Selfportraits

Part 1

Yesterday I was sitting on the beach, watching the waves. The world felt perfect — warm wind, the sound of the ocean. And then, in just one random moment, I started to feel afraid — afraid that a wave would crush me, drag me deep down beneath it — I’d be thrashing around, trying at least to reach the surface. And even if I managed to come up, another wave would crash over me again and pull me deeper — somewhere I’d never be able to come back from. And I’d simply stop existing.

«The world is beautiful!»

I tried to chase away those thoughts. But new fears kept coming. One after another, after another. Until I started repeating to myself: «Yulia, stop. The world is beautiful. There’s nothing to be afraid of.» That phrase always helped me. It gave me hope. It helped me believe nothing truly bad could happen. That everything happens as it’s meant to. And I did believe it — with my whole heart. «The world is beautiful!»

People always told me: “Yulia, take off your pink glasses.” And I’d just smile and say: “But I’m fine like this.” I truly didn’t understand what they meant. I thought they were just trying to sound more grown-up, to remind me I was still too young and didn’t get it. But in the past few years — since the war started in Ukraine —my world flipped upside down. And now? Now those pink glasses don’t help anymore. Now they annoy me.

The world is beautiful?

Maybe once. Or maybe that was always just my imagination. Because now — no, the world is not beautiful at all. People lie to each other. People kill each other. People hurt each other. And not just others — themselves too. People kill themselves.

The world hasn’t been beautiful for a long time. And it’s strange to realize this — when I really have nothing to complain about. I’m in a healthy relationship. I have the luxury of living from my art. I don’t have to worry about where to sleep tomorrow. I don’t have to wonder how to afford food for the next day. The people closest to me — my family — are alive, even though they’re still in Ukraine.

My world is beautiful. But the world itself — isn’t. And maybe… it never was.

Everything that has happened over these years — it’s transformed me. Made me stronger. Older. Showed me more of the world. Taught me what I’m capable of. Showed me my power. But it also showed me: the world isn’t what I thought it was. And now, that phrase — “The world is beautiful” — it doesn’t comfort me anymore. It doesn’t lift me. It actually makes me angry. It feels like a reminder of how wrong I used to be.

I still catch myself saying it sometimes. Telling it to others. «The world is beautiful!» As if it’s still alive inside me. But I don’t believe it anymore.

Even my own brain has started to push back:

Come on, a wave could crush you any second now. If not — maybe a scorpion will sting you. Or you’ll get locked in a prison. Or raped. Anything could happen.

Because literally anything could happen.

The world isn’t perfect.

The world isn’t beautiful.

The world is terrifying.

And maybe… I’m just lucky.

That’s all.