Before the war, I was living in Kyiv. I had a studio, met regularly with other artists, attended life drawing sessions and was looking forward to future exhibitions. Like most people, I believed I had plenty of time.

The evening before the invasion, I went to bed without the slightest idea that my life was about to change. The next morning, at 4:50, I woke up to the sound of explosions.

I had never seen tanks or soldiers outside history books. Suddenly they were on the streets of my own city.

We escaped to Lviv, hoping we would be safe there. At first, I still couldn't accept it was really happening. I kept painting in my friend's apartment because part of me believed we would be home within a few days.

Then the bombing reached Lviv.

For the first time, nowhere felt safe anymore. We had to leave Ukraine.

Only then did I begin to understand that we weren't leaving for a few days. We might never return.

The most difficult question wasn’t where to go. We knew we needed to find a safe place. It was whether our Golden Retriever, Rix, could come with us.

Many people told me it wasn’t possible to take a dog abroad under those circumstances. Everything suggested they were right.

For me, there was never really a choice. If Rix couldn’t come, neither would we. Leaving without him was never an option. Getting him safely across the border was the real challenge.

We left Kyiv so quickly that we didn’t have any of Rix’s paperwork with us. In those first days, when everything was happening so fast, it was the last thing on my mind. Then, suddenly, it became essential.

As I was walking through the streets of Lviv, trying to work out what to do, I noticed a woman with a Dachshund and thought she might know where the nearest veterinary clinic was. I was feeling anxious because many places were closed due to the war, and I had no idea where to turn.

When I approached her and asked my question, she smiled and said, “I’m a vet.”

I still remember that moment. Out of everyone I could have stopped, I had somehow met the one person who turned out to be a vet. She immediately knew what to do, helped with all the paperwork, and in a few hours everything was ready.

I don’t think I’ve ever experienced two such opposite emotions at the same time. We were fleeing a war, yet in that moment I felt an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude. It remains one of those moments I’ll never forget...

We left with two bags.

One was filled mostly with dog food because Rix was such a picky eater. In the middle of all the fear and uncertainty, I remember thinking, What if I can't find the right food wherever we ended up?

The second bag contained my art supplies.

Looking back, I find that strange. I had no idea where we were going, how long we would be away or what our future would look like. But somehow, I still believed I would paint again.

Three days later, after endless waiting in traffic jams and all the chaos at the border, we crossed into Poland.

We were finally safe. But we had no idea where our future would be.

Someone mentioned Ireland. Our friends bought us tickets for the earliest available flight.

But there was a problem. At that time, dogs weren't allowed on commercial flights unless they were certified guide dogs. Everything suggested it wasn't possible.

But if there was even a 0.001% chance, I had to try.

I wrote to the airline explaining that Rix wasn't just our dog. He was our emotional support, our constant companion and our family. The website crashed. My email never sent. I couldn't get through on the phone.

In the morning, I bought Rix a bright harness like guide dogs wear and went to the airport anyway. I didn't have a plan. Only hope.

At the check-in desk everything went smoothly until they saw Rix. Of course, everyone knew he wasn't a certified guide dog. They brought us to an office where several women worked. They weren't the ones who could make the final decision, but they immediately started calling different departments, explaining our situation and trying to find someone who could help.

We waited there for almost three hours. Rix behaved unusually well. It was almost as if he had suddenly decided to become that guide dog we needed him to be. Calm, patient and gentle, he won everyone over.

What I remember most isn't the waiting. It's the kindness. Those women could easily have said no. Instead, they kept making phone calls and cheering us on.

Ten minutes before boarding closed, a woman walked back into the room. She smiled. “Yes.”

I still remember jumping with happiness. Everyone in the office was jumping too. Complete strangers celebrating together over one dog.

It’s remarkable how some of my most joyful memories were created during the darkest chapter of my life.

That day remains one I’ll always treasure.

Not only because Rix was allowed onto the plane, but because it reminded me that behind every rule there are people. People who choose kindness. People willing to spend three hours trying to help a family they have never met.

It also reminded me that even the most impossible dreams are worth holding on to.

I knew almost nothing about Ireland. In fact, in the middle of all the confusion, I remember mixing it up with Iceland and imagining snow and cold.

The first thing that surprised me as I looked out of the airplane window was the colour. I saw an incredibly green landscape with a single ray of light breaking through the clouds. Later, it inspired my first painting in Ireland, The Shape of Home. The way the light fell across the landscape reminded me of the outline of Ukraine.

The welcome we received was just as unexpected. People opened their homes, offered clothes, helped with paperwork and showed us remarkable kindness.

For the first few years in Ireland, life looked very different from anything I had imagined. Like many families arriving with almost nothing, we were simply grateful to have a roof over our heads. At times it was cold, isolated and far from comfortable. Those first years were often lonely.

But I never forgot how lucky we were to be safe. The things that once seemed ordinary suddenly became precious. A warm room. A quiet morning. Time to paint again. Watching your child and your dog sleep peacefully.

Whenever life became overwhelming, I painted.

Art gave structure to days that otherwise felt uncertain. For a few hours, I could focus completely on what was in front of me instead of everything happening around me.

Rix helped in a different way.

He never worried about tomorrow. He simply wanted to go for a walk, chase a ball or lie beside me while I worked.

Looking back, I think painting and dogs were teaching me the same lesson. Both brought me back to the present. And both reminded me that life can only be lived one moment at a time.

Whenever I had the chance, I visited dog shows, usually with my camera. That's where I discovered a completely new world. I found myself observing dogs more carefully than ever before—not only how they looked, but how they moved, behaved and interacted with people.

Moving to Ireland also introduced me to a part of the canine world I knew nothing about. I became fascinated by Ireland's native dog breeds, their history and the role they had played alongside people for centuries.

That curiosity grew into the Irish Dog Portraiture Collection. It brought together everything that had shaped my journey so far: my love for dogs, art, and my gratitude for the country that became my home.

It was also in Ireland that the idea for Madra Art first came to me. Looking back, it feels like the moment everything finally came together.

And of course, none of it would have been the same without the people I met along the way. Their kindness changed my life in ways they may never fully realise. Sometimes, all it takes is someone who believes in you when you can no longer see the way forward.

When I look ahead now, I feel as though I'm only at the beginning of my artistic journey. My mind has room for new ideas again, and I feel a renewed sense of energy and excitement for everything I want to create next.