Ukrainians were shocked by Russia’s war. Now many are numb and hopeless

From Lviv in the west to Mariupol in the south, not one Ukrainian I spoke to in the weeks before February 24, 2022, predicted what was to come.

More than 150,000 Russian troops were positioned along the border with Ukraine, yet most people dismissed the buildup as political theatre.

Some thought Moscow might push further into the areas taken by Russian-backed separatists in 2014 and 2015. Many believed nothing would happen.

Then, overnight, the country woke up to a different world.

Air raid sirens became part of daily life. Martial law was imposed. Road signs were torn down so invading troops would lose their way.

Civilians queued up to learn how to shoot. Women and children streamed westwards on packed trains and buses, crossing into Europe with whatever they could carry.

That first year was also defined by a surge of patriotism.

Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, once derided by critics at home, became the embodiment of national resistance.

War songs blared from radios, and donations poured into military funds.

Ukrainian forces held off Russia’s attempt to seize the capital Kyiv before launching a counteroffensive that surprised even their allies.

That’s when Russia began changing tactics.

I still remember sitting at breakfast in a hotel when I felt it – a low, gnawing rumble that vibrated through the room as a ballistic missile bore into a street in Dnipro, central Ukraine, in October 2022.

It is a noise so unnatural that it floods the body with adrenaline. Cutlery rattled, and tables shook. I looked up instinctively. Locals glanced around briefly, then returned to their meals; by then, they were already learning how to live with war.

Those strikes marked a new phase. Russia had begun systematically targeting energy infrastructure – power stations, grids, heating systems – plunging cities into darkness as winter set in.

Blackouts became routine. Generators appeared in courtyards and stairwells while people still went to work, wrapped in coats, determined to carry on.

By 2023, the war’s toll was becoming harder to ignore.

In Kyiv, Russian troops had long been pushed back, and although air raids continued, life settled into wartime normality.

The early battlefield euphoria also faded as fighting ground down into trench warfare – eerily reminiscent of the First World War, but now shadowed by drones overhead.

When I returned in January 2026, the fatigue was unmistakable.

A deep freeze had left millions without electricity, heating or water. Russia had used the cold snap to intensify its attacks on infrastructure.

The strikes were worst at night, when the booms of air defences and missiles could fill the sky alongside a familiar screech: Motors driving the so-called Kamikazee drones into various targets around the capital.

At the same time, a major corruption scandal involving senior figures linked to the presidency had shaken public trust – bitter news in a country where people were already struggling to stay warm.

That the scandal centred on the energy sector only deepened the anger.

Everyone also seemed fluent in the language of war.

From the elderly woman running a flower stall to schoolchildren waiting for the bus, all could identify incoming threats from Telegram alerts – what type of drones, missiles, flight paths – almost by instinct.

After four years, people no longer leave their beds when sirens sound. Alerts are too frequent. Many come in the early hours of the morning, and taking shelter is not always practical. People also simply do not have the energy.

Ukraine is grieving. The United Nations Human Rights Monitoring Mission in Ukraine confirmed that conflict-related violence killed 2,514 civilians and injured 12,142 in the country in 2025 alone.

Peace talks may be under way, welcomed abroad with cautious optimism, but on the streets, they barely register.

“I take each day as it comes,” was a standard response when I asked about a potential ceasefire.