Liz In Ukraine

One of our guides in Lviv explained the phrase echoing across Ukraine: “Live life now”, because tomorrow is not guaranteed.

It’s more than a motto—it’s a heartbeat, an act of biology, a creation of history

These aren’t just words. They’re an act of defiance. A quiet rebellion against fear and intimidation. A promise that, despite the painful toll of putins aggression, joy, love, and purpose will not be postponed.

To live fully, even under threat, is to insist that Ukraine and it’s people has a future.

Later, we paid our respects at the memorial cemetery in Lviv, where those who fell defending their homeland, families, and friends are laid to rest.
The sheer enormity of the place was overwhelming. But what struck me most was the quiet intimacy: nearly every grave had a bench beside it. A place for the bereaved to sit, to talk, to remember. To remain close.
We arrived at 1800 hours. The air was thick with the fragrance of millions of flowers—so dense I could taste them. It wasn’t just scent; it was memory, devotion, and love, suspended in the evening light.

Every Grave Has a Story.
A steady flow of loved ones moved between the rows, bearing flowers. A mother and her children passed me as I walked up the hill. Quiet footsteps faded away. Quiet sorrow does not fade so easily..

Then I saw her—a dignified woman tending a grave. I looked at her and she returned my gaze.

I spoke and as if meant to be she, in fluent English, told me this was her husband’s resting place. He was a medic. On 20 October 2022, he and his fellow medic were trying to reach injured soldiers when a Russian tank fired on them—twice. They were both killed, she hoped instantly. She pointed out the resting place of her husband colleague.
She showed me the fresh flowers she’d brought to brighten his grave. We cried. We hugged. I was in awe of her strength—this widow, this mother of three.
“Every grave here has a story just like ours,” she said.
We hugged again. And then we parted.