Motherhood Under Fire
Following the full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine, psychoanalysts across Europe organized volunteer initiatives to support colleagues, patients, and families affected by the war. One such initiative was an online mothers’ group facilitated by the author. This article brings together excerpts from the testimonies of two Ukrainian psychoanalytic psychotherapists and mothers who participated in the group. The excerpts have been edited and rearranged while preserving the authors’ original words. The full version of this article is published in ‘Child and Adolescent Psychoanalysis in Times of Crisis War, Pandemic and Climate Changeβ, edited by Kristin. Fiorella and published by Routledge in 2025. Mary Cassatt (1844β1926), The Child’s Bath, 1893. Olio su tela. The Beginning KATERYNA Before the war started, I lived comfortably in my country and had a private psychotherapy practice. Together with my beloved husband, we were raising our son, had bought a house and were planning to renovate it in preparation for the arrival of our daughter. I never planned to emigrate when I was eight months pregnant. I could not even imagine in my worst nightmares that I would give birth under the explosions of enemy rockets and that our first days with our daughter would take place in a bomb shelter. I could not imagine that my fear of death would become so real that it would manifest itself in a desire to hold my daughter constantly, even when there was no need or threat. TETIANA The war took us by surprise. But I was already familiar with the first powerful explosions I heard at five in the morning on 24 February. My heart was pounding, and tears were streaming down my face. I felt a sticky, hot dΓ©jΓ vu from the summer of 2014 in Donetsk. For a moment I was immersed in memories of a wonderful family and peaceful life. Then, with the Russian invasion, I lost everything at once. I could not believe that the situation was repeating itself. My heart cried out in denial, but reality broke into my consciousness with terrible explosions from all sides. In the first days of the war, when I was full of despair and fear, my six-month-old son did not seem to react at all to the events around him. He remained as cheerful and lively as ever. One moment stands out in my memory. Almost at midnight, a powerful bombardment began and everything around us exploded loudly. We took the children to the stairwell next to the lift and just stood there, trembling from the sound of the deadly shells. I held the baby in my arms and tried to talk to him, and he babbled back, looked into my eyes and smiled. At that moment, a wild fear for my children’s lives overwhelmed me. At the same time, I was relieved that my baby was fine and did not seem frightened at all. Birth KATERYNA The war caught me at the beginning of my eighth month of pregnancy. I refused to even think about giving birth in a cellar or a bomb shelter. Photographs of the first women giving birth in underground and metro shelters horrified me. I could not believe in this reality or that I would have to face it directly. I dreamed that my child would be born in my hometown, accompanied by a doctor I trusted and in partnership with my husband. I imagined that we would return home with our daughter to our son and gradually get used to our new family member. I felt that all the conditions were in place to give this child a basic sense of security and safety in the world I would be bringing her into. A woman enters the maternity ward with one identity and leaves with another. But in the harsh reality of war, with constant sirens and being in a bomb shelter with a newborn in my arms, this space was transformed into something damaged, further increasing my regression and fears. I was lucky. Our first meeting with my daughter was in the delivery room, not the bomb shelter, and we managed to enjoy the silence in each other’s strong embrace for the first hour and a half. But soon the chaos began and the siren went off. Shortly afterwards we heard that two cruise missiles had fallen near the maternity hospital. That day, my daughter and I spent time in the corridor and in the bomb shelter. Tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. Inside me and around me echoed the question: “When will this nightmare end?” TETIANA Almost a year later, after we had reached safety, the neighbors started setting off fireworks. Suddenly my son started screaming, grabbed his clothes and pulled me down the stairs. It struck me that he seemed to be experiencing the same thing I had experienced when I held him to my heart to the sound of cannon fire. When he slept, he would cling to my neck as if to prevent me from falling if I suddenly had to run somewhere. I also felt much calmer having him close. In this way I felt I could protect him better, shielding him with my body in case of danger. KΓ€the Kollwitz (1867β1945), Die MΓΌtter (Le Madri), 1921β1922. Xilografia. Leaving TETIANA I had fled Donetsk under fire with two children, and now I had a newborn with winter outside. For the first few days I was in a state of utter shock and helplessness, with an almost animal fear for my children’s lives. Somewhere around the fifth day, after another terrifying night in a cold basement with a screaming baby, I realized that I had to secure a safe place for all of us. If something happened to me, who would look after them? My emotions ranged from helplessness to inner strength and determination. The fear of danger on the road for my baby was extremely heavy for me, but staying was much more dangerous. We were very lucky to reach the station, board a train










