Why “Resilience” Became the Word No One in Ukraine Likes — And What Should Replace It

A friend of mine stayed in Kyiv when the full-scale invasion began in February of 2022. She saw the first missile strike the capital. She watched Russian helicopters flying low toward Hostomel. She walked past barricaded streets and checkpoints built to stop sabotage groups. Like many others, she chose to remain.

At the beginning of this year, she left.

Not because of the weekly barrages of missiles and drones, most of us have learned, reluctantly, how to live with those. Not in panic. She left because her apartment had no electricity, no heating, and no water for days, as temperatures dropped well below freezing.

At first, she tried to adapt. She set up a small camping tent in her living room and slept inside it wearing a hat and several layers of sweaters, trying to preserve warmth. The radiators froze. Pipes cracked. Eventually, the apartment became uninhabitable.

“At some point,” she told me, “it stops being heroic. It just becomes unlivable.”

After destroying a significant share of Ukraine’s electricity generation, Russia shifted to systematic attacks on substations and distribution networks, often timing strikes with cold spells. Winter itself became a weapon against the civilian population. For Kyiv, this has become the hardest winter since 2022.

We do not know when stable power will fully return. We do not know how many winters will look like this. We do not know how long the war will continue in its current form.

Yet when international delegations visit Kyiv, one word still dominates the conversation: resilience.

In 2022, resilience helped hold the country together.

In 2026, it is a word many people quietly chafe at.

How Resilience Took Shape

In the weeks before the full-scale invasion, many Western governments evacuated or moved their embassies out of Kyiv. Intelligence warnings suggested the capital could fall quickly, and there was a broad expectation that Ukraine would struggle to withstand a rapid assault.

Ukraine did not collapse.

Instead, the world witnessed scenes that felt almost cinematic. The defenders of Snake Island replying to the Russian warship with a phrase that would become one of the war’s defining lines. Civilians blocking tanks with their bare hands. Farmers towing away armored vehicles. I remember filming explosions from my apartment window in Kharkiv, recording videos from the kindergarten Russia hit with cluster munitions and giving interview after interview to international media in an attempt to demonstrate that the city was still standing.

Those early weeks compressed shock and stubborn resolve into something that felt historic.

From those moments emerged a powerful image of Ukraine as a kind of David facing Goliath — outmatched on paper, but determined and unexpectedly strong. Stories of courage spread quickly and helped shape the idea of the “iron Ukrainian,” someone seen as tough, resilient, and able to endure almost anything. The courage was real, and it mattered. It helped people function without sleep, without certainty, and without giving in to fear. It created unity at a time when paralysis would have been fatal.

Across Europe, admiration quickly turned into solidarity. Supporting Ukraine felt urgent and justified. Helping a country seen as brave and determined was politically compelling. Strength, in this sense, mobilized support in a way helplessness does not.

When Strength Becomes Expectation

Four years later, the war is no longer front-page news in much of Europe. It has become part of the geopolitical background — tragic, ongoing, but normalized. The archetype of the “unbreakable Ukrainian,” however, remains intact. In the European imagination, Ukrainians often still appear as uniquely resilient, almost uniquely suited to endure war. They are often described as Europe’s shield, as if their willingness to sacrifice and defend their country were an inherent national trait rather than a response to the war realities they face. This framing subtly alters expectations. If Ukrainians are unbreakable, then they can endure indefinitely. If they are made of iron, then exhaustion becomes secondary. If they are portrayed as historically destined to defend Europe, then prolonged sacrifice appears almost natural.

The shift from admiration to expectation was gradual. Much of Europe sees itself as post-war and reluctant to engage in direct conflict. Ukrainians, by contrast, risk being perceived as a different kind of Europeans — hardened, martial, structurally capable of absorbing violence on behalf of others. The unspoken logic becomes simple: Ukrainians fight, others support. This psychological pattern offers a certain comfort — the sense that somewhere to the East there is a society uniquely capable of absorbing geopolitical shock. If Ukrainian resilience is seen as endless, Europe's own vulnerability can feel less urgent. Yet the stronger Ukraine appears, the less space there is to acknowledge its fragility.

The Cost of Endurance

For those watching from outside, resilience can make the situation seem manageable; for those living through it, it often deepens the fatigue. Sitting in a freezing apartment without electricity in 2022 felt very different from sitting in one in 2026. Back then, there was momentum — Kharkiv liberated, Kherson liberated, the sense that the war, though terrifying, might be finite.

Today it feels less like an emergency and more like a chronic condition. It strains psychological, financial, and moral resources. The hardest part became not the immediate shock of attacks but the sense that time has shifted, that the war may continue without a clear horizon. In this context, resilience messaging can sound less like encouragement and more like pressure.  Words of admiration do not heat homes or rebuild infrastructure. Praise without decisive action feels hollow. Being told you are unbreakable can begin to feel like being told you are not allowed to break.

The resilience narrative played a crucial role in the early phase of the war. It helped mobilize support quickly and created a sense of urgency across Europe. But a prolonged war changes how that narrative functions.  As the war stretches into its fifth year, the same narrative can produce unintended effects. When Ukraine is repeatedly described as uniquely capable of adapting and enduring, the perception of urgency softens. Resilience, in this sense, reflects reality but can also obscure how much strain is accumulating beneath the surface. War is sustained not by narratives alone but by resources, institutions, and the long-term endurance of society, all of which are finite.

This is where the question becomes broader than language. Ukraine’s endurance is not a self-contained phenomenon; it is part of a wider European security landscape. Viewing the war primarily through the lens of Ukrainian toughness risks reinforcing the idea that the burden of adaptation lies mostly with Ukrainians themselves, while others remain supporters at a distance. Yet a war of this duration requires something more integrated — a shift from admiration to shared responsibility, from seeing Ukraine as a shield to understanding it as part of a collective security system. Acknowledging limits does not diminish Ukraine’s strength; it clarifies what sustained support and long-term planning must look like.

My friend who left Kyiv earlier this year did not leave because she lacked resilience. She left because her apartment was cold, dark, and unlivable, and because living indefinitely in survival mode is not something any society is meant to normalize. Her decision was not a personal failure; it was a reminder of the very limits that the language of resilience often obscures. As the war enters its fifth year, the central question is not simply how much Ukrainians can endure, but how Ukraine and its partners can adapt to ensure that endurance remains possible — and that shared security becomes more than a slogan, but a practical framework for the years ahead.

Image credit: Amaury Laporte, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons