Have you ever stayed awake for 24 hours? Two days? Three?
What about three and a half years?
This is not a question from science fiction. For millions of Ukrainians, this is reality. Since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion, many of us have gone long stretches without real rest.
War dictates its own cruel rhythm. Nights are pierced by sirens, missile explosions and the buzzing of swarms of Shahed drones. Attacks come in waves — sometimes 600 or 700 drones mixed with dozens of ballistic and cruise missiles. By day, Ukrainians work, raise children, volunteer and support loved ones at the front. By night, they shelter in corridors, basements or subway stations, counting the minutes until morning.
Someone might say: Ukraine is large — over 600,000 square kilometers. It’s impossible to attack the entire territory at once. True. But you can’t simply “go somewhere safe to sleep.” Tonight Kyiv may be under attack; tomorrow it could be Uman, Odesa or Lviv. War is unpredictable. So is sleep.
Sleep deprivation has become a hidden front line. It exhausts the body, clouds the mind and magnifies the stress of war. Psychologists warn that lack of rest erodes resilience. And yet Ukrainians keep going. We rebuild, study, create, integrate millions of displaced people into new communities. We live. We endure. Not because we are superhuman, but because there is no other choice.
The irony is the time difference with my friend Kent in Utah — nine hours. When Utah sleeps peacefully, Ukraine is often under fire. Once he asked me, “Nadiia, when do you sleep if you’re almost always online with me?” I laughed at the question, but later realized sleep has indeed become a scarce currency.
I don’t share this for pity. I share it to be understood. Going so long without real rest feels like living in a constant twilight, where your body keeps moving but your mind sometimes lags behind. It doesn’t paralyze you — you still work, laugh, love, help — but the world feels sharper, more fragile, stripped bare. In this, I am not an exception. This is how an entire country lives.
And still, life in Ukraine continues. Parents walk their children to school. Doctors perform surgeries during blackouts. Teachers teach both online and in classrooms. Farmers harvest crops under the threat of mines and shelling. Volunteers raise funds, buy military equipment, repair and drive vehicles from Europe, and deliver drones and medical kits to the front. Utility workers restore electricity, gas and water after strikes. Rescuers pull people from rubble and extinguish fires after attacks. IT specialists keep the country’s digital infrastructure alive. Together, they hold life itself. Sleep is fragile, but Ukraine persists.
When the war ends — and it will — we will need more than reconstruction and international aid. We will need time. Time to recover. Time to rest. Time to learn again what it means to sleep without fear.
Because the rebuilding of a nation does not begin with concrete or steel. It begins with the people themselves — and with the moment they can finally close their eyes in safety.