Here I stand, in two different worlds, with one foot in the United States and the other in Ukraine. They are both my home, and I no longer feel whole. I am an American. For the past (almost) three years my family and I have lived in Ukraine. It became home, the only home my younger daughter remembers and the home my older daughter has lived the longest. The truth is that I don’t even know if I have a home because I am starting over as an evacuee.
These words could all be my private way of processing. I could type them up and then hit delete or file them away to never see the light of day. Instead, I am sharing them openly because I believe we can all grow from this experience.
My goal is for you to take something from my journey to help you on yours.
These are my own, personal experiences. They are probably quite different from the experiences of others, even others evacuating with me. Even so, we can all use the hidden lessons to live well. Now, here come my thoughts about starting over as an evacuee!
Physically I am in The United States. I lay my head down on a pillow every night and have a roof over my head, but this is not home. Nor are we on vacation. It isn’t a work trip. This is like nothing I have ever experienced before. It has taken months for me to accept this fact: we are not returning to our home in Ukraine. That hurts. Yet so much remains unknown.
We don’t know where we will live next, or when we will go there. This is temporary, that is certain, but beyond that remains a mystery. In the meantime, it feels as though I am two entirely different people living completely different lives.
Half of my heart and thoughts are in Ukraine, but empathy can only go so far. I am not actually there for I have the luxury of closing my eyes and pretending, even for just a moment, that everything is as it was before. The other half of my heart and thoughts are at peace in a country on the other side of the world from the realities of this war. There are so, so many thoughts and feelings that will be poured over in another post, but for now, I will simply go with torn. I am torn between immense grief and endless gratitude. This experience was so completely unexpected, so it is taking a long time to accept. That long adjustment period is to be expected in the unexpected.
Sometimes starting over is completely unexpected.
Something that sets this move, transition, and experience apart from all the others is that it isn’t anything I could have imagined. As an extremely fortunate American, the thought of evacuating my home due to war is (or was, before now) completely foreign. It wasn’t part of any plan, including backup and emergency plans. Until it was. This was completely unexpected. Until it wasn’t.
Starting over isn’t something I chose… and there’s more.
As a military spouse, it is completely normal and expected to move to new locations without choosing where or when. Every time before I was able to look at it as a new adventure, an opportunity. This time is different. Don’t get me wrong, I have had trouble leaving a home before because some places are just hard to leave.
There’s so, so much more depth to this one. We didn’t get to say goodbye. There wasn’t much notice. Leaving was complete chaos. Things changed faster and more intensely than I was able to process in the moment. As I packed, I said “we’ll be back, we’ll be back” over and over again to myself. That was my brain protecting me from the harsh realities to come. Thanks, brain, with sincerity. Also, it prevented me from saying goodbye. That’s harder to do from afar, but I shall try.
Saying goodbye is a big part of starting over.
We didn’t get to say goodbye. It was the people and then some. There was a rhythm to our life in Ukraine. We looked forward to going to the market where everyone knew our favorite fruits and vegetables and always passed on their greetings to the family members not present. Sundays still feel a little empty because that’s when we got to see someone special who brightened our week. Friends and teachers are dearly missed. It all feels so much more unsettling than a typical move.
Leaving in the midst of the sudden unknown made it so that the last time we saw each person or place we either fully expected our lives to continue as normal, or at least that we would be back. For example, the last time I went to the market was before the evacuation had been announced. It was business as usual, and I had no idea it would be my last time there. The last time we saw a very small number of people was in the short time between knowing we were leaving and actually leaving. We didn’t know what would happen, but we hoped for the best. It was a new kind of goodbye, thinking it was maybe/kind of/sort of possible we wouldn’t be back. Surely everything would be okay, and we would be saying hello again soon. There was no closure.
This time there is an extra big side of “see you later.”
There’s so much I long for in Ukraine. Leaving the way in which we did certainly didn’t leave much room for closure, and we weren’t ready. My daughter and I have decided to go back to visit after the war. This brings us some comfort. We will see some people that were part of our lives while we were there, and we will tread the same sidewalks we used to walk. Much will have changed, but some things will withstand all the blows. There are things not even war can take away. We look forward to experiencing all of those things again, the spirit, everything that makes Ukraine amazing.
Releasing is part of starting over.
There is something very symbolic about packing up a home and taking the material possessions to the next. It’s familiar. There’s a feeling of comfort that comes with placing the same objects that have been carried from place to place and collected along the way. That isn’t happening this time. We left behind a full apartment that still feels like it’s waiting to welcome us upon return. However, I have finally accepted that we will never step foot in that apartment again.
