eyes out at home over the clothes that are soaked in dirt and blood. And hoping that somewhere, in another village, someone will also bring a pot of homemade soup to your son. Not to feed, but to give him the chance to feel like a child near his mother, even if for a day.

It is going with the child to visit dad at the cemetery. And helplessly watching her hug the cold stone. Because she no longer remembers his hugs. And dad for her is just a photo on the phone and long stories before bed. And this is the only place where she can feel his presence.

It is believing in your child, even when all the doctors in the country say that children do not regain consciousness after such injuries. Living in an intensive care unit. Dragging the child from nothingness into the light despite everything. Remembering how to change a diaper, how to feed with formulas, how to massage and hear changes in breathing even when you are asleep. Everything is almost the same as when he was a newborn. And thanking the universe for him being there. In however severe a condition, but still alive.

It is waiting for your child, who is a prisoner of war. Searching for a familiar face on enemy Telegram channels. Being afraid that you might not recognize him because they are all like a carbon copy. Every second person can be him. Not leaving the house because you can miss the news about the exchange. And talking to him. Talking endlessly, hoping that he will feel you despite the distance.

It is choosing a school not by the quality of teaching, but by the reliability of the bomb shelter. It is looking not for a dance club, but for a children's school of drones. It is ordering address bracelets for the whole family. It is having a bug-out bag and first aid kits in all corners. It is buying not a cool smartphone for your birthday, but a drone for your dad's unit. A drone named after a child. Fortunately.

It is living with a bloody wound instead of the heart. Every second. And loving in spite of everything. Loving so sharply that it cannot be taken away from you. Because this is almost the only thing left in your life.