I was born and raised in a small, poor Ukrainian town, called Polonne. I was blessed to have loving and caring parents but unfortunate enough to experience the pain of poverty.

    At times, our family didn’t have enough money to buy food. Thankfully, we had a garden with vegetables and fruits, and we had chickens and turkeys. But yoghurts? Bananas? Chocolate bars? Those were luxury items for special occasions.

    We had running water, but we had to run to a well for it.

    We didn’t have a bathroom, shower or toilet inside the house. Taking a bath was an entire rigmarole, which required multiple steps — going to the well, bringing water in buckets, heating it on the stove and mixing the hot and cold water in a tub and then using a cup to pour water and wash ourselves. That was the process.

    When I came to America and lived in a home with a proper bathroom and a shower with hot running water all day long, I couldn’t believe my joy. I was like a child on Christmas morning. How soon do we take for granted the small, simple things that make us so happy?

    I knew all about the external effects of poverty — the physical challenges that make life difficult, and I was also only too familiar with the internal consequences of being poor — the feeling of being undeserving of all the great things others had.

    But there was something within me that refused to accept an existence of poverty and scarcity. I knew there was more to life than my current circumstances, and that the world was a much bigger and better place and could offer so much more than what my small town could give. I could see that the world was small and large at the same time — so I started looking for a key to unlock the bigger world.

    When I was twelve years old, I said to my mom, “Mom, when I grow up, I want to live in the USA.”

    Her response was, “Honey, don’t be ridiculous. It’s impossible. People like us don’t go anywhere.”

    I knew she had the best intentions to protect her daughter from bitter disappointment. To a certain degree, my mom was right; it seemed an impossible dream for someone who didn’t have two pennies to rub together. Someone who was mocked and humiliated by kids at school for wearing old shabby clothing. Yet again, the spirit inside of me refused to accept that “truth”. And it started seeking its higher expression.

    One thing I learned over the years is when people tell you that your dream is impossible, it means it is worth pursuing it.

​    I promised myself at that young age that I would do anything possible and reach beyond any limits to bring my dream to life. It wasn’t easy. While my college mates were enjoying summer holiday breaks, I would go to Kyiv to work in restaurants.

    I started working when I was eighteen. Thankfully, I had a friend in Kyiv who allowed me to stay in her studio apartment. Sleeping on the floor wasn’t an issue for me, as I was able to save every penny from the waitressing job, apart from those spent on food and basic living expenses. I was on a mission. It took me three years to collect the thousands of dollars necessary to pay for my trip to America.

    My commitment, hard work and determination paid off.

    3 rd of May 2010 was the first day of the rest of my life. I landed in JFK, New York. I’d arrived in the land of opportunities on my own. I’d brought to life my big and impossible dream despite the odds stacked against me and all those negative messages of “it can’t be done”.

    I’d read in books that the streets in America were paved with gold. But let me tell you, when I came there, I realised two things. First, the streets were not paved with gold, but with concrete, litter and the occasional heap of dog poop. Second, I was supposed to pave the streets of my own life.

​​​    Although I was in the land of opportunities, none of those opportunities was handed to me.