Sometimes one small act of honesty can transform a lifetime. In this newsletter, I share the childhood choice that still guides how I build bridges across divides.
The Ukrainian Girl Who Spoke Up: Why I Refused to Hide
A Jewish girl in Soviet Ukraine raised her hand when she was supposed to stay silent – and learned the courage that would shape her life’s work.
I am Anya. This little girl was me. The story I’m about to tell you happened when I was six years old, but it shaped everything about how I approach difficult conversations, challenging relationships, and the courage to be myself. It’s the story that opens my book “Loving Conflict: Creating Collaboration Where Others See Division,” and it reveals how one moment of childhood authenticity influenced the way I explore conflict and connection in my work today.
The Home That Built My Foundation
To understand why I made the choice I did that day, you need to understand the home I came from. My parents, Kim and Svetlana, had created something remarkable in our small house in Dnipro, Soviet Ukraine. Despite the scarcity, the political pressure, and the antisemitism that was both state-sponsored and socially pervasive, they had built a world filled with music, books, endless curiosity, and what I now recognize as genuine safety to be yourself.
Every weekend, our home transformed into a gathering place for artists, musicians, writers, and university professors. I grew up hearing the sounds of guitar, people singing and harmonizing, grown-ups reading poetry amid laughter and friendly joking. Dancing would last all night long. My mother, Svetlana, somehow intuitively understood the importance of self-love and self-confidence, and fed it to me in generous portions daily. “You are beautiful,” she would tell me, and I believed her completely.
My father, Kim, sprinkled humor everywhere he went as a way of coping with the very unsettled and difficult life he’d been dealt. But more than his humor, what shaped me was his approach to life: “Question everything and everyone. Don’t follow the status quo. Especially don’t follow the crowd.”
This type of thinking was actually dangerous at the time. It wasn’t wise to stand out, to question authority. Yet my parents did exactly that. They read forbidden books, listened to music that wasn’t approved by the authorities, discussed the history of religions and philosophies, and even became entrepreneurs before it was allowed for people to do so.
So despite our surroundings, I grew up with an understanding of open-mindedness, ideas about freedom of expression, and the notion of radical questioning as normal.
Our home had an enormous library – my parents were obsessed with reading. Books lined every wall, stacked in corners, piled on tables. Greek myths, world history, art books, philosophy – everything my parents could get their hands on. Friends would come over and spend hours just looking through our collection in awe and wonder. My father would tell stories about the world, share wise and often witty perspectives on whatever we were reading, and always, always encourage us to think for ourselves.
When Conformity Replaces Curiosity
But when I was sent to kindergarten at age four, I discovered what happens when curiosity dies and conformity takes over.
Imagine my disbelief when every morning started with what can only be described as forced agreement. The school director would have all the kids line up. She would then ask, “Children, let’s all answer this very important question in one voice: ‘Who is the biggest, most horrible villain in the world?’”
And all 50 kids would chant loudly: “Ro-Nald Rea-Gan!! Ro-Nald Rea-Gan!”
I was mortified. First of all, I knew there was no way I was joining in. At just four years old, I wasn’t sure why, yet I knew that what they were doing was wrong. And I had lots of questions: “Who is Ronald Reagan? Why is he the most horrible villain in the world? Where does he live? Can I go meet him?”
No one at the kindergarten wanted to answer my questions. I felt alone with my curiosity and sensed I didn’t quite belong with the rest of the kids who were happy to go along with the crowd.
Yet, my natural desire to connect tugged at me to find common ground with the others despite how I felt. To bridge the gap with people who saw me as different from them. Even at that early age, thanks to the love I received at home, it was intuitive for me to think, “I can learn a great deal from people who are different from me. And I can influence people’s judgments by showing them who I am.”
This early experience offered me my first glimpse into something that continues to fascinate me in my research: real change often begins with one person brave enough to question what everyone else accepts as normal.
The Moment That Changes Everything
So when six-year-old Anya woke up excited for her first day of primary school, I was carrying all of this with me: the music from those weekend gatherings, the laughter, the absolute certainty that I was loved exactly as I was. I had no idea my parents were about to ask me to hide the thing that made me most proud.
I grew up knowing what it meant to wait. I remember standing with my mother in endless lines, holding her hand tight while we waited for milk, for bread, for whatever was available that day. Even as a small child, I understood there were things you said out loud and things you kept to yourself. The world beyond our borders felt like something from a fairy tale, unreachable and mysterious.
But nothing had prepared me for what happened that morning.
It came as a surprise when my parents sat me down right before leaving our home that day and said: “Anya please, no matter what happens at school, do not tell anyone we are Jewish. It will be dangerous for us if people know that.”
I was confused, disappointed, and angry. “Why do I have to hide who I am? And are you telling me to actually lie?”
