I don’t have a country anymore.

When something ends, you want to reflect on what it meant.

This is how human brains work. This is why most radio narratives are structured as continuous storytelling (“Anne did X, then Y, then Z…”) followed by a reflection from the narrator (“Anne did this because of ABC…”).

When a certain period in our life comes to an end, we typically can’t help but reminisce its best moments, cherishing each memory, feeling nostalgic.

Deep inside, we know: the sadness we feel is directed at a part of us that’s no longer with us. A version of us that has died, and we won’t ever be the same people we were. We’d be something else. It’s this realization (even if subconsciously) that makes us feel sad.

When things in my life come to end, I typically want to write. I didn’t tell anyone, but last year, I wrote a novel (in Russian), getting rid of all the baggage I’ve had by that point — on paper.

It was fiction, of course, but as most writers will tell you: “If you want to write an honest memoir, write a novel.” Made-up stories lower the stakes, liberating you to be franker about your life experiences, and what they meant.

I was depressed for the most part of 2019 and 2020, but finishing that novel made me feel much better. I took all the darkness accumulated inside me and put it on paper. It was as if I took an emotional dump. I felt relieved, ready to embark on a new chapter of life. Looking back, I see that writing that novel was what freed me to…