I don’t remember how I survived. I do remember that I couldn’t sleep. I’d go to bed at one and wake up at five. I’d stare at the ceiling, thinking, "What am I even doing? Why study foreign languages ​​or read books when all this is happening?" Everything I did felt meaningless. It felt like a crime—teaching children verb conjugations while the world was collapsing.

But I kept going. Not out of heroism, but out of sheer stubbornness. Because if I stopped, what would be left? Nothing but anxiety. Nothing but waiting. Nothing but the phone I checked every five minutes. School provided a rhythm—morning, lessons, children, breaks, evening. That rhythm kept me afloat.

I learned to stay silent. Not to complain. Not to tell everyone how hard things were—because everyone was carrying their own burdens. I learned to speak only with those who could handle it. And that turned out to be more important than any advice or consolation.

I can’t say that it’s all over. Things like this don’t just end. My brother is still there. My parents are still far away. I still flinch when I see the news. But I know one thing: I am capable. I made it through a year where I never knew how the day would end—and I remained who I am. A teacher. A sister. A daughter. A person who keeps doing her work, even when she is afraid.

This isn’t a victory. It’s just life. But I cherish it.

Have you ever gone through something similar? What helped you not to give up?

Alexandra