She possesses a remarkable inner strength—the kind that never seeks attention, but quietly takes your hand and leads you forward when the world around you is falling apart.
Once, she built her life step by step: her own apartment, a profession she loved, and a small beauty salon where she knew every client by name. The war took all of that away in a single moment. Yet it could not take away her kindness, her professionalism, her creativity, or her gift for making people feel beautiful and happy. Kateryna would never describe herself as a strong woman. But she is.
She knows how to rise after every fall, embrace new beginnings, learn, survive, and support those around her. She walks her path with quiet determination and resilience. Even where life is painful, she still holds on to love—for her mother, her animals, music, people, and the country that visits her in her dreams every night. Kateryna is a woman with an extraordinarily generous heart. She lives between what has been lost and what is still waiting to become part of her life. Everything she creates—every hairstyle, every carefully blended hair colour, every note she plays on the organ or piano, every felted toy she makes—is her way of leaving a little more light in this world. A light that, sadly, she herself so often longs for.
— Kateryna, what did you leave behind in Kharkiv when you were forced to flee?
— Nothing is really left for me in Kharkiv anymore. We lived in the Lisopark district, not far from North Saltivka. Our apartment buildings are still standing, but they bear the scars of the war. Legally, we still own our apartment. In reality, however, it is no longer fit to live in. At the same time, many people in Kharkiv are now living in conditions far worse than those we experienced back then. What hurts the most is that my friends were killed together with their two dogs only four hundred metres from my home. After we had already arrived in Germany, a water pipe burst in our apartment. A friend who had stayed in Kharkiv took care of everything. She threw away my soaked and half-rotten belongings, along with my photographs that had stuck together. They had been stored on the lower shelves, which no longer exist—photos from my childhood, my school years, my wedding, and so many other memories. Those are things that can never be replaced. The shelling was so relentless that it became impossible to stay.
— When did you realise that you had to leave?
— When it simply became unbearable. The attacks just kept coming. We heard that there was a chance to leave, packed our things as quickly as we could, and left. The only things I took with me were my hairdressing scissors and my hairdryer. I looked around my salon one last time and simply said, "Well... all right." Then I locked the door and walked away. A few days later, I received a phone call. "I'm so sorry, Kateryna... your salon is gone."
I had opened it only a year and a half before the war began. I had worked my entire life toward that moment—toward having my own little place of beauty and comfort. When I opened my own salon, eighty-five percent of the clients from the salon where I had worked for many years followed me. I never had to start from scratch. And all of that was taken away from me. But one thing remained. My profession. No one can take that away. A hairdresser is needed everywhere.
— You fled not only with your mother but also with your pets. That must have been an enormous challenge.
— We have one dog and three cats. We were told, “Either take the animals or take a suitcase.” We chose the animals. We left almost all of our belongings behind. We took only the essentials for our pets—and my hairdressing scissors. Nothing else. Our first stop was Dnipro. A local pastor helped us by finding a family willing to take us in. They said to us,
"We have plenty of food stored in our basement. Please take whatever you need." They were truly extraordinary people. But two weeks later, missiles struck there as well—very close to where we were staying. So we moved on to Lviv, where we lived in the changing room of a school gymnasium.
— The profession that meant so much to you in Kharkiv is still part of your life today. What do you love most about your work?
— When I finish someone's hairstyle and see the happiness in their eyes. People in Ukraine are very open. Once, a young woman stopped me in the street and said, "Do you remember me? Thank you so much! I looked so beautiful on my wedding day because you did my hair!" Moments like that tell me I have chosen the right profession. There have been many such encounters. I am a skilled colourist. Here in Germany, my colleagues even call me "the magician of hair colour."
— Was it difficult to start working again in another country?
— Extremely difficult. After completing my German language course at B1 level, my employment adviser told me,
"Now it's time to find a job." I began with an internship at a barbershop. It was pure stress—everything moved incredibly fast, and the pace was overwhelming. Today I work in a salon that reminds me of the one I had in Kharkiv, but the way things are organised here is completely different. I do everything myself: I wash one client's hair, colour another's, dry someone else's hair, make coffee, clean, and take care of many other tasks at the same time. I wasn't used to working like that. The language is still a challenge. Sometimes I simply don't understand what people expect from me. There are moments when I cry inside because it is so emotionally exhausting. Around eighty percent of my clients speak the Bavarian dialect, which makes communication even more difficult.
— Where do you find your strength? How do you recharge?
— Travelling is my greatest source of comfort. It doesn't matter whether the trip is long or short, near or far.
I plan every journey myself. I read, do research, mark places on maps, listen to recommendations, and book all my tickets. I enjoy everything about travelling—museums, local markets, concerts, long walks, and experiencing different kinds of transport. As soon as I return from one trip, I begin planning the next. So far, I have visited more than twenty countries.
— Besides travelling, how do you spend your free time?
— I create felt toys, hats, and scarves from wool. Every piece I make is like a little child to me. I also enjoy working with beads. I create pictures and decorate passport covers with bead embroidery. People almost always notice my embroidered passport cover. I also hold a diploma as a teacher of music theory. I taught solfège and music history. I play both the piano and the organ. Several times, I have accompanied church services on the organ here in Germany. Creativity is what inspires me.
— What kind of music do you enjoy most?
— Very different kinds of music. I mainly play popular music, but I also love classical music—especially the works of the Norwegian composer and pianist Edvard Grieg—as well as the music of the Caucasus. I absolutely love jazz. I have perfect pitch. I rarely need sheet music because I can play almost everything by ear. My solfège teacher used to tell me:
"Keep developing your technique. Otherwise, all your ideas will remain nothing more than ideas."
— Do you miss the life you had before the war?
— Very much. Ukraine visits me in my dreams. I dream about my courtyard. About my apartment. I have a friend who is also a hairdresser. We often used to say to each other, "How wonderful our lives are. We have everything..." And it was true. I really did have everything. I had a beautiful life.
— What values have become the most important to you today?
— I have realized that it is possible to live without material possessions. I arrived here with nothing. Three years later, I have a lovely rented apartment, furniture, and everything I need for a comfortable life. I earned it all myself. But that is not what matters most. The most precious thing is every single minute of life.
— Do you already feel integrated into life in Germany?
— No. There are many things I appreciate here: the laws, the sense of safety, and the tolerance. But I never wanted to leave my country. For now, this is where we live. Where we will be in the future—I simply do not know.
— What do you dream about today?
— I dream of going home. Back to the life I once had.
— What gives you strength today?
— Hope. I try to smile and to support myself. There is already more than enough pain. But hope still lives within me. The hope that we will all get through this together. I wish that everyone finds their place in life, wherever they may be. I do not want to make a "vow of eternal suffering." Why should I? If God has brought me here, then there must be a reason. I am alive. And I hope that one day my pain will become a warm little ball inside me, instead of an open wound. I want to see as much of this world as I possibly can. Because I do not know what tomorrow will bring.
Interview and editorial editing:
Slava Onufryk, Ukrainian journalist and volunteer
