+255€ =€1,286.31 🇺🇦

‼️17 evacuation stretcher in a pile.
Thank you! 🫂

We're more than happy with this result, but because each of these will be needed, we're still accepting donations for these until today

After that we will place an order.
www.paypal.com/donate/?host...

Thought I had deleted that post honestly 😔 apparently not.

Perhaps then, I will cry for the last time—and the first time, again.

Life is too short not to cry, not to take the selfie, not to try and serve. Sometimes, it doesn’t make me want to give up. It makes me sit down and wish the war were over—so my biggest concern could be what comes next.

I went to the front and spent 8 months there in a war I could have left alone. I fight, and it’s for my family, my friends, and my brothers. I carry the tears of so many with me, and I know the stress I cause others with my choices. I know you worry, and I accept that worry with care and press on.

I’m not too sad to fight. I’m not too sad to stand. But I am sad. I am tired of the obliteration of my friends.

I am not stopping or pulling away as I dry my tears. I remind myself that I came here alone and now have a family of brothers.

Speaking is harder for me than reading and writing; it’s a different part of the brain, but I push, and I grow the neurons. Sometimes, it makes me cry.

There is so much I can only watch. So much I cannot control. So much that has changed me, and I pull away.

Though I’m sure emotionally disturbed people will say things to disrupt my path, no one is greater than Ukraine. In the end, nothing else matters but Ukraine.

Sometimes, the tears come from frustration—from failing, from reading and writing, and struggling to speak a foreign language.

For the never forgotten and never returned. I cry because my soul hurts. I suppose that is the cry of war too—not just the scream against an enemy, but the scream against the result.

I am not ashamed of it.

I am living my dream, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a nightmare sometimes. Perhaps I need to dream bigger, try harder, believe more, and reach deeper into myself to ensure I’ve given all I’ve got.

These are not wasted tears on fear—they are for memory.

I am not invincible, and deep down, I accept that. Just like I accept that I am not a billionaire, not a country singer, and not a famous author who writes what the soul needs.

I am living my purpose, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.

I cry that we chose money for a few instead of the health and well-being of all. Tears aren’t pretty, but they are real. I cry because of the injustice I’ve had to let go of. The hate I get for just being honest.

I am not strong all the time.

I cry because there is so much I cannot do. So much I cannot say to make the pain fade into the haunting sunsets of Ukraine. Sometimes, I cry.

I cry at the loss of the America I was taught to believe in, at the loss of my freedom as an American.

I would end the fundraising online and only ask for a receipt in return.

So I trick my mind and heart into thinking of these things instead of the loss—the loss of my friends in battle, the loss of friends from Twitter. Some I’d never want back in my life, but I still wish it had ended better.

I am not a billionaire, though. The thought soothes the ache in my soul, knowing that if I could do more, I would. heart into thinking of these things instead of the loss—the loss of my friends in battle, the loss of friends from Twitter.

Maybe I'd even hire a mercenary unit to reclaim the stolen knowledge from the Vatican basement. I’m not above using methods to make it available for free to everyone.

I can't control the loss of others—nor the choices they make to lose me, nor the bullets that take them. I wish I were a billionaire—I'd fund battalions, build libraries, and buy a piece of cliffside to carve my own version of the Library of Alexandria.

The heart beats at its own pace, and sometimes, it pours from the chest, through the mind, and out the windows to the soul. So yes, sometimes I cry—not because I want to, but because I have to.