Elena, Ukraine

Motherhood in War Chose Me

My persistent little son came into this world after three unsuccessful IVF attempts — all on his own.

Even my doctor could hardly believe it. I never chose motherhood in wartime. I simply became pregnant in February 2022, after three years of infertility.

It was a miracle I hardly dared to say out loud. For three weeks before February 24, my husband and I quietly looked at the two long-awaited lines on the pregnancy test, almost afraid to celebrate our happiness.

The night the full-scale invasion began, I was sleeping peacefully. I didn't even wake up to the explosions.

Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if my sleep hadn't been so deep.

At first, I remained surprisingly calm. I kept telling myself it would all be over soon.

Somehow, I carried an irrational certainty that everything would be alright. More than anything, I tried to keep the little life inside me calm.

My first prenatal screening took place under the sound of explosions.

The ultrasound doctor asked,

"Should we go to the shelter, or continue?"

We continued.

At that moment, knowing my baby was safe mattered more than anything else.

One of the greatest blessings was that my obstetrician never left the city. Her presence made me feel protected, and I will never stop being grateful for that.

The first night in the maternity hospital was filled with explosions. Yet I still wasn't afraid. That strange certainty stayed with me. Then came the blackouts.

Holding a six-week-old baby in my arms, I experienced true helplessness for the first time.

Even today, whenever the electricity goes out, I am instantly taken back to those days: sitting in a dark apartment without water, without communication, without any way to prepare food.

Except for one thing.

Breastfeeding.

I was everything my son needed.

And my only task was to stay calm.

A mother's warmth.

A mother's love.

And whenever possible, a mother's peace.

Fear came later.

On New Year's Eve 2024, a drone struck the apartment building next to ours. An entire entrance collapsed while people were sleeping inside.

Adults.

Children.

Lives disappeared within seconds.

We started asking impossible questions.

Should we hide inside the wardrobe?

Is it really safer?

Should we leave Ukraine?

At first, I couldn't even imagine it.

For me, family meant mother and father together.

During pregnancy, I transformed from a strong, independent woman into someone who deeply depended on her husband's presence.

He became my sense of safety.

Leaving him behind to give birth in another country felt impossible—as if I were leaving half of myself behind.

Sometimes I blame him for not leaving during those first days.

But if I'm honest, I know I'm really blaming myself.

Back then, we still believed in the future.

So many painful questions remained.

Would my grandmother ever meet her great-grandson?

How do you build a life where you will always be a stranger?

There are far more questions than answers.

In 2025, there was still a small glimpse of hope.

Now even that feels distant.

Perhaps only a tiny flicker remains.

So we live.

Without making plans.

Living from one smile of our son to the next.

Collecting small fragments of happiness.

Trying to keep going, even when we feel emotionally exhausted.

One day, someone said that everything eventually comes to an end.

I hold on to that thought.

This will end too.

Participating in creative projects gives me something I almost forgot existed.

For a brief moment, I experience motherhood as it was always meant to be.

Without those moments, it becomes incredibly difficult.

Mothers living through war rarely have opportunities to restore themselves.

And yet, we need them more than ever.

I once promised myself I would write this story after the war was over.

Perhaps writing it now is a sign that the end of this darkness is finally drawing closer.

I never chose motherhood in war.

It chose me.

And somehow, I believe our son chose us, too—

so that together, we could walk through all of this for him.