25-year-old journalist Vasilisa Stepanenko, a Pulitzer Prize winner for her reporting from besieged Mariupol, reflects on the contrasts in her life—where days spent on the front lines are followed by nights at the Oscars.
I look at a photo of myself from three years ago and see a child. She is cheerful, unafraid of anything. She makes decisions quickly and confidently, believing in them with all her heart. She knows how to love and trust. In a few days, she will find herself in hell— in Mariupol, surrounded by Russians—but she won’t stop for anything. When I reflect on what has happened to me in these three years, about how I’ve changed, I struggle to grasp that all this is my reality.
Before the invasion, I was a reporter for a local channel in Kharkiv. Hardly anyone watched it, but I sincerely believed in what I was doing. On the eve of the full-scale invasion, I joined the Associated Press at the invitation of war correspondent Mstyslav Chernov, and we began working on our first story—right in Kharkiv, my hometown. Between filming and interviews about the possible invasion, I wandered through the winter city. I will never forget that cool, damp February air. It felt like a train was barrelling forward, and I could not stop it. At the café, people talked about the war. I didn’t believe it, didn’t even want to think this could happen. Then we went to Mariupol, driving along the entire front line. It was quiet. We drove in silence, scrolling through the news.
And then came February 24. Explosions on the outskirts of the city. A cold, dark morning. Days blurred together into one, and then—into a nightmare. Death. So much death. After the first powerful explosion nearby, I dropped to the floor of the hospital and prayed to God. I think that’s when I began to grow up—as if I had seen something no one my age should ever see. No one should ever see. I buried these thoughts deep, so deep that they remained out of reach for a long time. I promised myself I would be strong and wouldn’t allow myself to cry. I didn’t know if I would survive in Mariupol, but I knew that as long as I was alive, I had to keep working to bring these people’s stories to the world. This was not supposed to be happening. The world had to know.
Nights in basements, on floors in corridors. Lack of communication, food, and water. Back then, I couldn’t imagine what would come next. I couldn’t imagine surviving. We were leaving the city through Russian checkpoints. The car of Volodymyr Nikulin, the police officer who saved us, was battered, its windows sealed so tightly I could see nothing outside. Darkness had already fallen. After fifteen Russian checkpoints, I finally heard people speaking Ukrainian.
It was March 15. After that, so much would happen. The drama theatre in Mariupol. Bucha. The shelling of Kharkiv. The fighting on the front line. The counteroffensive. Mass burials and torture in Izyum, Lyman, Donbas, and Kherson. Hundreds of missile strikes across Ukrainian cities. The village of Hroza in the Kharkiv region—59 people killed in a single attack. War crimes investigations. Graves upon graves. The cries of mothers becoming part of the daily news coverage. On Maidan, the monument would disappear beneath hundreds of flags.
This pain felt inescapable. I looked through my camera and captured what I saw. I wanted to tell these stories, to be the voice of Ukrainians—to make sure the world heard them. Even far from the front line, war felt like a nightmare. But I always returned because it felt like reality only existed there.
My life was full of contrasts. The first time I went abroad to see my family, I allowed myself to cry—also for the first time—watching children play under a peaceful sky. My family and friends barely recognized me. I had stopped smiling. Almost every two months, between reporting from the front lines, I flew to the United States for various events: the Pulitzer Prize, the Oscars. A dress replaced my bulletproof vest. Dirty boots gave way to heels. I couldn’t make sense of it. How could the world be so starkly divided? How could such different realities co-exist? While Ukraine fought a terrible, brutal war for survival, on the other side of the world, people danced at parties.
During the invasion, I lost my dreams. As I boarded the plane to New York—the city I had once dreamed of—I allowed myself a single tear. A happy tear. I was alive. I could see the world. But I couldn’t cry any more than that. It was as if something inside me had shrunk.
Before the Oscars, I was in the Donetsk region. A night at a stabilization point. Then, filming a report about the work of artillerymen. When I returned, I went to try on my dress for the Oscars ceremony—a magical dress created for me by the Ukrainian brand GASANOVA. I never believed our film, 20 Days in Mariupol, could be nominated for an Oscar—because it showed a reality most people didn’t want to see. I realized this during screenings around the world, when people asked if it was really a documentary…
On the day of the Oscars, Ukrainian women helped me prepare for the red carpet—one of them had ended up in Los Angeles, fleeing the war. I opened the window to breathe in the warm, peaceful California air. Then I looked at myself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. Where was that little girl? Hundreds of stories of pain and suffering lived inside me. But I had to pull myself together and look the world in the eye. There, in Los Angeles, I felt more alone than ever. Because I was far from Ukraine.
Everything had changed forever. Heroes—they were dying. My heart was broken, but I gathered myself and stepped onto the red carpet. Before me was a world I had only ever seen on TV. The ceremony began. One nomination after another. We inched closer and closer to the stage. Then, our category: Best Documentary. 20 Days in Mariupol. We walked onto the stage. In my mind, the stories of those we had filmed came rushing back. I could almost see them, standing side by side. This was all for them. Our work had not been in vain. Now, it was history.
February 2025. I’ve just returned from the front line, where being a journalist has become more dangerous than ever. Drones fill the sky, and reaching military positions is a challenge. But my desire to tell people’s stories is stronger than fear—because every story matters. We toured the front line, meeting soldiers who returned to service after losing limbs. Their resilience, their unbreakable spirit, is infinitely inspiring. They fight to protect their families and hometowns. They dream of going home. Even after devastating injuries, the war did not break them. It’s stories like these that drive me forward. I am proud of my profession and wholeheartedly believe that we can fight disinformation and bring important stories to the world.
I believe in myself. And I know that the girl I was three years ago—if she could see me now— would be proud. Proud that she endured so much and never lost herself. And I know one thing for certain: I will not stop.