The heavier part of this situation is that not going back means things got bad. Things are still really, really bad. My home is a battlefield. There are neighbors, real people, still living there, fighting for survival. What will happen to that apartment, our home, and everyone who still calls Ukraine home, I still don’t know. However, I have my wishes.
I hope the building stands strong and tall for many years to come. Perhaps families will fill that building, lying their heads down in peace at night. May they wake up in the morning to enjoy a stroll to the friendly, buzzing market. One day soon it will be a reality, I hope.
Starting over physically is the easy part, but mentally is a bit more challenging.
When we get to wherever we’re going next, I will get the things we need. We will eventually have a place to live, and I will make it feel like a home, even if it isn’t what is familiar or expected. I will continue to use this experience as a growth and teaching opportunity for my children (to the best of my ability). They will be okay, and they will once again find the feeling of security they have been missing.
As I release our home in Ukraine, along with everything in it, I hope it is not wasted. I hope it all goes to good use. If a family moves into our apartment building, then it means the building is still standing and the family is still alive. I still have hope.
I’m taking it one step at a time.
Slowly but surely, I am readjusting to life in the US. It’s different now, and will likely never be fully the same as it was before this experience. That’s okay, perhaps even a good thing.
I will step more and more into my new life wherever we go next. I will find a new rhythm with new people who will no doubt be lovely. However, a piece of me will always remain in Ukraine.
I’ll leave you with an ode to our physical belongings because the symbolism helps me process hard things. Starting over is one thing, but starting over while processing the realities of war (or anything else big) can be too much all at once. I hope this helps you to reframe and process the hard things in your life.
Ode to the Belongings
The blankets I hand-made for my girls brought them so much comfort. That’s something I wish I could give them now as they face questions not even adults can answer for themselves. I hope those blankets end up wrapped around the shoulders of Ukrainian children, and I hope they bring comfort to children who need it more than mine do.
I don’t need my souvenirs from world travels. The most important lessons and memories from those places are forever etched in my mind. May the hamsas I picked up at a market in Israel protect our entire apartment building and beyond.
I wish for safety and peace.
Perhaps the food I left in the cupboards and freezer will fill the bellies of those who need the nutrients. Maybe they will find my recipes and feel joy and togetherness as they mix the ingredients of our family favorites. I hope they don’t try anything accidentally left in the fridge for that is surely long gone by now.
I hope someone finds my wedding dress and wears it as she marries her love. My diplomas could fall into the hands of someone who is inspired to follow their dreams… and then does. Hopefully, a brave Ukrainian will stumble upon my husband’s military uniforms and medals and find the hope and strength to keep fighting.
Maybe a babushka will find what is left of my grandmother’s yarn. I was going to use it to teach my daughters to knit as my grandmother taught me. Instead, she could use it to teach her granddaughter. That is something not even war can take away.
Perhaps someone starts playing hockey because they end up with all my hockey equipment. May they feel the true joy it can bring. I hope it becomes an outlet for them as they heal after the war.
I hope healing can somehow lead to something wonderful.
Maybe someone will read the words I have written in notebooks. I hope they help her to find her voice. I hope she writes and finds her purpose as I have found mine.
When someone finds my framed photos, I hope they see the feelings in the faces. My wish is that they are reminded of the importance of relationships and the people in our lives. That’s what matters most.
May the physical things in my apartment bring people closer together.
I hope a mother wraps her baby in my baby’s newborn blanket. May she feel nothing but bliss as she holds that tiny child close to her. Even better, that child could grow up in peace, not knowing war.
I know how challenging it can be to start over. There are challenges, and so many thoughts and feelings can creep in. You are not alone. Think you could use a little extra support? I’ve got your back.
Click here to learn more about how we can work together.
This blog post relates to the word start (starting over as an evacuee). Here are some more blog posts related to the word “start” (but not starting over as an evacuee) from other sites:
How to Start a Life Worth Living by Lori Shoaf
https://www.dirttrailjunkies.org/inspiring-stories/how-to-start-a-life-worth-living
Is Life Hard? Then Start Afresh in Jesus by Lisa Granger
https://lisamarcelina.net/is-life-hard-then-start-afresh-in-jesus/
Getting Hung Up from Starting Something by Dianne Vielhuber
https://simplewordsoffaith.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=10845&action=edit
How to Start Making Purchases Directly From the Producer by Jessica Haberman
www.storytellerfarm.com/how-to-start-making-purchases-directly-from-the-producer/