It’s a story about healing

10 years ago

May 2015

Today in Ukrainian literature class, I couldn’t focus. I kept staring out the window, waiting and hoping. My adoptive parents were supposed to come. I didn’t know exactly when, but I couldn’t stop watching.

“Anastasia, please sit down,” my teacher said gently.

“I will… just give me a moment,” I replied, still looking outside.

Then I saw it—a white car pulled up to the orphanage gate.

“They’re here!” I shouted, barely believing it was real.

All the other kids jumped up to look. I asked my teacher if I could pack my things and say goodbye to my friends and favorite teachers. She said yes.

I had been at the orphanage since I was six years old. I still remember the day I arrived. I met my caregivers and the other children. They showed me around what would become my home for the next eight years.

Life there was very strict. We had a schedule for everything. In the morning, we went to class. At 11:30, we had a short snack break. Then more school until 2 or 3 p.m. After that, we had lunch and then activities—like dancing, singing, or doing crafts. We were always getting ready for some event.

I remember even the food we ate each day. Every day was the same. For years.

Looking back now, I realize the “discipline” they talked about was often abuse. We were yelled at, scared into silence, and sometimes hurt. I learned to stay quiet so no one would pick on me. I was a “good” kid, but mostly because I was afraid.

The hardest part wasn’t the rules or the routine—it was feeling like nothing would ever change. I couldn’t see a future. Each week felt the same as the last. It was like being stuck in a loop.

I didn’t make friends easily. But I was lucky to have one true friend. She was the one I could talk to, cry with, and laugh with. Today, she’s still in Ukraine, living through a war. And I’m here in the U.S. So far away.

I think I was depressed my whole childhood. I just didn’t know what to call it. Even now, that sadness is still with me. I’m learning how to live with it. It’s a part of me now, and I’m trying to accept it.

Getting adopted as a teenager was a huge change. I was happy, but also very lost. My depression got worse. I felt things I didn’t understand, and sometimes it felt like I was out of control.

But my adoptive parents didn’t give up on me. They had learned a lot about trauma and adoption. They were patient, kind, and supportive. They helped me through my hardest times. I’m really thankful for them.

This isn’t a story about everything becoming perfect. It’s a story about healing, slowly. I’m still learning what it means to feel safe, to be loved, and to have a future.

And writing this today makes me feel a little more hopeful.

One of my favorite vintage teacups

Fast forward to today—life looks very different now.

I’m married to the most wonderful man I could have ever imagined. He’s kind, creative, supportive, and full of motivation. He believes in me even on the days I don’t. It’s been almost ten years since I was adopted, and sometimes I still can’t believe how far I’ve come.

We both share a big love for animals—so much that we’ve built our own little zoo at home. Tucker, our chocolate Labrador, is silly and sweet. He doesn’t like water (which surprises everyone) but absolutely loves snacks. Then there’s Parker, our black and white cat—he’s getting older now and spends most of his time napping in the sun. Tinker Bell, our rescue parrot, has chosen my husband as her favorite (I only matter when I’m holding food). And our parakeets, Violet and Yoshi, are beautiful but don’t like to be touched. That’s okay. We let them be who they are.

I love the life we’re building together—our cozy little world, full of love and feathers and paw prints.

And now, I want to start sharing more of that life with you.

I didn’t always love vintage style. Not out loud, at least. I think I used to hide that part of myself. But lately, I’ve stopped hiding. I’ve fallen in love with the old, the worn, the quiet charm of vintage things. In a world that can feel loud, fast, and all the same, vintage brings something different—something softer.

To me, it’s not just about how things look. It’s about what they hold. A thrifted dress, an old chair, a dusty book—they all carry stories. They’ve lived lives before mine. And somehow, that comforts me. These objects, with their scratches and faded colors, remind me that things don’t have to be perfect to be meaningful. They remind me of the kind of peace I used to dream about when I was a kid, reading books or watching old movies.

I’ve also been learning photography. I love adding warm tones to my pictures to give them that soft, vintage feeling. I want people to see the world how I do—full of quiet beauty and little stories hiding in everyday moments.

More than anything, I want to connect with others who feel the same. If you love vintage things, animals, stories, or just want to share what brings you comfort, I’d really love to hear from you. Message me anytime. I’d be so happy to talk.

With love,

Anastasia