This column is part of the “Tribe” veteran project, an initiative encouraging Ukrainian veterans—both men and women—to openly share their personal stories. These aren’t just the experiences already known to the public through media, but also the deeply personal accounts many are expressing for the very first time.
The blow to the head was brutal. Both jaws shattered, hearing gone in one ear, and with it, my sense of balance. The damage to my vestibular system left me unable to stand. For a month, I was pinned to a bed—motionless, helpless, barely functioning. My world spun endlessly, like helicopters circling inside my skull, and the nausea was relentless. I wasn’t living so much as enduring.
But then, slowly, my body began to fight its way back. Bit by bit, I could move my limbs again. At one point, there was serious talk of amputating my arm—it had been immobile for too long. I got lucky. I was eventually sent abroad for medical treatment alongside other service members. Thanks to skilled specialists, not only was my arm saved, but I was able to return to sport. They grafted tendons, nerves, blood vessels—everything needed to bring movement back. The rehab was long, but it worked.
Before the injury, I was already in my early forties, but I’d never felt stronger—physically, mentally, emotionally. I’d reached my own personal Everest. And then, in an instant, I crashed all the way down.
These days, most of my journeys are to neurologists, trauma specialists, and dentists. But I feel good. I’m healing, and I’m trying to help others heal, too. I’ve started to inspire, to share what recovery can look like. I take part in hikes. We lead people with amputations into the mountains, up to the summits. We raft. We paddleboard. We prove—together—that we’re still moving forward.
Modern psychology played a big role in my recovery. I won’t pretend I’ve reached some perfect, fully healed state—but I’ve worked through the things that used to trigger me, the things that drained my energy. And I couldn’t have done it on my own. I needed help. Just four sessions with a psychologist—and I haven’t spiralled back into those dark places in over a year. Funny thing is, before the injury, I used to think, “Psychologists? Seriously?”
But here’s the truth: you have to actually believe in it. You have to want to heal. If you go in with a cynical attitude, you’ll just dismiss it—“This is nonsense, I’d rather grab a beer.” Sure, the beer helps—for an hour. Then comes the next one. And the next. Until you end up drinking yourself numb. But psychology—if you give it a real shot—can work. Maybe not the first approach, maybe not even the second. But if you keep at it, you’ll find the one that clicks.
I wanted to heal. And I did. Same goes for physical recovery. Waving a dumbbell around for three minutes a day isn’t going to cut it. But if you’re sweating, grinding, showing up day after day—that’s when the change comes. When I look back at where I was two years ago, it feels like a bad dream. Like I lived through someone else’s nightmare.
And now I’m a veteran. Sure, a bit banged up. Scarred, dragging a leg. But I’m moving forward. I carry with me a sense of victory—not over anyone else, but over myself, over the injury.
What really drives me these days is the people around me—my circle. We support each other, push each other, and work toward something bigger than ourselves. Just recently, we started a public organisation called Veteran Stream. Its mission is simple but powerful: to help veterans heal, reintegrate, and reconnect with life through sport, education, and creativity.
I threw myself into anything that felt even slightly better than lying in bed. That’s how I ended up joining the Tribe veteran project by Amnesty International Ukraine. Maybe I’m not an expert in everything—don’t ask me anything about law, for example—but we’ll figure it out as we go. We’ll keep digging deep, finding strength, and moving forward. The fight’s not over. I’ve always loved giving people something positive to hold onto. I used to teach wakesurfing, snowboarding—all kinds of sports. And those moments on the water or the slopes? They still work magic. Just picture it: the sea, the ocean. Fifteen minutes on a board is all it takes. It’s like a baptism. A veteran dives in, the wave lifts them, they splash around a bit—then suddenly they’re laughing like a kid. Something switches. They realise, “Wait, this is way better than getting drunk.” Sure, the muscles hurt after—but at least your head’s clear.
I care deeply about our brothers and sisters who gave everything so we could keep breathing freely. I took a hit to the head too—just like so many others with concussions, trauma, and invisible wounds. So what now? Do we shove them in a corner and forget about them? No—we build something better. We create real programmes. We help them rebuild, level up, rediscover a reason to live. We turn them into mentors. And if we get it right, that spark could turn into something bigger. A chain reaction.
Let’s build a strong, living veteran community—like a pyramid, but one where those at the top reach down and pull others up with them. It’s time to leave behind the “I’ll just stay on the sidelines” attitude. That mindset gets us nowhere. I care deeply about this community. I want our veterans—the tractor drivers, carpenters, machinists, artists, and creatives—everyone who stepped up to defend our country, even though they never saw themselves in that role—to experience more of life. I want them to feel the ocean breeze, to stand on mountain peaks, to truly enjoy the best the world has to offer. Because they’ve earned every bit of it.
