Growing Up Gray

I don’t make a secret of it—though I can’t say I’m particularly proud—but I was born and raised in Russia. My hometown, Ivanovo, is often called “the city of brides,” thanks to its history as a major textile hub. For decades, women from surrounding villages flooded into the city for work, making the population heavily female. It’s a mid-sized city northeast of Moscow, considered somewhat “civilized” compared to more remote regions of Russia—the kind outsiders imagine are populated mostly by bears and vodka-drinking hillbillies. (To be fair, Ivanovo had no shortage of the latter.)

My early childhood took place during Soviet times.
(Yes, I know. I’m old.)

In Soviet Russia, blending in wasn’t just encouraged—it was necessary. I remember those years in shades of brown and gray, not just because that’s what people wore, but because that’s how everything felt. Monochrome. Muted. Uniform.

If you’re familiar with Soviet ideology, you know it wasn’t built for individuality. It preached a classless, stateless society, where citizens were expected—forced—to make personal sacrifices for the collective good. Religion was discouraged. Wealth was taboo. Opinions were dangerous. And anything outside the ordinary was frowned upon, if not punished outright. You kept your head down. You didn’t ask questions. And you never criticized the system.

That’s the sludge I grew out of.

So, no—it probably won’t surprise you that I had no idea I was creative.
How could I be? Creativity wasn’t encouraged by society, and it was suppressed within my own family every chance they got.

My dad was—how do I put this?—complicated.

He was incredibly skilled with his hands: he could draw caricatures, build furniture, fix anything from a television to a bicycle. He helped me with school art projects, encouraged me to make handmade gifts for my mom on special occasions. I still remember the little piglet-shaped pin cushion we made together for New Year’s Eve in 1995—the start of the Year of the Pig. It felt magical. Like I could make something beautiful.

But then he’d turn around and crush me without even realizing it.

I remember once, my friend and I were drawing together—just having fun. My dad, drunk, walked in. He looked at her drawing of Donald Duck and told her it was adorable. Then he glanced at mine, frowned, and told me it was terrible.

It was a drawing of a war cemetery—rows of crosses, a forest behind them, and clouds that shaped the word “Peace.” It was around May 9th, Victory Day in Russia, and I’d been moved to create something meaningful. I had drawn it once before in art class, but I liked the idea so much I wanted to do it again—this time better.

My dad didn’t see depth or heart. He saw a repeat.
He told me I lacked originality.

Deep down, I know it was the alcohol talking. But at that age, criticism like that lands hard. And because any emotional reaction would’ve earned me even more humiliation, I swallowed it down. I always did.

My parents made it easy to blame them for my “lack of creativity.”
They failed me in a thousand small ways, like never signing me up for art classes. Or ballet.

Oh… ballet. The dream that never had a chance.

They signed me up once, and I was over the moon. My teacher praised me constantly for my natural flexibility and said I had to continue. But within a month, they pulled me out. Budget issues, they said. No time to walk me to the studio (even though it was barely 15 minutes away). Truthfully, most of the budget went to my dad’s alcohol. My ballet slippers sat untouched. My dream ended without a word.

The same thing happened with knitting and crocheting classes. I loved working with my hands. Creating something from nothing. But that, too, was taken away.

It became easy to give up on “unnecessary” things like creativity.
And being the “good child,” I did exactly what was expected of me: focused on school, kept my grades perfect, and tried to be the child they could be proud of.

My brother, Roman, wasn’t so lucky.

Years of physical and emotional abuse at the hands of our father eventually led to a schizophrenia diagnosis. I can’t begin to describe what he went through—being yanked out of bed by his hair in the middle of the night, beaten for less-than-perfect grades, stripped and forced to stand outside in the cold as punishment. No one remembers what he did “wrong,” because the punishments always outweighed the crime. His life was a waking nightmare. But that’s a story for another time.

I mention Roman only to explain the pressure I lived under.
Unspoken. Unrelenting.

I was the “last hope.” The one who had to turn out “okay.” The one who would prove they weren’t complete failures as parents.

My perfectionism didn’t come from ambition—it came from survival.
Because in my house, failure meant losing everything.
Possibly even love.

There was no space for exploration, no freedom to just be. I learned very early to lower my head and achieve at all costs. And the fear of failure still lives in my body. To this day, I work to untangle that damage. Some days, I feel like I fail at even that.

When I was 17 and it came time to choose a college, I didn’t hesitate. I picked the same university my dad went to—but a different faculty: languages and world literature. I genuinely enjoyed it. But even now, I wonder: if someone had nurtured my creativity... if I had been allowed to explore what I loved... would I have chosen differently?

I was always envious of the girls in my class who took art or fashion design after school. One girl studied sewing and fashion, and I remember thinking I would’ve given anything to do the same. But I couldn’t even allow myself to feel the jealousy. Her mom supported her. Mine once said, “Fashion designers don’t make money. You’ll end up broke.”

So there you have it.

A glimpse into why I grew up with no idea that I had an artist hiding inside me.
It took fleeing to the other side of the world—far away from the past, the pain, the silence—just to give myself the chance to begin searching for who I truly was.

And when I finally did…
I found her.
The girl who creates.