Ukraine: Worn Hearts, Steeled Resolve

I have traveled to Ukraine nearly 20 times. Each visit deepens my respect for how people in conflict endure. This year, as I journeyed from Chisinau, in neighboring Moldova, to Uman in central Ukraine, I witnessed the paradox: life unfolding as if ordinary, even as war pressed in on every side. Markets bustled, cafés were full, and children walked to school. War has become a backdrop in daily life.

I have seen this before in other nations enduring conflict: people preserve continuity by compartmentalizing. They create pockets of normalcy to shield their families, their children, and themselves from the constant strain of danger. Ukrainians do the same. They cling to routines not because they are blind to what is happening, but because this is how life goes on under extraordinary circumstances.

During the day, life unfolded with striking steadiness. Shops were open, schools held classes, and cafés filled with conversations. Nothing closed. War was present, but it did not dictate the cadence of daily life. People pressed on with remarkable resolve, refusing to let conflict consume their hours.

At night, however, the balance shifted. Air raid warnings pierced the darkness. Ambulance sirens cut through the silence. The curfew, from midnight to 5 AM, made those sounds echo loudly, a stark reminder of vulnerability as streets fell quiet. This contrast, between calm days and anxious nights, was a reminder that compartmentalizing is not the same as escaping. Shutting out “the other reality” allows life to go on, but it exacts a quiet toll. Beneath the surface of resilience, the weight of “what if” is relentless.

I recall when Ukraine’s major roads were narrow and potholed, marked by unofficial checkpoints and police randomly checking documents. Over time, they became modern highways, a symbol of progress and a nation moving forward. Russia’s invasion reversed that progress overnight. What had been a country pressing ahead was thrust back into a state of survival.

Before the war, Ukrainians knew Volodymyr Zelensky as the star of Servant of the People, a television satire in which a schoolteacher rants about corruption and becomes an unlikely president. It was comedy, but with an edge of truth. Today, in a cruel twist of fate, that fiction became prophecy. Zelensky is no longer acting out politics; he is leading a nation through crisis and resilience.

As I walked the streets this year, I noticed how persistence and resilience stand side by side. Markets were crowded with produce, yet older residents stood nearby, selling small baskets from their gardens to make ends meet. Soviet-era uniforms lay for sale on blankets placed on sidewalks, while new BMWs sped past rattling Soviet-era buses. In town squares, there were endless billboards featuring photographs of fallen soldiers, each bearing a QR code that linked to their stories. Schools mounted plaques on building walls to honor graduates who died in battle. I paused as a funeral procession passed, an ambulance leading with a soldier’s photograph in the windshield, shopkeepers leaving their stores to stand in silence. Grief is not an occasional occurrence here. It is part of the rhythm of life.

Living in this reality has unleashed a mental health crisis. According to Ukraine’s Ministry of Health, the number of people seeking psychological help in 2024 has more than doubled compared to the previous year. Antidepressant sales have surged nearly 50 percent since 2021. A Lancet study reports that more than half of Ukrainians, including refugees, live with PTSD. Twenty-one percent struggle with severe anxiety. Eighteen percent live with constant stress. And in 2023, more than one in four reported feeling depressed or very sad, up sharply from before the invasion.

These figures are not abstractions. They are lived experiences. Teachers steady students while suppressing their own fears. Parents comfort children when sirens interrupt dinner. Shopkeepers greet customers with smiles while wondering whether loved ones will return from the front. This is the cost of war: invisible wounds carried behind the routines of daily life.

Remember People’s Stories

Western headlines are increasingly focused on politics, with questions about whether U.S. and EU leaders will sustain aid, how long support for Zelensky will last, and what future negotiations might bring. These debates matter. But when politics dominates the narrative, the human story – our emotional connection – risks fading from view. The United Nations recently passed a resolution recognizing “the profound and long-lasting effects on the mental health of people, in particular children.” This acknowledgment is important, but it is not enough. Policies and political platitudes cannot replace storytelling.

The war’s reach was evident even at the border. My crossing into Moldova took five hours.  Two years ago, it was 30 minutes. Officials pried into spare tire hubs, emptied luggage, and rechecked passports repeatedly. For me, it was an inconvenience. For Ukrainian men between 18 and 60, it was absolute – they cannot leave. Guards studied every face, determined to grab draft dodgers. War demands not only weapons, but people.

Moldova itself carries the strain. Refugees continue to arrive, its economy is stretched, and its stability depends in no small measure on Ukraine’s endurance. Trauma does not stop at borders; it ripples outward, reshaping the region.

What impressed me most was the people’s adaptation. Ukraine is doing more than enduring; it is investing in its future. I saw new multilingual historic heritage signs supported by EU restoration funding, featuring markers that honor the intertwined contributions of Ukrainians, Poles, and Jews. Even if history is more complicated than the inscriptions suggest, these symbols point toward unity. They reflect a nation determined to acknowledge its difficult past while striving to shape a different tomorrow.

That is what struck me most this year. Ukraine is not allowing the conflict to dominate its aspirations. While global headlines debate the scale and length of Western support, Ukrainians are already laying the foundations for what comes next. Their resilience is not simply about surviving the present; it is about declaring that there will be a future, and they will build it.

Ukraine is more than a battlefield. It is a nation of teachers, farmers, doctors, and entrepreneurs who rise each morning to live, to work and build. The war, directed mainly at Kyiv and the East, has scarred Ukraine. It has not broken this nation. Instead, it has revealed a strength of spirit that unites remembrance with renewal.

That is why their stories must remain on our front pages, not only to remember their sacrifices, but also to honor their hope. Ukraine’s struggle is not just for sovereignty, but for the promise that even in the hardest of times, a nation can adapt, unite, and invest in a future worth both believing in and living.