An elderly woman trudges toward the commuter train from her dacha. Alongside her usual overstuffed rolling cart (named a "kravchuchka" after the Ukrainian president) and other luggage, she drags a bulky plastic bag overflowing with children's toys.

Her grandson gathered them. He marches empty-handed right next to his overburdened "packhorse."

"Let him carry his own load," I say.

"No! He is still little," the grandmother sighs.

The boy, somewhere between seven and ten, smiled blissfully, feigning complete ignorance, while his grandmother melted with tender affection. She was genuinely proud to still serve as a beast of burden. Her entire standing in the family rested on this very principle: she hauled one heavy load or another for as long as she physically could.

Perhaps we should teach children that deliberately making life harder for their loved ones is unnecessary. It is better to help—or at least stay out of the way. And if you want to take something home from the dacha, carry it yourself.

Ten or fifteen years have passed. That grandmother is now a mere shadow; you can no longer "plow" with her. She timidly asks her grandson to come out and greet me, as I have come to visit for the first time in years. Back then, a long time ago, we spent the summer together, listening to old Beatles vinyls and having fun. I was about fourteen, and my own grandmother had just died, so this one—her sister—took me in for the holidays.

My childhood companion never emerged from his room; the only response was a muffled curse, telling Nina Andreevna to go to hell with her guests. Ashamed, she made excuses for the young man, claiming he was simply busy. While we drank tea, there were a few more failed attempts to call him, eventually cut short by his mother’s sharp command to leave their domestic little tsar in peace.

The old woman, once the head of this household, was now an utterly useless creature to her family. She could no longer work or carry bags for her grandson, even if she desperately wanted to. And since a horse is no longer a horse, she irritates those who are accustomed to seeing her as a utilitarian function rather than a living soul deserving of love.

Now she was ignored and brushed aside like an unnecessary burden.

Self-sacrifice, even in trivial matters, without compensation or at least verbalizing what is happening, unfortunately does not lead to gratitude from those it was meant for. Children or grandchildren raised in this environment by such "draft horses" inevitably discover one day that their caretakers' strength is fading. And when relationships are built primarily on one-sided care, the squeezed-out tube is simply thrown away. Because it is now empty or lacks the resources it once had.

And Grandma Nina could only bitterly lament all her heroic efforts laid upon the altar of serving her descendants. She never realized that she shouldn't have served them, but rather raised them into honorable people worthy of respect.

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel

Dog people recognize each other by their dogs, their walking routes, and the time of day. Without our furry companions, we are total strangers. Even if I bump into the same husky owner four years in a row, there's no guarantee I'll recognize him in broad daylight, in a different neighborhood, and off-leash.

The same applies to age. When you’re blissfully sprinting somewhere, pulled along by a four-legged sail, you’re 17. When you’re striding into a high-stakes business meeting, you’re 40. And when you have to tackle a backlog of chores and shovel through the mental rubble, you feel every bit of 60.

After having a massive blowout during a late-night dog walk yesterday, I asked my sparring partner how old he was.

"The exact same age as you!" he barked back.

"I'm a good 20 years younger than you!" I growled, deciding to leave my "juvenile" debater all by his lonesome. After all, as an even younger and more innocent creature, it was way past my bedtime. It’s not like I went for a midnight run or anything.

Trying to shave years off your age at someone else's expense is a spectacular fail, especially when talking to women and dropping lines like: "At our age...", "Back in our day...", or "Kids these days...". It’s as if they’re forcing a status on me that I only plan to adopt in about 50 years. And not a second sooner.

The kicker is, this whining "grandpa" isn't even that old. He just let himself go—without physical activity, adults practically ossify. So, having mentally slapped an extra decade onto his own life, he decided to drag me down into the crypt with him?

Sure, there’s generational banter about this, like a husband in his 40s yelling "retiree" at his 25-year-old wife, and her shooting back that it's time to take their granddaughter to school. It's funny as a joke, but if he genuinely believes it...

Then you get these battalions of 60-something machos screaming desperately in forum comments that they retain their youth far better than women because, simply by virtue of being men, they allegedly age slower. Except that only applies to reproductive metrics. A 70-year-old geezer can still conceive, while a grandma can no longer get pregnant. But who in their right mind would want a baby with such a geriatric father, unless they're after his inheritance or a big name?

I guess it depends on what exactly makes a person turn gray. I, for one, am far too old to play nice with fools. What is the one thing you've managed to grow old in?

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel

If you are being pushed out—walk away. This isn’t about the theatrical breakups where a woman storms off, secretly craving her lover to chase her down with apologies and gifts. Nor is it about those who simply lack the emotional maturity to navigate a conflict. The real deal is when the Universe itself evicts you from a place where you are no longer welcome.

The cosmos is actually looking out for your own good: you are fiercely awaited somewhere else.

