To be honest, I`m still in the denial phase.
I have alreadycycled through anger, bargaining, depression. Even acceptance- at least when it comes tomaterial losses. But losing people, that`s a different kinf of wound, one that refuses to heal easily.
What`s hardest thing is to accept my own weakness. Admitting that I am a small, fragile, powerless person who did not cope with the trial of war. It tore me apart into molecules.
I’m ashamed to admit this, but I still cling to a quiet hope: to find someone who will listen. Someone strong enough to bear the weight of all I want to say. Someone who won’t turn away from the tears, the hysteria lodged beneath my ribs the kind of tears that still keep me awake at night.
You probably wouldn’t guess this about me, though. Not from my social media pages, anyway. There, I’m all smiles-a piano, children, laughter, dancing. It’s a curated gallery of joy.
But one day, on my way home from lessons, it struck me:
There’s nothing more important than moments of joy. It’s like a magical elixir-so simple yet maddeningly elusive. Like Schrödinger’s cat, or maybe Schrödinger’s joy.
How do you find joy in the depths of despair, though? Without numbing yourself with adrenaline or alcohol? For me, the answer is children.
Children-mischievous, unruly, and bursting with curiosity. Poking at piano keys with complete abandon, creating chaos that somehow feels like freedom.
And in the middle of that whirlwind, something emerges. A sense of life. A sense of purpose. A sense of joy. I won’t wrap this up with a neat conclusion or a moral. I’m even wary of phrases like, “The meaning of life is in children.” Because it’s not.
The meaning, I think, is in the reminder they give us: that joy is worth seeking, even when it seems impossible.
One day, I stepped out into the quiet streets of my little Czech town and was overwhelmed by a bittersweet coziness. Do you remember, as a child, the joy of running into a familiar courtyard where everything felt safe and warm?
The trauma of war does something to you-it makes you believe you need permission to live.
As if someone bigger, wiser, and more important has to come and tell you, “You’re not to blame. None of this was your fault. You have the right to think about yourself and your life.”
That realization felt more significant than all the logistics—medicine, insurance, social programs, or documents in the Czech Republic.
Because when your heart carries that permission to live, everything else becomes surmountable.
Author: Yulianna Lukina, Czech Republic
