When the Forest Was Kind and Home Wasn’t

People often ask me if there’s anything I miss about my home country, Russia. My usual answer is a quick, confident:

“Absolutely not.”

But that’s not entirely true.

There’s one thing I miss—not about Russia itself, but a single memory I hold close to my heart. It’s something that, looking back, may have shaped the way I see the world. The way I create. The way I search for beauty in places others might overlook.

It was the mornings my dad and I went mushroom hunting.

We’d wake up before the sun, the sky still clinging to night. That alone felt magical—like we were sneaking into a secret hour before the world had a chance to wake up. We’d eat a quick breakfast and pack our rucksacks: a little picnic, a small knife for trimming mushrooms, and of course, a basket to carry our treasures.

We rode bikes to the outskirts of the city—well, my dad rode. Before I could ride myself, he built a makeshift seat at the front of his bike just for me. It was a wobbly, totally unsafe contraption, but I adored it. It felt like flying.

Dressed in forest-colored clothes, with boots and headscarves to protect us from ticks, we’d disappear into the woods for hours. And those woods… they were everything. Peaceful, mysterious, brimming with quiet life. My favorite moment was right before the first sunlight pierced through the trees, when the morning dew still clung to every blade of grass like tiny glass beads. The forest felt like a living thing, slowly waking up—stretching, yawning, unfolding.

It felt sacred. Like we were being allowed into a world few people ever got to see.

Some days, we saw animals—a fox, a deer, once even a massive moose. I’ll never forget that moment: the antlers impossibly wide,  the silence electric. My dad gripped me tightly and whispered, “Shhh…” (I was always singing or chattering about something). I remember the fear in his eyes, how serious he suddenly looked. But I wasn’t scared—just thrilled. A real moose! Right there in front of us!

As a child, I wasn’t afraid of the forest at all—not the bugs, the creatures, the unknown. Somehow, I felt more at home there than anywhere else.

But like most childhood memories, this one isn’t unspoiled. 

Every trip, my dad packed something extra in his rucksack: a small glass container filled with vodka or some other strong liquor. He was with me—truly with me—until our first rest stop. While I roasted bread over a tiny fire and crunched salty cucumbers, he would begin to disappear. Sip by sip, he numbed himself, and I knew what that meant.

It meant the second we got home, the magic would vanish. The day would darken. The yelling would begin. 

Every time he drank, the same thing happened: screaming matches, door-slamming, cruel accusations thrown toward my mom, my brother, and later, me. Even our pets weren't spared some sort of abuse.

I would strategically place myself on my mom’s lap—my small body acting as a human shield in case my dad started throwing punches. I was shaking—violently, uncontrollably—watching the chaos explode around us. I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life, not even since. But I still remember it, clear as day. That kind of fear gets into your bones. Your body just trembles like it knows something terrible is coming, even before your brain catches up. 

And it wasn’t just occasional—it was every weekend. Eventually, even Thursdays. Sunday through Wednesday, I had something close to a normal life. Thursday through Saturday, I survived.

So many of my childhood memories followed the same pattern: joy in the morning, fear at night. Discovery followed by devastation. Beauty undone.

The forest was kind. Beautiful. Forgiving. 

But home—home was not.