Hosha is a 16-year-old young woman from Kharkiv who writes under a pseudonym. She was born and has lived most of her life in Kharkiv.
That is where her ordinary everyday life, her schooling, and her childhood took place. When Russia’s full-scale invasion began, Hosha’s family was forced to move temporarily to a smaller town. The decision to leave was not made immediately, but only in April 2022, when Hosha was still a child. The family lived in the new place for about three years.
That period brought many new experiences and taught her to appreciate simple things and to adapt to constant change.
Although Kharkiv is still dangerous, Hosha says she can no longer live without the feeling of home. That is why returning feels inevitable — and at the same time like the moment to close one chapter of life and begin the next.
Hosha writes irregularly but continuously about her own life in the midst of war.
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For some people, moving means new opportunities, the next stage of life. For me, it meant suitcases packed in a hurry and a home I had to leave behind with the thought:
“Will I ever return to these familiar walls even once?”
I looked at my room and tried to memorize every small detail: the empty cage where my parrots had been — they too had to be taken in a hurry to my grandmother; the bed laid out in the corridor, where I spent many nights and which gave me at least a small sense of safety — so small, fragile, and unreliable that it broke with every air-raid alert. I looked at my toys and understood: by leaving them behind, my childhood was ending too.
But the strength of Ukrainians made a deep impression on me on that April day in 2022. We were helped to find a home in another region, farther from the front. We met the very kind owners of the house and new neighbors. And we began to live again.
Living away from home is already difficult, but when your heart and soul long for your own Kharkiv and you cannot return there, the pain becomes physical.
Still, even in this, something positive can be found. I had to accept the bitter experience and move forward. I have learned, among other things, how to plant potatoes — neighbors brought them to us and patiently explained how best to take care of them.
I have become familiar with a new city — Kropyvnytskyi, which welcomed us so warmly. I visited the Koryfei Theatre — the first professional theater in Ukraine. It made me fall in love with our literature and art and helped me understand that we can live this life: look for new friends, gain new experiences, but also not forget old and long-known people. And despite everything, we continued going to school through online lessons and continued our education.
But during the power outages and blackouts of 2023–2024, things became more difficult: when there was no electricity for 4–5 hours, the internet disappeared and it was no longer possible to attend online classes. We bought candles, piles of flashlights, and power banks — and even now they are still very useful.
Unfortunately, power outages have returned again. For about a month now, I have been living according to a 2/2 schedule (editor’s note: two hours with electricity, two hours without electricity). And of course, over time you get used to it and have to adapt your life to these two hours.
But generators are rumbling in the streets. That means I can calmly buy groceries or drink coffee outside or in a café.
I will return home. But some will never return, because even rebuilt walls will always feel foreign to them. Still, those walls can also be filled with new memories and joyful moments.
The most important thing is to find strength within yourself and not give up on it.
That is why everything is changing now, and I have been where I was meant to be.
Every story has an ending. For me, it has been a happy ending. Meetings with friends are already waiting for me, walks around the city, time spent with loved ones, and visits to new places and art galleries.
I can already feel this happiness, and I want to experience and live it again as soon as possible.
Hosha
