Chapter 1: Life on a Five-Year Plan
Before the war, Anna Chernehina lived according to a clear, self-made plan. She jokes that her life moved in five-year increments: "every 5 years we moved... after 5 years we even ended up in England, changing our lives." This was a person accustomed to setting goals and achieving them, moving forward without stopping. A perfectionist and a minimalist, she had decorated her newly built home in Dnipro in a restrained Scandinavian style: white walls, nothing superfluous. "The sofa went here, the bed here... there weren't even any pictures."
This house was the culmination of one such five-year period—a time when she and her husband, having invested their entire souls and almost all their funds, finally had their own space. Her husband, a master builder, did most of the work himself, while Anna, with her designer's vision, thought through every detail. They lived there for only three happy years.
Professionally, Anna was also evolving. After the birth of her three children and many years in family photography, she felt a change. She became less interested in being the "auntie-clown" who entertains children during photoshoots.
"After I turned 40... I saw myself not just as a mother, but as a woman... And somehow, I was no longer so interested in photographing little kids."
She began to photograph women, exploring themes of femininity and self-perception, while simultaneously deepening her knowledge of Gestalt therapy. It seemed that life was under control, planned, and understandable.
The Genetic Fear of Chernobyl
February 24, 2022, shattered this planned world. Waking up to explosions, Anna, as always, tried to take control of the situation, focusing on her children. But the real, paralyzing fear came later. When Russian troops approached the Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant, a deep, almost ancestral trauma was awakened in her.
Anna is the daughter of a liquidator of the Chernobyl disaster. She grew up with the "certificate" of a Chernobyl child, with her grandmother's stories of their panicked evacuation. This experience was etched into her consciousness.
"Somehow, in my subconscious, on a genetic level, this fear of radiation... I truly felt like a child of Chernobyl... The war itself wasn't as scary, because I was the type who wanted to fight, I was saying that we'll all stand here, we'll hold our ground... But this fear of an explosion at the nuclear power plant... forced us to leave."
This irrational, yet all-consuming terror of an invisible threat proved stronger than the desire to defend her home. It was the first fateful decision made not from a position of strength and control, but from a position of fear for her children's future.
Trapped by the Sirens
The period of wandering was chaotic. A trip to Lviv brought no peace—explosions were heard there too. Returning to Dnipro provided only a temporary illusion of normality. The real hell became the air raid sirens, which sounded up to twelve times a day. They became torture for her middle son, who had suffered from meningitis as a child and had a developmental delay.
The boy began to react to the sirens with panic attacks. He didn't just cry—he screamed, imitating the sound of the siren.
"He started to howl, just wail uncontrollably. We realized we just had to save his psyche. And it was such an incredibly difficult decision to go into the unknown, beyond the borders of Ukraine. We really didn't want to, you know?"
The decision to leave the country was forced and incredibly painful. It meant leaving everything behind: the home into which so much effort had been invested, the studio, the career, the native land. They sold their second car, "my Beetle," to pay off the remaining mortgage on the house and have some money to leave. But even here, fate dealt a blow: on the road near Lviv, the car's engine blew up. All the money they had went to repairs. "We were just completely wiped out... we arrived there with a couple of hundred dollars, that's all."
The English Paradox – Care and Alienation
England greeted them with the kindness of sponsors, but at the same time, it plunged Anna into a deep depression. Life on a farm, in isolation, with the constant smell of manure, was unbearable for her, a city dweller and a perfectionist. She called that period "my shitty life."
She felt the cultural difference particularly acutely. The promise of becoming "one big family" proved to be an illusion in practice. The superficial English politeness seemed insincere to her. She saw that they smiled at her, said "my dear, my love," but kept her at a distance.
"I see that the English have this trait. Not all of them, but it's present. And it saddens and disappoints me."
To escape her depressive state, Anna started working as a waitress. It was a breath of fresh air, but also a new source of stress. When customers found out she was from Ukraine, the questions would begin. Eventually, she realized that the only way to survive was to put on a mask.
"I realized it's easier for me to say: 'Poker face, everything's okay. Not your problems. Live your life.' And that's it... Like, put on a mask, they put on a mask of politeness, and in return, you put on a mask that everything is okay with you."
Even when trying to help others, she faced exhaustion. Anna found housing in England for an orphaned girl from Ukraine whom she knew, helped her with her newborn baby, and became a "surrogate grandmother" to her. But in the end, after another misunderstanding, she painfully realized that she couldn't "force goodness" on people. "I'm not ready right now, I don't have enough resources to strain myself so much by sacrificing myself."
A Shrinking World
Moving into social housing was a relief. Finally, they had their own corner where her father and mother-in-law could come to stay. But it was also a painful "shrinking" of their world. Seven people and two dogs settled into a 70-square-meter space. For the children, this meant tiny rooms.
"My daughter's [room] is two-twenty by two-thirty meters... And the boys' room is three-ninety-five by two-seventy. I mean, even a bunk bed doesn't fit properly."
It was a step back in every way. Financially, the family fell into a trap. Anna works a lot as a therapist and a photographer, her husband takes on jobs, but their earnings are not enough to get off Universal Credit, which in turn prevents them from renting a larger home. It's a vicious circle.
Her perfectionist and designer's eye constantly catches the imperfections of English daily life: "I look at these frames, damn it... you have gaps everywhere... there's no ventilation, even though you live your whole life in mould." She feels as if she has stepped back into the 19th century and misses the conciseness of her Scandinavian home.
Life on Pause with an Unhealed Wound
The hardest part remains the realization that the war is ongoing. The missile strike on the residential building on Peremoha Street in Dnipro—next to her former studio—hit particularly hard.
"I fell into a very deep depressive state then, I just realized that if I had stayed in Ukraine, I would definitely have been photographing someone there... It's hard to bear the grief of others and the inability to help."
This feeling of powerlessness tears her apart from the inside. Donations and help seem like a drop in the ocean. Life still feels like it's on pause. Anna cannot accept England as her home. Perhaps because her heart is in Ukraine, but not the one that exists now, but the one that was, and the one she dreams of.
Therapy and community are what save her. They are what allow her to hold on. "I leaned on it very heavily, and somewhere in there I built this core within myself that I can rely on."
Fear for the Future of Her Sons
Today, Anna's main fear is not for herself. She thinks with horror about the fact that her children might have to start everything from scratch again, learn a new language, find new friends. But the deepest, most secret fear is for the future of her sons in Ukraine.
"I don't want my sons to go to war, to die, in 5 years... I understand that we are fighting for our freedom, but in the distorted way it's happening, there, with our authorities... with all this theft, corruption... for me, this is pain..."
She respects the defenders, she helps the army, but as a mother, she cannot accept the thought that her children will become part of this meat grinder.
"I don't want them to be there. I don't want my friends to die there. I want life to go on, you know? The greatest value is life. And somehow, war devalues this most important value."
This is the story of a woman who lost her planned world, but did not lose herself. She continues to fight—for her son's mental health, for her family's financial stability, for her own soul. And in this struggle, her greatest strength and greatest pain remain her love for her children and for her distant, wounded Motherland.
