Kyiv, November 2025
Yesterday at 4 AM, we weren't woken by an alarm clock, but by a message from our workshop manager in Zaporizhzhia: "Explosion nearby. Everyone's alive. Power's out". Then silence for two hours - the longest two hours of our lives. Then: "Okay, we're going to work".
And in the evening, we received an SMS from our model:
"Добрий день❤️ У мене сталося ЧП, в п'ятницю уночі в дом прилетів Шахед, але зі мною все добре завтра заберу костюм, та на днях буду робити зйомку"
(Translation: "Good afternoon❤️ Something happened to me, on Friday night a Shahed hit my house, but I'm okay, I'll pick up the suit tomorrow and will do the photoshoot in a few days")
These are our realities. Morning - explosions in Zaporizhzhia. Evening - a drone hits our model's house in Kyiv. And she writes: "I'm okay, I'll pick up the suit tomorrow".
And you know what? They truly continue. Work. Shoot. Live.
We're a small clothing brand from Kyiv. But we manufacture in Zaporizhzhia. That's where our workshop is, where our hands are, where robes with natural feathers, dresses, and suits are created. Every stitch - by hand. Every feather - a separate story. Every day - a small miracle that we're still working.
Our revenue? Honestly - not great. But we pay taxes. Because we believe: after all this horror, Ukraine will survive. And it needs those who didn't give up.
You know what's the worst?
Not power outages. Not missile strikes. Not the generator that dies at the most inconvenient moment.
The worst is when you open the workshop chat in the morning and see: "Sorry, I can't anymore. I'm leaving".
Last week we were supposed to release a batch of 15 robes. Planned, coordinated, promised to clients. But the seamstress just didn't show up. She wrote in the evening: "Sorry. Going to Poland. Couldn't take it anymore".
We don't hold it against her. The main thing - she's alive and healthy. The main thing - she's safe.
But it hurts. Not because of missed deadlines. But because you understand: another person broke. Another life crushed by this war.
Every time one of the girls doesn't respond for a couple of hours, our hearts stop. We're afraid to hear bad news. Afraid to open the news and see a familiar address.
With flashlights. Literally. When they cut the power in Zaporizhzhia (which is almost every day), the girls pull out power banks, charge sewing machines from the generator, turn on headlamps. In video calls we joke: "Fashion miners". But you can hear in their voices — it's not funny.
In the basement. During air raids, they go down with unfinished garments. Sometimes they manage to finish a hem. Sometimes they just sit and wait for the all-clear. And we in Kyiv sit staring at our phones, waiting for the message: "All clear. We're okay".
With meaning. Every order for us isn't just a sale. It's proof that life continues. That someone wants to be beautiful. That beauty still matters.
We get asked this constantly. "Why risk it? Why keep production in Zaporizhzhia?"
Where else? And more importantly - why close if there are people there who need work?
Our workshop is jobs. Salaries. Families who are holding on thanks to us. Who didn't leave, didn't break, didn't give up.
Yes, sometimes someone leaves. And we understand. And we don't hold grudges. Because choosing to stay is heroism. And leaving is also a choice, and it has the right to exist.
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Orders. Every single one of yours.
When after another strike we open Instagram and see: "I want your feather robe" - it's like a breath of air.
It means we're not doing this in vain. It means life is winning.
We're just doing our job. Someone stands at checkpoints. Someone volunteers. Someone drives ambulances. And we sew clothes and keep our business afloat.
We pay taxes. Every month. Even when revenue isn't what we'd like it to be. Because we believe: after all this horror, Ukraine will survive. And it needs those who paid into the budget even when it was scary.
We rent an office in Kyiv and pay official salaries. No "grey" schemes, no "let's do it friendly". Because our people deserve stability at least on paper.
We ship packages without prepayment. Yes, it's a risk. Yes, sometimes there are unpaid orders. But this is the minimum we can do for clients who trust us in times like these.
We survive in two cities. It's not just scary for the girls in Zaporizhzhia. Kyiv gets hit too. A couple of weeks ago - a few blocks from our office. We ran to check: are the windows intact, is the merchandise safe. Prayed the whole way.
Exhaled - we were spared. And then we opened the news and saw other Ukrainian brands' warehouses burned down, stores bombed. And you realize: we're just very lucky. Lucky for now.
But we continue. Because this is our small contribution. Our war is keeping the business alive.
Because when a woman orders a "going out" dress from us - she's planning for the future. She believes there will be an occasion to wear it. She's telling the war: "Not today".
P.S. If you ever wear our feather robe, know this: every feather was sewn by candlelight, under the sounds of sirens, by the hands of people who simply don't know how to give up.
Glory to Ukraine.
This text was written in Kyiv. Right now we have power. For now.
