I’m going to be honest- this post has taken a lot longer to put together than I’d have liked.

The original topic wasn’t complicated. I wanted to tell you all about the KOLA/alyona alyona/Jerry Heil concert I saw on the 18th. Longtime readers of this blog know that I could write music and concert reviews all day, if I could. However, like most things in life, talking about this experience requires context. Which can get complicated.

“Dianna, you always want to make things complicated.” Not necessarily. I don’t want to forsake quality over sanity. And I’ve already lost enough sanity over scores of other things. It gets exhausting.

I’m going to be honest- I don’t want to write this post. Without vulnerability, this post lacks substance. I know this. Let’s try to rip off that bandage.

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It’s taken years for me to confront, and even more to combat, one of the worst human traits out there: emotional suppression. For a good chunk of my upbringing, I was raised by fear. Anything I did became a defense mechanism. I needed to protect myself, and a lot was lost in the process, including my emotional regulation. By the time I hit adolescence and got out into “the real world,” the thought of trying to cope with more intense emotions- in any capacity- was too much to bear. It got to the point where I was pushing away feelings I didn’t even know I was trying to feel. With the help of various vices, things eventually went completely numb. Emotional vulnerability wasn’t possible.

My logic in all this was to suppress all of the wild negative behaviors exhibited by myself and others throughout my youth.

What I hadn’t anticipated was the dissipation of all the positive emotions.

Joy. Excitement. Love. Serenity. All, seemingly- gone.

I didn’t notice they were gone until I won a major national award in college. Something didn’t feel right when I found out. My reaction felt fake. There was no rush of adrenaline. People around me were congratulating me left and right, and there I stood, feeling like a fraud. I clearly didn’t deserve any sort of award if this was how I reacted.

But hey, I don’t have to deal with any of those other pesky emotions anymore! If this is how things are going to be for the rest of my life, then nothing matters! I might as well be as reckless as I want!

Wouldn’t you know it, that line of logic worked out… poorly, at best. I severed relationships that I had spent years building. I walked away from communities that I had found solace within. I locked myself inside and steeped in the numbness and depression, unconvinced that there was any way out.

I’ll fast forward the narrative here and let you know that I’m currently getting the help I need to sort through all of this. But I’d be remiss not to mention that one of the communities that I left was the one that raised me. And even now, I still don’t regret stepping away.

That’s right- a few years ago, I distanced myself from the Ukrainian-American diaspora. I’ve since been learning what it means to be a Ukrainian-American on my own terms.

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I could drone on and on about why. There is no one singular reason why. Trying to explain all of that was a big reason it’s taken me so long to write this. It’s a very delicate topic to discuss, and I’m still not sure how to do so tactfully. But it’s important to note this context as we step into another: walking into the KOLA/alyona alyona/Jerry Heil concert on November 18th.

Ukrainian-Americans form such tight-knit circles in their respective cities. I walked into the venue, surrounded by people speaking my native language, feeling completely isolated- at first. There was an internal pressure to present myself a certain way, like I had to act back East: closeted, reserved, and emotionally unavailable. I had already taken steps to mitigate that pressure by dressing for the concert the way I wanted to, not the way I had to:

This may not look too extreme. The folks mingling around me ranged in style from traditional vyshyvankas to more polished looks, namely high-heeled designer boots with the long fur-lined coat to match. It was tough to figure out what the vibe was. Many had come with their partners, wrapped arm and arm throughout the entire set. Some mingled with members of community organizations in the merch line. There were refugees and recent immigrants scattered throughout, possibly at their first US concert ever. You had your translators near the front, relaying what the English-speaking staff meant when they said “please show us your ID so that we know you’re over 21.”

I initially found a spot at the barricade but gave it up to a young couple- very much in love, taking selfies with the stage for the entire show. Behind me, a gaggle of women dressed to the nines gossiped in Ukrainian. Someone to my left affixed a Ukrainian flag to a selfie stick and waved it to their heart’s content. They were all here for their own reasons. So was I.

There’s a line from the movie Newsies that best sums up how I felt as the trio wrapped up their set: “I’m alone, but I ain’t lonely.” I jumped and sang along as much as I could to all the songs I knew (and didn’t know!). I danced for myself, not the women behind me talking about things I couldn’t hear. I let the hardbass remixes play in my head on loop as I scootered away from the venue, pants pockets stuffed with merch (it’s hard to scoot with your hands full).

Part of me felt a twinge of guilt and disappointment for not living up to my fullest potential at the show. Like I didn’t present myself in a way that was acceptable to the community. But I realized, in the rush of the midnight winds on the e-scooter, that I wasn’t at this concert for the sake of others. I was there to support the artists that I loved. Mission accomplished.