Before Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, Evgenia’s Sekirina’s husband Illya was the owner of a successful tech company. They lived in one of Kyiv’s best neighbourhoods. He joined the military, trained as a drone operator and served on the frontlines. As his expertise grew he became an unofficial adviser to the Ukrainian High Command. He advised on drone strategy and authored a paper that informed President Volodymyr Zelensky’s decision to create Unmanned Systems Forces as a separate branch of the Armed Forces of Ukraine.
BY EVGENIA SEKIRINA
War does not arrive politely. It comes like a wild, starving beast, tearing you out of an ordinary life and stripping away everything familiar. Sometimes it takes away everything and everyone you love most.
When the full-scale war in Ukraine began, our first thoughts were where do we go? How do we survive? These are the questions that surface when you have no idea how far the enemy will go.
We were fortunate. My mother lived in central Ukraine, an area that was comparatively calm in those first weeks. My husband Illya and I, his mother, and our two cats took shelter there.
But the days passed more and more people stepped forward to defend their homes. I understood, long before he said it out loud, that it was only a matter of time before my husband would make his choice.
He had always been interested in military history, closely followed global politics and acted decisively when he believed something mattered. This was his moment to stand up for what he believed in, to contribute his skills. But as a Canadian citizen of Ukrainian origin, he faced significant obstacles to joining the Ukrainian armed forces because he was a foreign national.
Anger, fear and tears
Several weeks into the invasion I saw growing unrest in his eyes. Waiting was unbearable for him. When he told me he was returning to Kyiv, it felt as though the ground disappeared beneath my feet.
My feelings were tangled with anger, fear and tears because war had already exhausted all of us. It invaded our minds daily.
Before the war, we lived in the heart of Kyiv. Our life followed a rhythm we cherished – theatre evenings, opera performances, walks through the city, observing people, architecture and atmosphere. We loved hosting friends, going to the cinema, filling our home with conversation and laughter.
Illya, worked from home in the IT sector. I was preparing for what I believed would be the most important chapter of my life – motherhood. I was undergoing medical treatment to improve my chances of becoming pregnant.
Everything felt achievable. A family. A home. A future that seemed to be waiting just beyond the threshold. War erased that sense of continuity.
Because of the Russian invasion, our lives were put on hold. The future became something fragile, unspeakable.
Illya returned to Kyiv and later went to the front. I stayed behind and took over some of his civilian work responsibilities.
My legs felt weak, but I made myself a promise: I would not abandon him – not in this war. Even if, in that moment, it felt as though he had chosen something other than me.
I knew all the possible outcomes. Injury. Trauma. Disappearance. Death. We never said these words aloud, as though silence might somehow protect us. But I lived those scenarios daily, rehearsing them in my mind, trying to prepare for the worst.
I clung stubbornly to hope. It was the only thing that allowed me to get up each morning. Separation became survivable through discipline and routine. Ordinary tasks created a sense of structure and prevented emotional collapse. Life during war requires constant inner focus — you are here, but never fully.
War is part of daily life
In the early months many men were mobilised. Civilians still had choices: to enlist or continue working in support roles. Most of our friends believed the war in Ukraine would be short and fought by professional soldiers. I do not judge that choice. I watched how difficult those decisions were, made under complete uncertainty.
Over time, war reached them too. Many who initially remained in the rear eventually took up arms. Today, I know very few people who have not been personally affected. Everyone has someone close serving – a partner, a friend, a relative. This has become part of daily life, something we live with, even if we never truly accept it.
Illya and I stayed in touch whenever circumstances allowed. Sometimes it was a brief message, sometimes a few minutes of hearing his voice. I rarely knew exactly where he was or what he was doing.
Knowing his location did not always bring comfort. Place names triggered news reports and my imagination filled in the gaps. Eventually, I realised location mattered less than connection. A message meant he was alive and that was enough.
We learned to talk despite the war, not about it. About everyday things – home, the cats. These conversations did not remove fear, but they briefly restored a sense of normality.
Media and social networks made everything harder. When someone you love is in combat, every headline feels personal. There is too much information, and it rarely brings reassurance.
Staying in touch means more than any official briefing
Over time, I learned to limit my exposure and focus on what truly mattered – staying in touch. For me, that meant more than any official briefing. Conversations with our mothers, sharing fear, grief and support, helped me endure.
I adopted a large, gentle dog from a shelter. Caring for him restored a sense of purpose. His quiet presence brought light into dark days. Professional psychological support also became essential. Step by step, I learned how to live beyond constant waiting.
If asked what kind of support matters most to families of serving personnel, my answer is simple: clear, stable communication. Even minimal but predictable information significantly reduces anxiety. No one should feel abandoned in uncertainty.
Systematic mental health support, accessible, ongoing, without excessive bureaucracy, is vital. Not only in moments of crisis, but over time, because emotional strain accumulates slowly.
From friends and family, what helped most was presence. Listening without judgement or advice.
Even now, as Illya focuses on a calmer but no less critical role developing drone capabilities, the sense of threat remains, hanging over us like a sword of Damocles. The war in Ukraine continues, more lives are lost.
Those who remain alive often carry a sense of guilt for continuing to live. It is a deceptive feeling, but one that drives action — to support those serving.
I believe everyone in this war has a role. Illya found his. I am proud of him and convinced that what we endured was not in vain. His work may save lives. Today I am his support. His home front. His hope for peace. And our son, born despite war and separation, is proof that life is stronger. He reminds us why the future matters.
War taught us to live in the present, to love life without postponement, because tomorrow is never guaranteed.
We fight not only an external enemy, but our own fears. And we overcome them, because that is the only way to survive, grow and remain true to ourselves.