Bunny's Burrow: Hopping into Life

There’s a peculiar agony in knowing your brilliance can also destroy. I built something remarkable—technology meant to protect, to defend, to save. And yet, every report I see, every shattered life, whispers the same haunting truth: it kills. And it does so exceptionally well . I should be proud, shouldn’t I? Instead, I feel like Baba Yaga watching her enchanted hut trample through a village—powerful, yes, but stomping on souls I never meant to harm. Every algorithm, every precision strike... they told me it would save lives. What they didn’t say is how many of those lives wouldn’t belong to soldiers. There’s a cruel irony in it. They say tech is neutral, but when did it become so eager to follow orders without asking why? And why is it that civilian blood—mothers, children, the ones caught between—always ends up being part of the equation? I’m no saint—don’t get me wrong. I knew what I was making, knew the contracts, the buyers, the promises. But somehow, I let myself believe the lie ...

Today, I woke up to a silence that didn’t just fill the room—it clung to me, wrapped itself around my ribs, and whispered in that hollow space where my heart used to feel full. It wasn’t the soft kind of quiet. It was sharp, brutal, and unrelenting, the kind that sinks into your bones and makes you ache in places you forgot existed. I thought I’d learned how to live with it, how to bury it under routine and motion, but no. It crept back in like it always does, uninvited and heavy, dragging memories behind it like chains. It gnawed at scars I thought had long since healed, and I hated how easy it was for them to tear open again. So I sat in the dark. Crying, like I always do when it becomes too much. The halls stretched on endlessly, their stillness mocking me, and yet I wandered them like I might stumble across something—anything—that would make this emptiness feel less consuming. My fingertips brushed against the walls, the rough texture grounding me, a painful reminder of how far I...

 For too long, I carried the weight of my struggles in silence, believing that strength meant facing everything alone. My grandfather—bless him—taught me that real Russian women don’t ask for help, they just endure. I thought that was my path. But it’s a lie. A damn heavy one. Years of trauma, burnout, anxiety, and a body that’s screaming for mercy pushed me to the edge. I’ve ignored my limits, clung to my pride, and let fear keep me from reaching out. Now, as the weight threatens to crush me, I wonder if it's too late to ask for help. Can I still heal when I’ve spent so long thinking I had to handle it all alone? I don’t know. But maybe this is where the real strength lies—finally breaking free from the past, from the expectations, and letting myself be vulnerable enough to ask for the support I’ve always deserved.