I was born and raised in Ukraine, where life was simple and peaceful. One of the greatest gifts life gave me early on was the freedom to be outside, immersed in nature. My parentslived in the countryside and owned a farm, so I spent much of my childhood under open skies, surrounded by animals, fields, and quiet beauty. There was no constant control, nophones—just space to breathe, explore, and feel free. That sense of freedom became a deeppart of who I am.
But alongside that freedom, I also carried silent struggles. At one point, I had to live with my grandmother for a year—a woman who was deeply controlling and emotionallysuppressive. While I wouldn’t label her abusive, she had a strong, dominating presence, andI quickly learned that expressing myself came with emotional consequences. I didn’t have the tools to process what I was feeling, so I did what many children do—I adapted. Ilearned to stay quiet. I swallowed my emotions, and over time, I began turning to food for comfort.
That’s when I started gaining weight and becoming unhappy with my body. Society often picked on me for how I looked, and slowly, a pattern of shame and self-suppression tookhold. I carried those wounds with me into adulthood—into my relationships, into how Iviewed my body, my worth, and even my capacity to realize myself. The emotional patternsI formed in childhood didn’t just fade with time. They followed me, silently shaping the wayI lived and the choices I made—until life called me to face them.
From the outside, I was living what many would call a “successful ” life. I had what lookedlike a good life on the outside — a husband, a beautiful home, a job, a nice car. It followedthe standard template of what I was taught success should look like.But inside, I felt a deep void. Something was missing.
To cope with that emptiness, I turned to food. Overeating became my way of filling what Icouldn’t name. I carried shame about my body, struggled with self-esteem, and feltdisconnected from myself. Again. It was painfully familiar…
Just like in my childhood, I found myself silencing my emotions and using food as a way tosoothe what I couldn’t fully express. The patterns I thought I had left behind were stillliving in me. I was no longer that little girl, but I was still carrying the same wounds—stillunable to speak my truth, still seeking comfort in the only way I had learned.
By that time , my body had already started whispering to me that something wasn’t right.In my early 30s, I was diagnosed with high blood pressure, hormonal disbalance andelevated cholesterol—markers that something was off. I was put on medication becausethings were too far out of balance to ignore. But at the time, I didn’t see these symptoms assigns. I didn’t pause. I didn’t question. I just kept going.
It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 37 that everything came to astop.
It shook my world
I had no choice but to stop and ask myself hard questions:Am I truly happy? Am I living the life I want? Why is this happening to me? Is there something Im not seeing?
This moment marked the beginning of my transformation. I dove into research on healing— physical, emotional, mental. I began changing my habits, the way I moved, the way I ate,the way I thought.
But something even deeper started to unfold.
I realized that my body wasn’t my enemy—it was the messenger. It had been trying to getmy attention all along.
That diagnosis became a turning point. I started to question everything—how I lived, whatI believed, how I nourished myself, what I allowed in my life. I began to understand thathealing wasn’t only about what I ate or the treatments I chose, but also about how Ithought, how I felt, and how deeply I was connected to myself.
As I began to face myself more honestly, I came to a painful but liberating realization: I hadbeen slowly poisoning myself for years. Not with food or substances—but with thoughts,beliefs, and behaviors that kept me small. I constantly belittled myself. I made others’ needsmore important than my own. I stayed silent to keep the peace. I was nowhere on the mapof my own life.
This internal toxicity—subtle, quiet, and persistent—was quietly draining my energy andsense of self. I knew I could no longer carry it. I made a promise to myself: there would beno more room for poison in my life. No more shrinking, no more self-abandonment, nomore denying what I knew to be true.
And with that commitment came difficult, but necessary choices. Healing wasn’t just aboutnourishing my body—it was also about clearing my environment, releasing what was nolonger aligned, and creating space for myself to heal. One of those choices was aseparation—an ending that made way for a deeper return to myself.
The year leading up after my separation was one of the hardest I’ve ever lived through.After 12 years of marriage, the idea of being alone felt terrifying. Letting go of thefamiliar—no matter how disconnected it had become—triggered waves of anxiety anddepression I didn’t expect. Everything I had avoided inside of me for years began rising tothe surface. Limiting beliefs I didn’t even know I held suddenly felt loud, overwhelming,and impossible to ignore.
At the same time, the foundations I had built my life upon—marriage, home, identity,support—seemed to vanish overnight. All the pillars that once made me feel safe weregone. I was left to ask the most difficult, yet important questions: Who am I now? What do Ibelieve? What do I love? How do I move through life without those old definitions?
I realized how fragmented I had become. I wasn’t whole—I was scattered across roles,expectations, and old paradigm survival strategies. And so began the work of becomingwhole again.
That emotional collapse became the catalyst for deep inner work. I turned towardpsychological and spiritual practices that helped me understand myself in new ways. I usedtools like meditation, ancestral healing, and shadow work to slowly piece myself backtogether.
One of the most painful realizations was how deeply I had been stuck in a victim mindset. Ikept asking, Why is this happening to me? But at some point, the question shifted. I knewthat if I didn’t want life to keep feeling like it was against me, I had to step out of thatmindset and take full responsibility. No more blaming. No more waiting for something tosave me.
There was no one else but me.
That was the beginning of my return. My separation didn’t just mark the end of arelationship—it marked the start of a journey back to myself. And this time, I wasn’tbuilding from the outside in. I was building from within.
My journey is still unfolding. There is still healing to do, and many layers yet to meet. Somewounds are still fresh, and some days are still tender. But this path—this return to myessence, to my truth, to my sovereignty—has been the most beautiful journey of my life.
I’m learning to honor every part of it.
Every experience, every person, every so-called hardship has been a teacher. And for all ofit, I am deeply grateful.
If I’ve learned one thing through it all, it’s this:True healing begins when we open our hearts.
When we trade fear for faith, life begins to shift.The weight becomes lighter. The path becomes clearer. The challenges we once thoughtwould break us become the very moments that shape us.
Now, I have a chance to live from truth. To set myself free.Not to chase happiness, but to return to something deeper.Because after all this, I’ve come to understand—Joy is the quiet knowing that we’ve come home to ourselves.