Russia’s attacks have left millions of people across the country without electricity, heating, and water — amid subzero temperatures. It’s a humanitarian crisis. It’s hard to explain what this means for those on the ground. Instead, I invite you into my lived experience. Today is Tuesday, Jan. 20, 2026. I’m writing this on the subway, on my way to our office. It’s -12 degrees Celsius (10 degrees Fahrenheit) outside. I’m cold — but ready for the day. This day was chosen at random. I don’t know how it ends. I’ll be grateful if you stay until it does. 8:30 a.m. — My alarm goes off. I snooze it with confidence. I deserve at least one more hour of sleep and warmth after waking up at 2 a.m. to ballistic missiles exploding outside. The warmth mostly comes from my dog, peacefully asleep under the covers — so I’m definitely not waking him. 9:30 a.m. — I gather all my mental strength to get out of bed. No electricity, so no coffee. And, surprise, no running water either. Probably the result of the overnight attack, but I can’t check the news. Neither Wi-Fi nor mobile data works. 9:45 a.m. — I freshen up with makeup remover wipes, rush through my morning skincare, and pull on thermal underwear and a fleece tracksuit to take my dog out. He’s getting dressed in a jacket too. He hates me for it, but it’s around -15 degrees Celsius (5 degrees Fahrenheit) outside. 10:30 a.m. — Next stop: my parents’ apartment across the street. By pure luck, they have central heating and a gas stove. While my mom makes me breakfast, I scroll through the news, Slack, and emails. A packed day ahead: meetings at the office, meetings around the city, and final preparations for our 2026 strategy session later this week. The morning news is bleak. After last night’s missile attack, most Kyiv districts are without running water. Around 6,000 residential buildings have no heating. I tell my mom how exhausted I am, how every morning it’s a struggle to pull myself together. Some days, only anger keeps me going. “It’s not that bad,” she says. “Look how sunny it is. And the birds finally started coming to the bird feeder you built on Sunday. Isn’t that great?” She’s my beacon of hope on mornings like this. On other days — when she calls me in tears after reading the evening news — I’m hers. 12 p.m. — I arrive at the office just in time for my first meeting: a call with partners to organize digital, psychological, and physical security training for the team. It will take place in Lviv in western Ukraine, which, for now, has a steadier heat and energy supply. For some, it will be a much-needed break from all this. 2 p.m. — I leave for a lunch meeting and a few external meetings around the city. Every bit of small talk today circles back to blackouts, like how people outside Ukraine talk about the weather. That’s how we connect now — by sharing the same reality. Living through this together is how we stay supported. 5 p.m. — Just as I plan to return to the office for my last call, our office manager messages me. The second generator in the building has broken down. The generators haven’t been running properly due to the extremely low temperatures and the length of the power outages. No generator means no electricity. No internet. No heating. This is bad. The office was a hub for the team, myself included. Many of us relied on it because the situations at our homes are even more unstable. We’ll need a new solution — we're already working on relocating more people out of the city, and even out of the country. But right now, I pray the generator is fixed soon. | 
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