My parents looked at each other with that expression I would later recognize as the weight of protecting someone you love from a world that might not love them the way you do. They tried to explain, but how do you explain centuries of persecution to a six-year-old who has only known acceptance?
When it was my turn to get up in front of the full class and introduce myself to my teacher and classmates, I was petrified, shaking, and yet determined. Standing there, feeling all those eyes on me, I did what my father had taught me so well. I questioned what he had told me to do.
I stood up and said, “Hello! My name is Anya, and I am Jewish!”
Everyone heard my shaky yet passionate voice, and they saw my face turning bright red as I saw the shocked expressions on the faces of the teacher and my classmates. No one had ever spoken with such uncontested, shameless pride. The silence that followed felt like forever.
This moment gave me my first taste of something I continue to explore: sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is simply tell the truth about who you are.
The Price of Speaking Truth
My bravery had consequences, putting me front and center in the conflicts that were embedded in the culture at the time. Being the only openly Jewish child in that school meant becoming a target. The teasing came in all forms. Sometimes whispers, sometimes shouts. Jokes that weren’t really jokes. The kind of cruelty that children learn from the adults around them without even knowing it.
Even when people said things that were supposed to be “harmless,” I was still hurt by the comments. There were many moments of exclusion, like being left out of games during recess or not being included in group activities or social gatherings. I was often perceived as different, and my best friend would often say to me, “I hate all the Jews, but you are OK.”
That phrase stung every time, but it also became my opening. If she could see me as different from her stereotype, maybe others could too.
Building Bridges Through Honest Connection
Instead of retreating, I made a choice that would shape my entire approach to difficult relationships and creating collaboration where others see division. I started inviting these children to my home. I wanted them to see beyond their assumptions, to know me as a person rather than a stereotype.
Over time, I became “my Jewish friend” for many of my classmates. But I wasn’t content with being the exception to their prejudice. I wanted to change the dynamic entirely.
I invited my friends to our house and exposed them to our family culture. They got to explore the huge library that my parents had assembled over the years. They stayed for hours listening to my father tell them stories about the world, Greek myths, the history of art, or simply discussing the books they were reading while he offered his wise and often witty perspective. They were invited to our lively family gatherings.
My parents treated everyone equally and always had their house and dining table open to visitors. There were always interesting people around ready to talk to the children or help them with their homework or even matters of the heart that might be bothering them. My friends got to witness the strong nurturing bonds that existed between the generations of our family, with both my parents being close to their parents, and with the grandparents being an active part of family life.
It worked slowly, but it worked. Step by step, my friends went from “I hate all the Jews, but you are OK” to “We just love spending time with you and your family, we learn so much here” and ultimately to “I am sorry for what I said about you in the past. I love and respect you.”
Some transformations happened faster than others. I remember one friend who came to our weekend gathering and watched my father debate philosophy with a neighbor while my mother served tea and someone played guitar in the background. She pulled me aside afterward and said, “Your family is so smart and happy. I thought Jewish people were supposed to be different.”
“We are different,” I told her. “Different from what you imagined.”
This experience showed me something I’m still learning about: real change happens when we create spaces for people to see each other’s full humanity.
What I’m Still Learning About Courage
Those early experiences offered me lessons that I didn’t fully understand until much later in life, and honestly, I’m still discovering new layers of meaning. When I reflect on that six-year-old girl who chose to speak up instead of hiding, I see patterns that continue to show up in my research on conflict and intimacy.
What I learned about courage: It isn’t the absence of fear. I was terrified that morning when I stood up to introduce myself. My hands were shaking, my voice was unsteady, and I could feel my face turning red. But I spoke anyway because something inside me knew that hiding felt more dangerous than being seen.
What I learned about connection: Conflict often becomes the starting point for real relationship. Every friendship I built that year started with some form of tension or misunderstanding. The kids who initially teased me became some of my closest friends, but only after we worked through the discomfort of their assumptions and my hurt feelings.
What I learned about influence: Changing minds seems to happen through relationships, not arguments. I could have spent hours explaining why their stereotypes about Jewish people were wrong. Instead, I invited them into my world and let them draw their own conclusions.
What I learned about authenticity: Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is simply be yourself. In a world that expected me to hide, my presence became a form of quiet resistance. Not aggressive resistance, but something more like the power of refusing to disappear.
What I learned about hope: Even when people hurt you, it’s possible to maintain faith in their capacity for growth. Despite experiencing prejudice and exclusion, I somehow believed that people could change. That faith made it possible to keep extending invitations even after rejections.
How One Choice Continues to Influence My Work
The choice I made that day established a pattern that continues to fascinate me in my research: choosing discomfort over safety, connection over distance, hope over cynicism when given the chance.
