This was supposed to be a story about what my five months of volunteering at FCV were like – but today, I want to tell you how I laid stones for a path no one will walk.
It’s been exactly five months since I started working at Fundació Catalunya Voluntària. And Barcelona has become a crossing point for me. Everything feels different here: the sky is lighter, reactions are slower, expectations are softer. This city doesn’t shout or demand that you prove something every day. It seems to invite you to lay your burdens down: to be, to feel, not to rush.
Five months of discoveries, mistakes, learning. Two training courses, twenty bottles of sangria, 158 sunrises and sunsets. And five months of searching: what can I do with the responsibility I carry as someone who has moved from a country at war?
After nine years in the commercial sector – in the high-speed rhythm of Dubai, in the intense but familiar Kyiv – I came to Barcelona not empty-handed. My portfolio includes strategic thinking, writing, communication – but also resilience, responsibility, and the habit of holding a high standard. Even though the context has changed, these skills aren’t irrelevant. They belong here. Because the non-profit sector also needs people who can piece meaning together, who see structure in chaos, and who can sense the subtle – even when it’s loud.
Skills alone are not always the measure of value. Sometimes, something more universal steps in – sincerity. And so, at some point, I realized I had to try creating something for other Ukrainian women who had come to Catalonia – tired, lost, but with an inner desire to start again.
That’s how the idea for my project “Catalonia Through the Heart: Discovery, Support, Renewal” was born. Its goal was to create a safe space for recovery – not formal or grandiose, but simple and humane. With walks, creativity, body practices, and tea gatherings, where you could talk – or stay silent.
I spent three months preparing this application for the European Youth Foundation. It was my first solo attempt. I poured in work hours, experience – but also pain, tenderness, a cautious respect for others’ trauma, and my belief in slow, gentle healing. This project was my way of asking: how can we support one another when we don’t have all the answers?
On June 16, I received a letter.
The project was not approved. The methodology needs improvement, the focus is unclear, the community impact – insufficiently defined. That’s fair. But reading such words – after living inside this project for three months – hurts.
And the very next morning, on June 17, came the news of a massive missile attack on Kyiv. Fifteen people killed. Hundreds injured. Debris, smoke, residential buildings entirely destroyed, like a house of cards collapsing all at once. The city where I spent most of my life was once again bleeding. That news collided with my personal, microscopic (as I redefined it in that moment) experience of failure. And suddenly, everything lost its shape. Why are we doing all this? Does it make sense to be sensitive in such a brutal world?
Today I understand: my project wasn’t in vain. Even if it won’t be implemented now, it has already served its purpose – it taught me. It showed me that I can take initiative, I can think not only as a communicator, but as someone who can shape a concept, a vision, a structure, and that my intuition about people’s needs aren’t imaginary. It showed me that I care, and that sometimes, the very act of trying to create space – is already an act of care.
Yes, I made mistakes. Yes, the application could have been more precise. But it was real. And it gave me a feeling that I have a voice – even if it wasn’t heard the first time. Maybe what matters most is not that everything succeeds, but that in our most vulnerable moments, we don’t betray our sensitivity.
My name is Olha Oltarzhevska.
I’m still learning. And I’ll keep submitting ideas, building projects, making mistakes, and learning to express what I feel more clearly.
This failure is also a cornerstone. Not a stone in the road – but one within me. It grounds me. It doesn’t drag me down.
It wasn’t a loss. It was a birth without a certificate.
And even when the funding didn’t come – I remain with myself: honest, attentive, and alive.
