By Yevheniia from Ukraine

People say I’m warm, steady, and gentle — someone who remembers your birthday and your favorite kind of pie. I don’t need excitement to feel alive. A soft Sunday morning, a letter from a friend, or the smell of fresh rain on pavement is enough.

Sometimes I miss the sound of the old wooden floor in my childhood home — the way it creaked when someone walked down the hallway late at night. I’m a woman who holds onto memories like keepsakes, tucked in the corners of my heart. I enjoy simple things: the smell of bread baking, handwritten recipes, old photo albums, and evenings that feel like soft conversations. I love traditions — even the quiet ones, like folding laundry while a favorite song plays in the background, or lighting a candle when the sun begins to set. I find comfort in routines that remind me of home. I still write shopping lists on paper. I still press flowers between the pages of books. I still believe a cup of tea and a long hug can fix more than we think. I spend time in the kitchen not just to cook, but to remember. My grandmother taught me to make soup from scratch, and I still follow her way. Not because it’s easier, but because it feels like love, passed down with every stir of the spoon.