This pattern followed me as I grew up. When I encountered the group of tough boys at school who seemed intimidating to everyone else, I found myself approaching them with curiosity instead of fear. When I moved to China as a young adult, I threw myself into learning the culture rather than staying in expat bubbles. When I later moved to California and felt completely out of place, I questioned my assumptions about American culture instead of judging it.
Each time, I noticed the same thing: conflict as catalyst seems to be where real collaboration begins.
Today, whether I’m exploring how couples rebuild connection, how families navigate generational differences, or how teams find common ground, I keep seeing similar patterns. People who learn to engage with difficult conversations rather than avoid them often create the relationships they truly want.
The Power of Speaking Your Truth
I often reflect on how those early days as part of a persecuted minority shaped my approach to helping others navigate difficult relationships. I could have, like every other Jewish child in my elementary school, listened to my parents and stayed below the radar. And what if I had done that? What if I had not chosen to engage in conflict rather than avoid it?
I can barely imagine how much poorer my life – and my work with people facing their own challenges – would have been.
I would have missed the deep connections that form through working through differences. I would have missed the confidence that comes from learning you can handle difficult conversations and emerge stronger. I would have missed the early understanding that people’s resistance is often based on lack of information rather than malice, and that exposure to different experiences can transform relationships.
Most importantly, I would have missed the foundational lesson that has guided every important decision I’ve made since: throughout my life, I’ve seen how every divide can be reframed as an invitation to learn something essential. Relationship conflicts, cultural misunderstandings, family tensions. All of them. That’s why I’ve learned to love conflict – because conflict as catalyst is where real collaboration begins.
This insight now drives my work with people who want to create collaboration where others see division.
From Six-Year-Old Truth-Teller to Researcher
That six-year-old girl who refused to hide her identity became an adult who studies what happens when people have the conversations they’ve been avoiding. The same impulse that made me invite my prejudiced classmates to my home now drives me to explore how people can see each other’s humanity beyond their roles and assumptions, how individuals can work through their deepest conflicts, how families can transform disagreement into understanding.
The work I do – whether with couples rediscovering intimacy, parents and teenagers finding common ground, or teams learning to collaborate – feels connected to the same instincts I was following at six: creating opportunities for people to see beyond their assumptions about each other.
When I facilitate difficult conversations, I’m drawing on patterns I first noticed when I invited my classmates home. When I support people through challenging relationships, I’m exploring themes that began when I questioned my father’s advice about hiding. When I create spaces for people to find common ground across their differences, I’m researching the same belief that took root in childhood: people can change when exposed to different experiences.
The Cross-Cultural Bridge
There’s another layer to this story that has become crucial for my work helping people navigate differences. When Russia invaded Ukraine in 2022, I felt that same six-year-old’s impulse to speak up, to refuse to stay silent about who I am and where I come from.
The girl who proudly announced her Jewish identity in Soviet Ukraine became an adult who couldn’t stay quiet about her Ukrainian identity during wartime. The same courage that made me risk social rejection at school now drives me to support my homeland despite the complexity it sometimes creates in my relationships and work.
But the deeper connection is this: my childhood experience of being a minority taught me to see the humanity in people who hold different views. Even as I advocate passionately for Ukraine, I remember the lesson of those early friendships – that changing minds happens through relationship building, not arguments.
This experience gives me a unique perspective in helping people navigate difficult conversations across all kinds of divides – cultural, political, generational, or personal.
Today’s Challenge: Creating Connection Across Divides
Today, our world feels more divided than ever. Political tensions, generational differences, and cultural misunderstandings can fracture even the closest relationships. Technology has made communication easier while somehow making real connection more challenging.
But if you look closely, you can find people who want to bridge those divides. I believe the key lies in the same principle I discovered at six: the courage to be authentically yourself, the wisdom to invite others into your perspective, and the patience to let understanding develop through relationship rather than argument.
What It Takes
The choice to speak up, to engage in conflict rather than avoiding it, requires courage rooted in self-knowledge, curiosity about different perspectives, patience with change processes, and faith in human capacity for growth.
There are no guarantees when you choose authenticity over safety. But hiding carries its own costs – never building real trust, never creating the safety necessary for deep connection, never discovering your true potential.
The gift of choosing authentic engagement is profound: relationships that can weather storms, people who love you for who you really are, and the discovery that many conflicts contain the seeds of deeper understanding.
What I Continue to Notice
That six-year-old girl who spoke up when she was supposed to stay silent became an adult who studies these moments when people choose courage over comfort. I’m still exploring the same question that started in that classroom: what happens when we show up as ourselves, even when it’s scary?
I am Anya. That little girl was me. And her choice to speak up changed everything.
If you’re curious about exploring how conflict might become a path to deeper connection in your own relationships, I’d love to share what I’ve learned. You can find out more about my research and workshops on creating collaboration where others see division.