It pushes you away gently at first, dropping subtle hints: things start stalling, a slow exhaustion creeps in, the spark completely fades. If you remain deaf to the whispers, the pressure builds into shoves—the friction intensifies. If you stubbornly play the fool, the kicks arrive. And then come the real losses. The deep, lasting cuts.

The ultimate litmus test is an overwhelming wave of depletion, a crushing sense of emptiness. And above all—a visceral, physical reluctance to return to the scene of the crime. Be it a toxic workplace or a circle of so-called friends. If, like an idiot, you crawl back anyway, you will bitterly regret it. The misery will only compound.

It pays to listen to the Universe and thank her while she is still offering polite warnings. She is a formidable lady—you really don't want to cross her. When provoked, her backlash is ruthless, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.

You can test the waters to make sure you aren't imagining things; double-check if you've read the signals right. But if the answer hits you with that same familiar, blunt force to the head—spare yourself the inevitable ruin. Run, and don't look back.

The bottom line. It doesn’t matter what anchors you to a place that has grown suffocating: prestige, money, comfort, or the whispers of your acquaintances. If your gut screams to leave, do yourself a favor and walk away at the first hint. Don't wait for the kicks.

To quote an undeniable piece of wisdom: “Remember! If you’ve been told to go to hell in one place, they are already dying to see you in another!”

P.S. This piece was written a while ago, but it hits just as hard today. A little polish and a fresh photo. Wishing you all sharp intuition and clear sight, my friends!

Photo by the author

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel

A fluffy-tailed Cat was searching for friends, but they were nowhere to be found. She looked for them for a long, long time, until finally, she began to weep and cry out loudly: "Where are you, my friends, where are you?! I am so miserable without you, I have no one to meow with, no one to stroke me or brush my fur. A little longer, and I will die of loneliness. Take pity on me, please show yourselves!"

The Cat called out long and loud, but no one heard her. So, she decided to go into the forest and search for friends there. Filled with hope, she ventured into the thicket. But she met only wolves, jackals, and snakes. They all wanted to bite the Cat and tear out a clump of her fur. And they usually succeeded.

Then she decided: "Let the beasts eat me; I am of no use to anyone anyway." She came to a river. She sat there, looking around, still searching for someone—an enemy might forget about her, but a friend might remember.

But it was empty all around. Or perhaps she had cried so much that her eyes ached, and she could no longer see anything but her own loneliness?

The Cat sat on the bank and thought: "I’ve walked so much, climbed so many trees—I am covered in dust. I need to wash up." She leaned over the water and instantly recoiled. Sitting in the river was a filthy, sick, exhausted, and weeping old creature.

The Cat was frightened. Such suffering and sorrow were etched onto the old creature’s face that looking at her was terrifying—what if her grief was contagious? The Cat paced along the bank for a while; she felt pity for the sufferer. Sitting there in the water, she must be so cold. "I need to help her somehow," the Cat decided, and leaned over the water once more.

"Can I help you?"

Silence was the only answer... "Strange," thought the Cat, "what’s wrong with her?" She looked closer and suddenly gasped: "But that’s me!!!" And indeed, it was her. She had wandered through such wild thickets, fallen into such deep swamps, brushed past such thorny trees, and encountered such vicious monsters that she barely had any fur left. And what remained was matted and ugly.

Her fluffy little tail had turned thin and frail, her paws were trembling and battered. And her face looked tormented.

She looked old—for everyone who does not warm themselves by the gentle fire of love grows old.

The Cat looked at herself and said: "I have forgotten how to meow, I have become ugly, and I am so very tired. People shun me. I will never find friends. The only thing that doesn't expect gifts from me and doesn't want my fur is my reflection in the river. It only wants to see me, it belongs only to me, and it loves me. I will go to it, for it is my only friend."

The Cat had always been afraid of water and cold; the darkness terrified her. But there, in the cold, wet darkness, was her reflection, and she decided to do what she had long dreamed of—embrace her newly found friend.

Uttering her final words, the Cat threw herself into the water. She thought: "It is better to die in an embrace than to live alone."

When she found herself underwater, she saw how many fish there were: "Why, I can eat these!" And the Cat began to hunt the fish, catching plenty, and she learned how to swim in the process. She leaped out onto the bank, glanced at her reflection, and meowed with pleasure. Diving in the river had washed her clean. Chasing her prey had reminded her how wonderful it was to jump and fly.

Everyone knows how to fly, only many forget how to. And everyone is only truly happy in their own world—the main thing is to see it or invent it. And then, out of thousands of parallel worlds, you will find yourself precisely in yours, and you will be happy.

And the Cat, having found herself—for everyone who searches for anything or anyone is ultimately only searching for themselves—lived happily ever after. Which is what we wish for everyone.

I drew this illustration a long time ago, but I still love it, just like this parable I came up with. An editor at one of the publications where I worked used to call such pieces "timeless masterpieces" (netlenka).

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel