Guest of the episode: military psychologist and deputy commander of the engineering and sapper company for moral and psychological support within the engineering support group of the 67th Mechanized Brigade, Andrii Kozinchuk.
Transcript of conversations
Nik Lysytskiy
Greetings. I’m Nik Lysytskiy, and this is Archetype of the Nation — a cultural project that explores the foundations of Ukrainian national identity: what we were, what we’ve become, what we have, and what we can be.
We search for answers in folklore, as well as in conversations with prominent representatives of our nation. Today, our guest is Andrii Kozinchuk, a military psychologist and officer of the 67th Brigade.
Good afternoon, Andrii.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Hello.
Nik Lysytskiy
Each episode of our project is dedicated to one of the values that characterize the Ukrainian people. Today, I’d like to talk about one such value — emotionality.
While studying Ukrainian folklore, we came to the conclusion that emotionality is one of the defining traits of Ukrainians. It manifests in the sincerity of feelings, the tendency toward deep emotional experience, and the sensitivity to beauty, kindness, and suffering.
This idea of the superiority of spiritual–emotional knowledge — knowledge of the heart rather than purely rational thought — has become a key worldview paradigm for Ukrainians, shaping our way of thinking, feeling, and acting.
In your view, what is emotionality? How do you personally understand this concept?
Andrii Kozinchuk
Emotionality isn’t about Ukrainianness first and foremost — it’s about the primal feelings that help us survive, and then live. They’re inherent in everyone.
There are no people without emotions. There are just those who are more or less expressive. For some reason, we believe that Finns or Germans are less emotional, and Italians or Spaniards are more emotional.
But in truth, everyone feels. Emotion is a part of being human.
Take anger, for example — it’s an emotion that helps you survive or drive away an enemy, both for humans and for animals. Joy, too, is an emotion.
You can’t hide emotions; they’ve always found expression — in art, in revolutions, in liberation struggles. All of that stems from emotion.
Emotionality often wins over rationality — for better or for worse. Psychology doesn’t label it as positive or negative. It just is.
No matter how rational you think you are, emotion is older and stronger. From a neurobiological perspective, the limbic system — the part of the brain responsible for emotion — lies deeper than the rational one.
Nik Lysytskiy
So, the roots of our emotionality go deep into our history.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Of course — into history and even deeper. And it’s not just something historians can describe; neurobiologists and evolutionary scientists could tell you even more about why humans — and Ukrainians — feel this way.
Nik Lysytskiy
There’s also an old concept called the philosophy of the heart, which you’ve probably heard of — from Hryhorii Skovoroda. Simply put, it’s the belief that feelings prevail over cold logic, and that this is particularly true of Ukrainians. Why do you think that is?
Andrii Kozinchuk
If we look at it psychologically, emotions can’t be hidden. You can suppress them — but not hide them.
For example, you come to work in a great mood. Everyone else is serious, and you walk in all cheerful — hooray! They’ll all instantly dislike you.
It’s the same in the army — you’re expected to stay “in formation.” So you suppress it, but your eyes still smile. You’re happy inside, and it shows.
And sadness works the same way. You come to a party but carry your quiet, Ukrainian sorrow inside. You can smile, but it’s not real.
We’ve always been an expressive, communicative nation — it’s in our nature to feel and show.
No matter what you do, your emotions will show through. Freud himself said it’s impossible to hide emotions — and Ukrainians prove that every day.
If you’re gloomy, people will try to cheer you up. If you’re joyful, it radiates.
You can see it in our culture too — it bursts out through music, through performance, through art. Even watching official meetings — parliament, government — you can read emotions straight off people’s faces. You don’t need to be a psychologist to see it.
Whether it’s disgust, fear, joy — or complete detachment — it’s all visible. Emotions simply can’t be contained.
Nik Lysytskiy
Ukrainians are often described as more emotional than northern Europeans, but less than southern peoples. Do you think this emotionality is a weakness or one of our strengths?
Andrii Kozinchuk
I wouldn’t call it a strength or a weakness — it’s our distinctive trait, passed down through generations.
For example, northern nations are colder — literally and emotionally. The warmer the climate, the easier it is to express yourself.
We’ve lived in a moderate climate and had a history that shaped us into being moderately emotional — expressive, but not excessive.
Take funerals, for example: women — especially grandmothers — openly cry and express grief, while men stay reserved, silently sad.
And psychologists note that this affects longevity — Ukrainian women live longer; men, shorter. Women express emotions; men bottle them up. That’s not good or bad — it’s just reality.
We’re learning to express emotions more openly now, but our genetic memory still shapes how we feel and show it.
You won’t see us bursting into tears or laughter on the street — but neither will you find the kind of emotional repression you see in colder cultures.
In Ukraine, people are less likely to shame you for showing feelings — though they might still do it online.
They’ll say things like, “Don’t show off — he’s just come back from the front and posts a picture at the lake with his wife once a year.” There are always those emotional “hunters” — critics — who pounce on others’ feelings.
But we’re emotional because it’s in our nature — shaped by climate, history, the economy, and most of all, culture.
Culture mirrors what’s happening inside us. And paradoxically, the darker our times, the brighter our culture shines.
When culture is suppressed — that’s when things are truly bad.
Even in the hard 1990s — with chaos and economic collapse — there was still culture, still art, still songs in Ukrainian.
Yes, there was pressure to sing in Russian to “broaden the audience,” but the core remained.
Now, when I look back at performers from the 1990s — I realize it still sounds fresh and alive. Because it was sincere.
And sincerity — that’s the essence of emotionality. Trends fade, but sincerity lasts forever.
Nik Lysytskiy
You mentioned the funeral rite and our emotionality around it. I recently watched a video by a British woman living in Ukraine — she compared our culture with her own and said Ukraine’s funeral traditions left a big impression on her. In Britain, people don’t normally show strong emotion about death, but here, funeral rites and mourning are built into our culture. If we look at folklore and belief, the cult of ancestors is very strong — prehistoric, even — and the funeral practices reflect that. It seems our emotional responses to death trace back a long way.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Here’s an interesting point. I get a lot of messages from people when someone close to them is dying. For example, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. People will write, “He’s dying — help, support, what do I do?” And afterwards I’ll hear: “I’m worried because I didn’t cry enough at the funeral. I didn’t suffer enough — what will people say?” It’s like we’ve been conditioned to believe that funerals require a certain quota of tears. If you don’t meet it, people start to worry about you — “Are you a sociopath?” — which is ridiculous.
There’s this expectation: you must weep, and you must do it properly. I’m not suggesting we turn funerals into a spectacle — not that we need clowns or extra instruments — but there is a cultural pattern.
I haven’t done deep cultural studies on how many funeral songs we have, but there are definitely marches and laments. My first marching song was in the Kyiv Military Lyceum — it was essentially a funeral song about two Cossacks, one rich and one poor. So these expressions exist.
Our attitude toward death is shaped by history: sudden deaths, wars, raids — people often died unexpectedly, not only of old age. That unpredictability influenced how we grieve and remember. Religion and inherited rituals also shape this. If we have a pronounced attitude toward death, it makes sense that our attitude toward life should be equally conscious.
Right now I get many calls from folks worried about the “fear of death” turning into a “fear of living.” At the start of the full-scale invasion, a lot of people were afraid to enjoy life — to dance, to listen to music, to laugh. They felt guilty or worried they might be judged. People would avoid upbeat things out of fear of being accused of insensitivity. I wrote on social media that it’s normal to feel joy, fear, worry — and that you should allow yourself small pleasures. Eat a chocolate bar. Do something small that brings you joy. People seemed to need permission.
Emotionality also shows in how official institutions behave. When people go to government offices — to get a passport or a certificate — they often expect emotionless, businesslike bureaucrats. But you’ll sometimes find a cheerful clerk, telling jokes, or an older woman crying because of the war. Some systems want a neutral, standardized demeanor and struggle with emotion. When people suppress their anger or frustration at bureaucratic obstacles, that unprocessed emotion builds up and later erupts in unhealthy ways.
So when I work with people, I encourage them not simply to bottle things up. But don’t take that to the extreme — I’m not telling someone to throw a chair at their director. The point is to manage emotions, not ignore them or act destructively.
If you’ve had a terrible day and are full of anger, don’t take it home and unload it on your family. Find a controlled outlet: yoga, running, a long shower, a workout. Everyone is different — some people need a marathon, some need a quiet walk. Science and common sense tell us emotions are biological. Each basic emotion — joy, sadness, anger, fear, disgust — triggers hormones and bodily reactions. If you suppress them, they accumulate and affect your health: psychosomatic symptoms, skin problems, anxiety disorders.
So it’s important to recognize your emotions and let them out in safe, controlled ways. Learn to be happy in small things: notice the sun, enjoy clean clothes, savor a moment. These small practices matter, especially now when many people have slept in subway stations or shelters. Expressing small joys is not selfish — it’s a part of healing.
There’s also a point about channeling emotions constructively. Historically, humans fought for survival with rage and fear — we were hunters, fighters. Today we don’t need to fight saber-toothed tigers, but the impulse is still there. Transform anger into sport, fear into meditation, grief into creative work. All of this — emotional regulation, expression, and transformation — ties closely to creativity and to living a fuller life.
Nik Lysytskiy
Exactly. We’ll get to creativity later today — but speaking of emotions, it’s really about learning to live with them and manage them so you don’t regret your reactions later.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Right. Here’s another useful thing. For any emotion to arise, a whole chain of events has to happen. Take fear, for example.
Your brain has to register fear — maybe from an air raid siren, a loud noise, an explosion, or even just a thought. Once that happens, your brain signals your adrenal glands to release adrenaline. Adrenaline floods your system — your pupils dilate, your muscles tighten, your body gets ready to run or fight. It’s a massive biological and psychological process.
Then some “wise” person tells you: “Never be afraid.” And your brain goes, “Excuse me? That’s not how this works.” You can’t just switch fear off. It’s hardwired into us.
Imagine a 15-year-old kid who’s lived all his life in a big city — suddenly he’s taken to a village for the first time. Uneven roads, goats everywhere, strange animals he’s never seen — he’s scared! But fear can be managed through understanding. When you learn what you’re dealing with — say, that a goose isn’t a monster but a perfectly normal bird — the fear loses power.
The main thing is not to bottle it up. It would be great if we learned this from childhood, but many of us were taught that expressing emotions is “too much.” Overly emotional people scare others — but honestly, I’m much more afraid of people who don’t show emotion at all. They’re ticking time bombs. Emotional people, at least, are predictable.
Nik Lysytskiy
And when it comes to expressing emotions — have you ever regretted showing yours?
Andrii Kozinchuk
Of course. Many times. Usually when I blurt something out at the wrong moment. Like cracking a dark joke at a funeral — definitely not great. Or breaking down at a party because life suddenly feels overwhelming — also not ideal.
These things happen because we’re human. And sometimes it’s about social context — knowing where and when certain emotions are appropriate. In some circles, it’s terrifying to show vulnerability, so you overcompensate — acting tough just to prove you’re not scared.
It’s like when someone joins the army and starts preaching about love and compassion to battle-hardened soldiers — it doesn’t land. You can’t tell a miner that coal is “bad for the environment” when he’s spent his whole life working underground. You have to speak from within his world: “Hey, you’ve got experience and strength — here’s how you can use that in a new way.” That’s emotional intelligence in action.
Managing emotions isn’t about “never holding back” — it’s about expressing yourself consciously and effectively. For instance, one officer I knew discovered corruption in his battalion. He confronted his superior honestly — and got fired for it. What he said was true, but it wasn’t effective, because he expressed it in the wrong environment.
That’s how emotions work too. You need to know where and how to express them. Some settings are open and safe; others are rigid or professional — where outbursts can backfire.
I’m great with the “middle level” of people — those who are hands-on, down-to-earth. It’s harder for me to connect with elite circles, because emotional expression there follows very different rules.
When I tell middle-class folks, “Be happy — buy yourself something small, enjoy it,” they get it. But in high-control bureaucratic environments, it’s harder. I even got advised not to interact with inspection authorities — because I can’t keep my emotions hidden.
Even when I try to be calm and constructive, it often backfires — because people there mistake sincerity for defiance. In the U.S., when someone’s under review, inspectors usually come to help them improve. Here, oversight often feels like punishment. That’s a big emotional difference.
But over the past five or six years, I’ve learned to manage it better. I can still “sing in my soul,” as I like to say — but in safe spaces. That’s crucial: emotional safety.
When you feel safe, you can express emotions freely. When you don’t, it’s much harder.
And that’s a big question for Ukrainians right now: Do you feel safe enough to express what you feel?
Some might say, “Then everyone should just go abroad.” But even abroad, safety is not guaranteed. Many who left didn’t do it because it was easy — they just hoped to feel less fear. But emotional challenges follow you anywhere.
Nik Lysytskiy
So it’s really about different levels of emotional safety.
And since we mentioned saber-toothed tigers earlier — today we have more ways to talk about emotions instead of fighting them physically. But how do we actually learn to talk about what we feel?
Andrii Kozinchuk
There are some useful recommendations — and communication itself has evolved a lot. These days, people rely much more on verbal communication.
In the past, we expressed emotions mostly through facial expressions or gestures. Some people could speak eloquently but looked completely detached — like saying “I love you very much” while their face clearly said, “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
Now we’ve moved into a new world — the world of emojis, reactions, and messages. Someone once asked me, “Why do you always end your messages with a period? Are you mad at me?” I said, “No! My Ukrainian teacher would’ve scolded me if I didn’t.” But apparently, a period now means passive aggression.
Okay — maybe I’m just old.
Still, this is all about emotions and how we express them. Many people now hide emotions behind screens. Some turn their silence into passive aggression — that’s when you expect others to “guess” why you’re not talking. That’s actually a form of psychological violence.
So, to start learning how to express emotions, the first step is diagnosis:
“What am I feeling right now?”
Am I glad? Am I sad? Am I scared?
And here’s where we run into a very Ukrainian problem: many of us were raised to deserve joy. We’ve inherited this belief since childhood — that you can only be happy after you’ve earned it.
You know, “You’ll get new sneakers when you behave well,” or “You can go to camp only if you help in the garden.” It’s the classic Cinderella upbringing: before you can dance, you must clean the whole house.
So as adults, we carry this same logic — “I deserve to go to a restaurant,” “I deserve new jeans.” But happiness shouldn’t be conditional. You don’t earn joy — you need it.
Think of it like charging your phone. Does a phone need to “deserve” a charge? No — it just won’t work otherwise. It’s the same with us. Joy fuels us.
So when you eat a shawarma and enjoy it — don’t ruin the moment thinking, “I’m fat anyway.” Just enjoy it.
The key is awareness:
“I’m sad. Why? Something happened.”
“I’m scared. Why? Something worries me.”
“I’m angry. Why? Because this person hurt me.”
“I’m disgusted. Why? Because someone failed to protect me.”
Before you show emotion — acknowledge it. Say, “This is what I feel right now.” That alone makes it easier to handle.
Fear, for instance, is biological. You’re not “unafraid” just because you say so. I’ve served in the military since 2014 — through several stages of the war — and I’ve never seen anyone walk into combat smiling, “Oh great, another mission!”
No — fear is natural. What matters is turning it into functional fear.
That means: I’m afraid — so I act. I prepare. I move. I check my gear.
Once you name your emotion — “I’m afraid,” “I’m angry,” “I’m happy” — your entire system aligns, and it becomes easier to handle.
Some emotions, like horror, go beyond control — when you receive devastating news, like a parent’s diagnosis. In that state, you can’t think straight. You just survive it until your hormones settle. Then, when you can think again — you must ask for help. For yourself, not just for others.
Learning emotions starts with recognition — something we’re rarely taught as kids.
I’ve seen a little boy, maybe five years old, fall, scrape his knee, and start crying. His mom rushed over, not to comfort him, but to scold him: “You should’ve watched where you were going!”
So now he’s hurt and feels guilty. That’s how emotional repression begins.
So first, learn to recognize your own emotions. Second — remember you live among other people, usually ones who love you. And they can’t read your mind.
If you’re happy and your partner says, “You’re smiling, but your pants are torn,” they’ve just killed the mood.
If your partner feels bad after work and just wants a hug — but you’re the type who wants solitude when upset — you’ll misunderstand each other.
Two people, same emotion — different needs.
That’s why you must teach your loved ones what to do when you feel a certain way. Say it directly:
“When I feel bad, please don’t touch me — just give me space.”
Or:
“When I’m down, please hug me and don’t talk — just be there.”
This clarity is a form of love.
Because when emotions hit, others often feel powerless. They want to help but don’t know how. And you can help them help you — by explaining.
So, talk. Don’t hint. Don’t expect people to guess. Say what you need — and ideally, say it before the next emotional storm. Because it will definitely come.
Nik Lysytskiy
You once said in an interview that emotions are most visible during war. And since you’re a military psychologist, people come to you with many of them.
What kinds of emotions do you usually see?
Andrii Kozinchuk
Often I tell them: “You all sit here at headquarters, but your soul — your ass, as we say — is still at war.” Because when you’re emotional, it’s exactly the time you need to stay rational.
See, the brain has several parts — the rational, the emotional, and what neurobiologist Paul MacLean back in 1955 called the reptilian brain. That’s where our most primal emotions live — the raw, instinctive ones.
Not just joy, but bliss.
Not just fear, but terror.
Not just anger, but rage.
Those emotions appear in extreme situations — when your survival instincts kick in. They’re not bad; they’re necessary. But not everyone experiences them in the same intensity.
Take, for example, a mother at her son’s funeral. If a mother is burying her son, he’s likely still young — maybe in his forties — and she’s much older. That pain can’t be reasoned with. You can’t tell her, “Don’t cry, everything will be okay.” It won’t. He’s gone.
In such moments, my job as a psychologist is not to stop the emotion, but to keep it safe — to make sure it doesn’t harm the person or anyone nearby.
For example, when a soldier is furious — maybe over injustice, confusion, or losing friends — he might punch a wall. He’s not crazy; he’s releasing pain. But instead of breaking his hand, I’ll hand him a pillow: “Here, hit this. Scream if you need to.”
And I’ll think to myself, Thank God he’s yelling at me, not at his wife or kids.
That’s my role — to accompany, not suppress. You never tell someone, “Don’t be angry,” or “Why are you laughing so loudly?” No. You stand beside them and help the emotion move through safely.
War amplifies everything. Soldiers, veterans, displaced people, those who’ve lost loved ones — all live with trauma. You can’t “understand” their feelings, but you can protect them.
If someone cries — don’t rush to stop them. Don’t shout, “Calm down.” Offer a glass of water. Stay close, but don’t touch unless invited. Ask gently, “Would you like a hug?”
And if they say no — respect that. Comfort only works when both sides want it.
War is chaos. Whoever can create order within that chaos — wins.
Emotions, though, often fight with rationality. Picture four soldiers deciding to storm a village alone — emotional impulse, zero strategy. They go — and get captured or killed. That’s why calm, rational leadership is critical.
A good commander must stay clear-headed, even after losing dozens of men. That’s not coldness — it’s survival. Commanders sometimes seem cynical not because they lack empathy, but because they need that distance to keep functioning.
My work often involves helping them hold that balance — to think clearly in chaos, without losing their humanity.
And yes, emotions are loud on the battlefield — the shouting, the roaring, the laughter. It’s all part of staying alive. I’d actually love to see how our top leaders — the Commander-in-Chief, the President — process their own anger or fear. I’m sure they have them. But what we usually see publicly are their controlled, heroic versions — and that’s necessary too. Society needs strength.
Still, I’ll say this: there are no bad emotions.
There is no such thing as “negative.”
Anger, fear, sadness — all serve a purpose. The problem starts when we suppress them. Ukrainians are especially guilty of that — we don’t rest, we distract ourselves.
We tell ourselves, “No time to relax, keep pushing.” And then, when exhaustion hits, we crash. We call it “rest,” but really it’s collapse.
We don’t rest gradually — like going for coffee, taking small breaks. Instead, we explode at weddings, go all out, regret it later when we see ourselves dancing like maniacs on YouTube.
So one of our main tasks now — as individuals and as a nation — is to learn how to release emotions in doses.
To rest little by little, not only when we’re already burned out.
Nik Lysytskiy
That detachment you mentioned — it’s probably connected to the emotional burnout so many of us are experiencing now. How do we deal with this burnout?
You even have a course on that, don’t you?
Andrii Kozinchuk
Yes, I do. We developed it quite a while ago when we started noticing just how widespread burnout had become. It’s not a disease, not a diagnosis — it’s a state.
Historically, burnout was first observed among people in helping professions: volunteers, doctors, priests, aid workers — people who give of themselves to others. They help someone, feel better for a while… and then crash.
But today, we’re all in helping professions. You might be a salesperson, a designer, an accountant — but you still pay taxes, you probably have a relative or friend in the army, you support them emotionally or financially. So yes, we’re all burning out.
And here’s the paradox: burnout is impossible if you never burn.
But we — we burn. We’re passionate. We care. We fall in love with life, with ideas, with projects. We throw ourselves into new work, new businesses, new causes.
That’s the beautiful and dangerous part — when you burn brightly, you eventually burn out. Because you pour all your energy into others — your job, your relationships, your duty — and leave none for yourself.
And when that happens, simple joys start to disappear:
“Oh, I never finished that book.”
“I haven’t seen my friends in months.”
“Barbecue? No, I’m too busy.”
You live like that for a year, maybe three — and then you collapse. Add war, grief, illness, constant stress — and the system just shuts down.
You have no energy left for yourself.
People think they rest by scrolling through social media, watching hundreds of Reels a day. But the brain interprets each short clip as a separate event — that’s 250 emotional micro-shocks a day. No wonder you feel exhausted. You’re not resting; you’re overstimulating your nervous system.
And then at work — endless intensity. You come home, and instead of unwinding, you pick a fight, because your mind still needs some kind of discharge. That’s not rest.
And the guilt — “I’m not at the front,” “I’m not doing enough,” “My neighbor just started a business, and I’m wasting time.” No matter what you do, it feels like failure.
A researcher friend of mine — brilliant woman, doing international studies on bullying — once said, “I feel guilty for not being at the front.”
And I told her, “You’re doing something most people can’t do. Keep doing it.” But even she burns out.
So what’s the solution? You have to become a therapeutic egoist.
No matter what — you come first.
You can’t build or save anything if you destroy yourself in the process.
I’ve seen it so many times: the best volunteers from 2014–15 — where are they now? Many disappeared, left, collapsed, lost faith, burned out completely. Because they gave everything.
At some point, the mission became more important than the person. “I won’t rest, I can’t stop.” And soon everyone around starts saying, “Ask Kolya, he never says no.”
And then Kolya breaks down.
Sometimes that ends in depression, PTSD, addiction, or simply walking away from everything. That’s why it’s crucial to leave even a small piece of your day — for yourself.
A little time that belongs to no one else.
Not your boss, not your family, not your country. Just you.
That’s how you recharge.
And don’t forget the three pillars beyond your job:
Health. Spiritual life. Environment.
Spirituality doesn’t mean religion — it’s anything that connects you with your inner world, with something higher.
And “environment” doesn’t mean your family or coworkers.
Ask yourself: Who do I talk to outside work and home?
If the answer is “no one,” then you don’t have an environment — and that’s dangerous.
Because burnout begins when everything in your life revolves around the same closed loop: work–home–work. At first, you still care. Then you stop feeling joy. You’re not suffering — just emotionally flat.
You go to events, to stand-up shows, even charity ones, and everyone laughs — but you feel nothing. Before, you’d laugh till your sides hurt; now, nothing moves inside. That’s emotional dullness — the hallmark of burnout.
And then comes cynicism. You lose your ability to praise yourself. You don’t even blame yourself — you just stop caring.
That’s when productivity collapses. And managers need to understand this: when your employees have no rest, no “off” time, you don’t get loyalty — you get zombies.
It’s the same in the army. There are no weekends, no days off. “We’re at war — who rests?” But without rest, people crack. That’s why we need cultural and recreational programs even on the front — concerts, art therapy, anything to reboot the psyche.
Because the worst burnout cases are in professions built on caring — doctors and teachers.
The doctor who once said, “I’ll heal everyone!” eventually sighs, “They all die anyway — take these pills.”
The teacher who once loved kids now says, “Children are the worst thing on earth.”
That’s not failure — that’s burnout.
When that happens, it’s time to change fields. Leave medicine, leave teaching, start something new. Go act, open a café, change the rhythm. Anything. But don’t keep killing yourself.
Studies show about 64% of the world’s population experiences burnout in some form. There’s no reliable Ukrainian data — war distorts everything — but it’s definitely high.
You can see it everywhere: even in Lviv, the “cultural capital,” there’s quiet melancholy beneath the surface. We’re all tired. But we can help ourselves by recognizing where we betrayed our own needs.
Some go the opposite way — total self-focus, running from reality. But that’s escapism, not healing. The healthy middle is living consciously — balancing care for others with care for yourself.
And speaking of emotions — you asked about how burnout appears in folklore. That’s fascinating, because our folklore is overflowing with emotions.
Songs, fairy tales — they’re built entirely on feeling. Love, anger, grief, murder — everything raw and alive.
Nik Lysytskiy
Right! We were actually told a story by our consultant while filming “The Magical World of Ukrainian Folklore.” She recalled how her grandmother once said:
“Now you’re all on your phones — but we used to be on songs.”
It’s the same thing you mentioned about Reels. Today we scroll endlessly, but back then, people sang. They poured emotions out through melody.
And the beauty of folklore is that it’s never fixed — there’s no single “official version.” Anyone could add a line, change the rhythm, improvise. It was pure self-expression — and in many ways, the most ancient form of art therapy.
Andrii Kozinchuk
I’m from a small village in Zakarpattia, and everyone there sang. I can’t vouch for the quality of those performances, but they sang — all the time.
In 2017, I was lucky enough to go to Switzerland with a group of veterans. The trip was organized by a Ukrainian hotel owner — himself a veteran of the Soviet-Afghan war. He said, “You can bring your guys, but they need a doctor and a psychologist.” So they sent me.
We agreed beforehand: we’re veterans, we’re guests in neutral Switzerland — so no alcohol, no nonsense, proper behavior. But on the last day the hotel owner said, “Come on, guys, relax a little.”
So we sat down, twelve of us, and one man — he was just over fifty — looked out at the mountains and said, “These mountains… so beautiful. Mind if I sing?”
“Go ahead,” we said.
He started quietly — ‘A pine tree was burning…’ — and one by one, everyone joined in. Even those who didn’t know the words hummed along.
Soon our Swiss hosts — and a few Asian tourists, maybe Chinese — stopped to listen. Some even threw money at us, though we hadn’t asked for it; we were just sitting outside at a long table, singing.
No one planned it — it just happened. We were far from home, in Switzerland, and by day nine, you start missing something deeply Ukrainian inside you. Even when the conditions are perfect — your soul still longs for home.
That’s when you want to sing.
For me, the best Ukrainian film ever made is “The Lost Diploma.” I criticize a lot of Ukrainian cinema, but that one — it’s pure gold. Because, as they say, “When a Cossack’s soul cries — he sings.”
And when I see our soldiers somewhere at the front humming or quietly singing, I think of that film. It’s still relevant. Singing is how our souls breathe.
Nik Lysytskiy
Ukrainians really are a singing nation — it shows on every level.
Let’s stay on the topic of folklore and songs. Emotions are probably most vividly reflected in folk songs.
Do people still sing at the front?
Andrii Kozinchuk
They do. Maybe not in the classic “campfire” sense, but yes — people sing. It’s usually spontaneous and personal, not organized.
Whoever grew up with singing carries it with them into war. For example, we have a woman in the brigade from western Ukraine — deeply religious — and she sings often. Nobody finds it strange or inappropriate. People may joke, but no one tells her to stop.
Sometimes it’s folk songs, sometimes something modern — whatever speaks to the person. It’s a way of expressing emotion.
You don’t plan it. It just happens when it needs to. I think that’s part of how we keep this tradition alive — and it’ll become even stronger when people come back from the front.
Because music… it’s rhythm and vibration. Everything in us is rhythmic — heartbeat, breath, the cycles of life.
And vibration — well, that’s deeply connected to war. Explosions, gunfire — they’re all vibrations. Music, on the other hand, uses those same vibrations to either ground you in reality or carry you away from it.
So when we sing, or tap a rhythm, or hum a tune — we regain control of the vibration. We become the source of rhythm again. The psyche feels it and says, “I’m back in charge.”
When you can’t express grief, joy, sadness, or hope — creativity becomes the safest place to put it.
Nik Lysytskiy
That goes back even to ancient times — to shamanic practices, where rhythm played a sacred role.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Exactly. Ancient — but still alive. Even in church. It’s all based on rhythm, on collective resonance.
Of course, rhythm can be used manipulatively too — and it often is. Think of a crowd shouting, “Slava Ukraini!” and the instant, unified “Heroyam Slava!” reply. That’s rhythm, call-and-response. A form of emotional synchronization.
You could shout something random — like “Square root of forty-seven!” — and people would pause for a calculator. But shout “Glory to Ukraine!” and the whole crowd reacts in perfect unison. That’s power.
And we use it consciously — in rallies, training centers, public events. Singing the anthem together, for example, aligns everyone’s emotions.
Not every soldier can sing well, but collective singing still works. There was even a study: soldiers were divided into groups, each given different songs. Those who sang “Hey, let’s pour the cups full” — their alcohol consumption rose significantly! It wasn’t deliberate — the rhythm and lyrics themselves shaped group behavior.
So yes — what you sing matters. The music you choose affects who you become.
Listen to garbage — and you’ll feel like garbage. Listen to something uplifting — and you rise a little higher.
If you say, “I don’t like music,” it just means you haven’t found your music yet.
And if you truly can’t find it — then create your own.
The same goes for life: if you don’t like what you see — build something better. Don’t just complain that the government is corrupt, or that people are stupid, or history is unfair.
Be the history. Shape it.
It’s the same with music — and with folklore.
Nik Lysytskiy
You mentioned manipulation. Are emotional people easier to manipulate?
Andrii Kozinchuk
In some ways, yes — because emotions make you open. But there are limits. People who suppress emotion are harder to manipulate — yet they also struggle more socially.
That’s where emotional intelligence comes in.
We all know IQ — rational intelligence. But EQ, emotional intelligence, is just as real and just as vital. Without emotions, people can’t connect — they can’t form relationships or function in society. There’s even a clinical disorder where people have almost no emotional response. Such individuals can’t empathize, can’t bond. It’s tragic.
EQ varies from person to person, but unlike IQ, it can actually be developed — though it takes work. Emotional intelligence is flexible, adaptive, trainable.
Before, no one taught it. Success used to depend only on hard skills — what tools or techniques you mastered.
But now? Soft skills rule. Even chefs today — it’s not enough to cook well. You must communicate, manage people, understand costs, negotiate.
If you’re brilliant but toxic — your talent won’t save you.
That’s why even geniuses need mediators — people who can connect them to others and make their work reach the world. Without emotional intelligence, even genius remains isolated.
Nik Lysytskiy
Just to remind our audience — today on Archetype of the Nation we’re talking about emotionality with military psychologist Andrii Kozinchuk.
Let’s take a step back to a more personal scale. You once said that when you were choosing your career path, you were torn between becoming a military psychologist and a political scientist.
Andrii Kozinchuk
No, I didn’t plan to become a translator. Political science was just one of the options on the list. I didn’t get into translation studies because—well, let’s say I didn’t have enough money for a bribe. It was a rough year, 2002.
Nik Lysytskiy
My next question is partly psychological, partly political. If we talk about emotionality on a national level, we can recall many recent examples of emotional reactions from Ukraine in the international arena. Do you think our emotionality as a nation helps us, or is it more of a drawback that we should learn to handle more carefully?
Andrii Kozinchuk
Great question.
We can’t not be emotional. We can try to act composed, professional, diplomatic—but no one will really believe that’s who we are.
Take, for instance, that meeting in the Oval Office. When people attacked Volodymyr Oleksandrovych (Zelenskyi) verbally, he stayed calm. Every Ukrainian watching thought, “My God, how restrained he is! I would’ve torn that place apart, spat, and walked out.”
Afterward, the diplomat who was with him said they had to cancel the press conference—because it was impossible to stay composed. That’s emotion.
Everyone reacts differently, of course. The key is that our emotions must work for us.
If our emotionality helps us express authenticity—great. People believe us then. But if it turns into unchecked impulsivity, it can backfire.
Look at how people respond to someone like an 80-year-old academic, a lifelong scholar, who suddenly sings or dances. Everyone’s amazed: “Wow, he’s alive!” Because emotion makes truth visible.
So yes, we need to be emotional—but consciously so. Neuroscience says emotions come from the limbic system, and when that system activates, everything else “shuts down.” That’s not entirely true; we can still manage it.
I remember a story from before the full-scale war. There’s a well-known veteran-run pizzeria in Kyiv where police officers often stop by to eat. Once, during their lunch break, a few officers sat down in uniform, weapons holstered, just having pizza. And someone came up and said, “How can you sit here eating while someone’s being robbed?”
That’s how people perceive emotion—they expect constant tension, constant performance. The idea that police officers could be calm, or smile, or take a break seems almost wrong to them.
And that’s why, for example, Ukrainians often struggle to accept a cheerful president or a joking public figure. “How dare he smile during war?” we think.
So, there’s a balance. We shouldn’t turn into cold, detached Nordics—but we also shouldn’t go full southern-Mediterranean drama.
We just need to stay Ukrainian. That’s our strength.
Nik Lysytskiy
“Remaining Ukrainians” — that’s a powerful phrase. I’d like to ask about your military experience. You’ve been a military psychologist since 2014. Has the attitude toward psychologists in the army changed during this time?
Because in civilian life, unlike in Europe or the U.S., seeing a psychologist wasn’t really “normal” for a long time. It’s starting to change now. How is it within the Armed Forces?
Andrii Kozinchuk
The legacy of Soviet punitive psychiatry still lingers—it left deep scars. Attitudes toward psychologists are improving, but not completely.
Why is there a military psychologist in the army? Because where there are people, there are emotions—and where there are emotions, there should be someone who helps manage them.
A good psychologist in the military isn’t distant or clinical. He’s one of us. He can joke, swear, listen, and talk like a human being. That’s what matters.
We never force ourselves on anyone. If a soldier doesn’t want to talk about home, fine—we talk about something else. Respect comes first.
Things are improving, but slowly. The main drivers of this change are young people. For them, going to therapy isn’t weird—it’s normal. Taking care of mental health is part of their worldview.
And I’m not even advocating for psychologists specifically—I’m advocating for mental health. Because if you ignore that, you’re done.
Compared to 2014, I’d say the number of requests for psychological support has increased tenfold. That’s still not enough, but the positive trend is clear.
The structure is evolving too. We’ve formed combat stress control groups, specialized psychological units. We’re even talking about creating supervision programs for military psychologists—a kind of mentorship where a psychologist can safely discuss difficult cases without breaking confidentiality.
That doesn’t exist yet, but it’s coming.
We’re actually progressing faster than the Americans did. They only started addressing combat stress seriously after Vietnam—and even more actively after 2001, post-Iraq. Their system moves slowly.
I’m not entirely happy with our pace either, or with how higher-ups treat the field. There’s strong public demand for mental-health support—especially for veterans—but from the top, not enough recognition.
Still, things are moving.
And I honestly believe Ukraine can become a pioneer in psychological practice—teaching NATO, not just learning from it.
It’s like with drones. The Americans recently bragged about their first successful drone drop. One of our guys just laughed, “We’ve been doing that for years.”
Same with psychology: we’re forced to innovate fast. Three years of full-scale war push people beyond endurance.
Think about it — you consciously step into a danger zone, knowing the odds of being killed are high. That’s not suicidal. That’s an act of values. You do it to protect your family, your way of life, something sacred.
Some people do it consciously, others instinctively — but that’s where deep psychology lives.
Still, you can’t fix everything with one brilliant psychologist parachuted into a broken unit. If the commander’s toxic, if fuel’s being stolen, if morale’s rotten — no therapist will save that alone.
It has to be systemic.
And that’s what we lack most — system.
The U.S. isn’t necessarily better in quality, but they have structure. They know where each piece fits. We often just react emotionally — “They sent us there? Fine, we’ll figure it out later.”
What we need now is to add meaning to our emotions — to structure them, to make them work for us, not against us.
No, I’m not a translator — political science was just on the list of options. I didn’t get into translation because, well, back then it required “extra motivation.” It was a terrible year — 2002.
Nik Lysytskiy
Now my question is partly psychological, partly political. If we talk about our emotionality as a nation, we can recall plenty of recent examples — emotional reactions at the international level. Do you think our emotionality helps us as a nation, or is it more of a weakness that we should manage more wisely?
Andrii Kozinchuk
We can’t completely control our emotions. We can pretend a bit — “Look how professional and restrained we are” — but no one really buys it.
Remember the Oval Office case, when people attacked Volodymyr Zelenskyi? Ukrainians watched and said, “Wow, how calm he is.” Meanwhile, most of us would’ve flipped the table, cursed, and stormed out.
Even the diplomat who accompanied him said they canceled the press conference afterward — because it was emotionally impossible to go on.
That’s emotion. And the key is to make sure our emotions serve us.
We won’t get far by suppressing them, but pure emotionalism isn’t the answer either. The trick is balance — to let emotion express authenticity. People believe you when you’re real.
Look at those 80-year-old professors who spent a lifetime buried in books, and suddenly they start singing or dancing — and everyone’s delighted. Emotion makes truth visible.
So yes, emotion is important, but it needs direction. Neuroscience says emotions live in the limbic system — and when it’s active, rational thinking shuts down. That’s not entirely true; you can still manage it.
Once, at a well-known veteran pizzeria in Kyiv, I saw police officers having lunch in uniform. Someone came up and said, “How can you eat when someone’s being robbed right now?”
That’s how distorted our view of emotion is — we expect people to be tense all the time.
The same goes for leaders. We struggle to accept a president who jokes, or an official who smiles. We think: “There’s a war on — how dare he laugh?”
So no, we don’t need to become cold Nordics — but we also don’t need to act like hyper-dramatic Mediterraneans. We just need to stay Ukrainian. That’s where the strength lies.
Nik Lysytskiy
“Remaining Ukrainians” — I like that phrase. Speaking of which, you’ve been a military psychologist since 2014. Has the attitude toward psychologists in the army changed since then?
Andrii Kozinchuk
The legacy of Soviet punitive psychiatry still lingers. The attitude’s better now, but not perfect.
Why is there a psychologist in the army? Because where there are people, there are emotions. And where there are emotions, you need someone to help process them.
A good psychologist isn’t some detached specialist. He’s one of us — he can joke, curse, listen, talk. That’s what makes soldiers trust him.
And we never push. If someone doesn’t want to talk about home — fine, we talk about something else. Respect comes first.
Things are improving, mostly thanks to young people. For them, mental health is normal — part of their routine. I’m not even promoting psychologists — I’m promoting mental health.
Compared to 2014, the number of people seeking help has grown tenfold. That’s still not enough, but the dynamic is positive.
We’ve built combat-stress control groups, new psychological units, and we’re working on supervision programs — so military psychologists can consult each other safely.
We’re developing faster than the Americans did. They started only after Vietnam — and seriously only after 2001.
Still, our system isn’t perfect. The higher-ups don’t always see us or support us enough. There’s huge public demand for psychological help — especially for veterans — but too little recognition from above.
Yet we’re moving fast. I truly believe Ukraine can become a pioneer in military psychology — teaching others instead of just learning.
It’s like drones. Americans proudly announced their “first successful drone drop.” Our guys just laughed — we’ve been doing that for years.
Same with psychology: we innovate because we must. Three years of full-scale war push people past endurance.
Think about it — you consciously step into danger, knowing you might die. That’s not suicidal; it’s a choice based on values: family, freedom, life itself. And you decide it’s worth it.
But no single psychologist can fix a broken unit. If a commander’s toxic, if corruption is rampant, if there’s no trust — no therapy will work.
It has to be systemic. That’s what we still lack — a system.
The U.S. isn’t better in quality, but they have structure. We often act impulsively — “Let’s go, we’ll figure it out later.”
What we need now is to add meaning to that emotion — to make it work for us, not against us.
Nik Lysytskiy
Well, system is rationality — but in Ukraine, emotion still rules.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Exactly. That’s the point. It’s not just about songs or creativity — emotionality runs through everything in our lives.
From childhood we’re taught to suppress it. A baby sits — everyone cheers. Walks — everyone claps. Runs — everyone yells, “Don’t run! Don’t shout!” Adrenaline becomes forbidden.
Even in school — you’re too quiet, they ask “Why so sad?” You’re too loud, they tell you to calm down. We learn to mute ourselves.
We need to unlearn that — to support each other instead of policing each other’s emotions.
Nik Lysytskiy
Because we also have this “ideal Ukrainian” image — how one should behave, what one should be.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Right. Calm, composed, respectable. But there’s no universal standard for a Ukrainian — we’re diverse. We shouldn’t idealize ourselves; we should just keep improving.
Nik Lysytskiy
And yet, it’s always about “What will people say?”
Andrii Kozinchuk
Exactly. My grandmother used to say that too. “What will the neighbors think?” It’s such a Ukrainian thing.
And that’s where the childhood trauma begins — but trauma’s not always bad. Without it, you’d never learn to overcome anything.
Nik Lysytskiy
Can someone actually learn to manage emotions, or does it always require a psychologist?
Andrii Kozinchuk
You can absolutely learn it yourself. What matters most is beliefs.
If you prefer YouTube — fine, as long as you’re watching something credible and evidence-based, not “chakra alignment” nonsense. A psychologist is just a faster, safer route.
Emotional management isn’t about suppressing or exaggerating feelings — it’s about awareness. Appreciating what’s here and now.
When you start asking yourself, “Why am I suddenly sad for no reason?” or “Why do I feel joy out of nowhere?” — you’re already practicing mindfulness.
A psychologist simply helps you make sense of it faster and safer.
Ideally, you should find a psychologist before you’re in crisis. Go for one or two sessions just to see how it feels. If it’s comfortable — great. You’ll know who to call when things get hard.
Trying to learn everything alone is tough because it feels too simple. You think, “Why am I anxious? Everything’s fine.” But your brain remembers — previous experiences, self-esteem issues, fears.
A psychologist is like a mirror with good lighting — you see what’s actually there.
Your mom will say, “You’re beautiful.”
Your psychologist will say, “Yes, but let’s also look at that little pimple.”
Both are necessary — but the second one helps you grow.
Nik Lysytskiy
You’re clearly an emotional person — anyone watching or listening can tell. What emotion are you feeling right now, during this conversation?
Andrii Kozinchuk
You know, I really enjoy this kind of conversation. It’s a quiet joy. Because despite all our emotionality as Ukrainians, we don’t actually like talking about emotions. For some reason, it seems that being emotional means being frivolous.
And given that I mostly work with military personnel, you can’t really get your point across if you start using academic terms — talking about neurons, adrenal glands, or nervous responses. Someone will joke about it, someone will say, “Don’t get too smart.” It’s a different audience.
That’s why I like to talk about these unpopular things — because they’re important. Why? Because emotions are with us every single day. I genuinely enjoy talking about this.
Nik Lysytskiy
We created this project to talk about values that define Ukrainians. Personally, I think it’s crucial to have these conversations — to talk to different people who each have their own perspective.
Write in the comments what you think about it. It’s really important for us to understand who we are, what we are, and what we can become — not only what we are now.
Andrii Kozinchuk
And a question for you — how do people around you react to your emotions? Or to your lack of them? Some people support you, others get annoyed. Some are angry that you express them at all.
Write to us — we’ll read it. We’re curious.
Nik Lysytskiy
Now, the final part — a Blitz interview. Seven short questions, seven short answers for Andrii. Although, it’s fine if they’re not so short.
What quality do you value most in people?
Andrii Kozinchuk
Openness and sincerity.
Nik Lysytskiy
And which one do you consider the worst?
Andrii Kozinchuk
Closedness and insincerity.
Nik Lysytskiy
What inspires you?
Andrii Kozinchuk
I’m inspired by the people I live and work with — by the small, everyday acts of kindness that don’t even seem heroic.
I love seeing a mother hug her crying child instead of yelling at them. I love seeing people go to a shelter during an air raid — because “shelter” means a missile is flying toward you right now. And they take their cat with them.
My mother has spent nights in the subway several times because we live in Lukianivka. It breaks my heart that she’s there — it’s wrong. But she tells me proudly, “I had a dog sleeping next to me tonight.” She even takes photos with the owners’ permission.
I love these small acts of humanity. I love it when a 57-year-old man calls his wife — who’s not young either — and says, “I love you.” Without embarrassment.
Those are the things I live for. No matter how much Ukrainians struggle, there are always ten times more of these micro-acts of goodness. I see them every day, and they give meaning to everything.
Our biggest existential questions are answered in those tiny moments. And I’m deeply inspired by young people — even though I can’t stand most of the music they listen to. I say that as an old crank. But the way they grow and develop — I might not understand them, but I feel they’re better than us. I’m forty, so I can say that now.
They didn’t understand me when I was young either — that’s how it goes.
Nik Lysytskiy
What scares you?
Andrii Kozinchuk
I’m afraid that all of this could end up being for nothing.
That’s my biggest fear. I can’t speak for all soldiers — only for myself. I’m afraid that everything we’re doing might be wasted.
And I don’t just mean in the literal military sense, or through the Russian narrative. The essence of victory isn’t only in defeating or expelling the enemy.
Victory means creating a safe space — when you can walk down the street without fear. When you can let your child play outside and the worst thing you worry about is a scraped knee.
I fear that after the war — after our victory — we’ll still carry aggression, distrust, cynicism, and trauma. Things won’t magically become smooth again, but there should at least be progress.
And I fear that all of it — everything — could be in vain. I push those thoughts away and do what I can to prevent it. But that fear is always there.
Nik Lysytskiy
What keeps you going in difficult times?
Andrii Kozinchuk
My people. The ones I fight alongside. My family. My mother. The people around me — they’re the best in the world. They give me faith.
I run a psycho-educational channel — we talk about mental health and life. Sometimes I think about quitting. Because, you know, I’m a soldier, a psychologist, a blogger — who am I even?
But then I’ll read a comment: “Mr. Andrii, I listened to your advice and talked to my husband — thank you, it really helped.” Or someone writes, “I didn’t know how to deal with my daughter,” and we talk, and she realizes she needs to take care of herself first — and then the daughter gets better.
That’s when I know — it’s not in vain. My faith in people is built on people.
But you know, faith in people also means expectations, and reality doesn’t always match. Still, the people I serve with — my unit, my brothers and sisters — they’re incredible. The best people in the world.
They probably don’t even realize how much their words and actions mean to me. I try to tell them, but still — they have no idea. We’ve been through so much together over these three and a half years.
Sometimes the hardest moments weren’t about criticism — they were about someone’s support. Not praise, just quiet, sincere support. And I often feel guilty that I can’t support them as strongly as they support me. I wish I could learn that skill from them.
They never studied psychology, they just know how to care — from experience. And that’s what keeps me going.
I want people to become just one percent healthier — mentally — than they are now. No more, no less. Because if I aim for more, I won’t have time for myself.
If that happens — if someone just picks up one good habit — that’s enough. Drink more water.
Even if I haven’t achieved anything else, but a hundred thousand people who’ve watched me now drink 10% more water — then my life wasn’t in vain.
I used to want to save the world, to preserve Ukraine and its national code. But now? If I can simply help someone love themselves a little more — just a little — my mission will be complete.
I’m still far from that mission, but that’s the direction I’m walking in.
Nik Lysytskiy
If you had to choose three words that describe Ukrainians as a nation, what would they be?
Andrii Kozinchuk
Wow. Hmm… yes, as a nation.
How do I put this in Ukrainian? Unstoppable. Yes — unstoppable, relentless.
Look how many times others — Moldova, Georgia, Chechnya — have been stopped, held back, silenced. And all the “civilized” countries would say, “You should’ve taken cover.” But we didn’t. We keep going. We are relentless.
That’s the first word.
The second is harder to define. It’s this trait — when something terrible happens, we turn it into humor, into black humor, or even into a song.
It’s a kind of projection — not in the sense of making projects, but of transforming pain into something else.
And the third — no matter what people say — is that we are united. Maybe not always in the grand political sense, but deeply united on the human level.
Family, friendship, community — these are sacred to us. Not in the sense of “social benefits” or “welfare,” but in the sense that we care what others think, what our neighbors say. It matters to us.
That old lady with her garden — she may not even like her neighbor, but she still says, “Good afternoon, Petrovna,” “Hello, Olegivna.” That’s who we are — social, connected.
So those are my three words. You could add more, of course — there’s a lot to unpack here.
It’s hard to explain such deep processes simply. But the first thing — the most defining — is that we just don’t give up.
If it were anyone else, they’d have surrendered long ago. Even our leaders, our officials — they might not always be perfect, but they know one thing for sure: they’re always watching what the people will say. Always.
And that’s amazing. Because there are countries — and I won’t name them, since I love your channel — where no one cares what the people say. Someone might make a statement, and everyone just shrugs, “Eh, whatever.”
But not in Ukraine. You can’t fool Ukrainians like that.
Well — actually, you can deceive us sometimes, it happens. You can fool a soldier, maybe, but not for long. Ukrainians are not naive.
Especially soldiers — they’re sharp. They see through you. You might trick one of them once, but never twice.
So yes, you might fool a Ukrainian with a cheap loan or a flashy promise, but you’ll never fool all of us.
And that old stereotype — that Ukrainians are greedy, or that we undermine each other — that’s outdated nonsense. It’s not true.
We’re an intelligent nation. I just hope we start doing more for ourselves, not only for others.
Because sometimes, our generosity goes too far — the mom giving her best cutlet to her child instead of eating it herself, buying the nicest thing for someone else but never for herself.
We need to learn that it’s okay to do something for ourselves, too.
Nik Lysytskiy
Thank you. We’ve talked a lot about folklore today. Have you ever listened to Ukrainian folk songs and analyzed them as a psychologist — to understand what emotions or traits of the Ukrainian character they express?
Andrii Kozinchuk
Honestly, no. I’ve read and watched some reviews. There’s even a great Ukrainian YouTube channel where people analyze songs really well.
And one of my classmates has written about music. But personally, I’ve never done that — I’m a serious military psychologist, after all. [laughs]
Nik Lysytskiy
Great! Then today’s your chance.
Because we have a segment in our program called “The Folklore Chest.”
Inside this folklore chest are songs.
Please, put on your headphones. The rules are simple — you don’t have to sing (thank God, your followers will be relieved). Just listen to each song and tell me what emotion you hear in it — what it conveys to you.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Alright, but fair warning — I’ll be talking about the emotion I feel, not some textbook interpretation. Because if a real folklore expert hears this, they’ll tear me to pieces. [laughs]
But I’ll say honestly what I feel — and I think I’ll mostly guess right.
Okay, let’s go.
I love this format — it’s simple and fun.
Most Ukrainian folk songs aren’t about grand events or epic moments — they’re about everyday life. And life was hard.
But within that hardship, people still found joy. Like in the song about the well — it’s not about a well, but a little well. Not just water, but a bit of water.
It’s always work — but within that work, there’s the joy of being alive.
If you listen to the rhythm, it’s cheerful, light. If you focus on the lyrics, it’s about struggle — but also about transforming that struggle into something beautiful.
That’s what it is for me — a sublimation of hard labor into joy.
Simple, real, joyful moments of life.
Nik Lysytskiy
Interesting. Next one.
Andrii Kozinchuk
“Time flows like a river… how did I meet you, my bird?”
Oh, I’ve listened to this song hundreds of times — it was incredibly popular in my region, Prykarpattia. My grandfather loved it.
I think Hnatiuk sang it, right? I didn’t even realize it was a folk song.
It’s not about grief — it’s about gentle sadness, nostalgia. About remembering something beautiful that’s already gone.
The person in the song has finally experienced the best moment of their life — the one they searched for a long time — but now it’s only a memory.
It’s lyrical, tender, emotional. Ukrainians have so much lyricism in their creativity.
Even though we have Cossack epics and heroic ballads, most of our songs are lyrical — filled with emotion, sensitivity, and longing.
It’s a soft, lyrical sadness.
Nik Lysytskiy
Thank you. Next one.
Andrii Kozinchuk
You know what a classic is? It’s something that doesn’t lose its meaning over time. I don’t know how old this song is, but it’s still completely relevant.
I’d say it’s at least 200 years old. There’s disappointment in it, yes — but it’s a productive disappointment. It ends in quiet hurt.
And yet — my God — how relevant it still is today. We’ve got Wi-Fi, advanced tech, electric cars, drones flying everywhere… and nothing has changed.
Nik Lysytskiy
Nothing has changed when it comes to emotions. That’s the constant.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Exactly. This is probably the most beautiful emotion there is. Being in love, actually, is often classified as a kind of mental disorder — because you’re illogical, distracted, unproductive.
Your sleep schedule changes, your appetite changes. You’re not yourself. But that euphoria — it’s something unique.
In this song, if we talk about emotions, it’s not about passion — not about sex or physicality. It’s about that quiet trembling inside, that tender spark.
And it’s dangerous because you kind of encode it within yourself. You don’t even admit it openly.
If you later face disappointment — it’s because you kept it hidden. But before that happens, there’s this state of soft fascination: She’s amazing, she’s perfect, she can even smoke and down a shot like no one else.
People warn you — “She’s an alcoholic.” You say — “Shut up, you don’t know her.”
That’s what quiet love feels like. And when you get older, you start to miss that. Because later, when you date someone, you start overthinking — What’s her situation? Divorced? Has a kid?
There’s no more pure infatuation. Back then, you just thought — She’s perfect.
This song captures that.
It’s classic sadness — when something happens, not catastrophic, but you’re simply not okay with it. You can’t change it, it’s already in the past.
That’s sadness — the awareness of something that’s gone.
By the way, sadness can also come from self-doubt: I’m not perfect. But that’s fine. We have so much of this in our folklore — and thank God it’s expressed there.
Never bottle up your grief. Speak it. Say, I’m sad.
Nik Lysytskiy
In fact, we mentioned today that every emotion has already been sung before.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Yes, exactly. I’ve heard this next one more times than I can count — maybe eight hundred thousand. Because at every feast, someone would start: “Oh, two oaks stood on the mountain…” And everyone joined in.
A real folk song — light, playful, full of life.
That line — “And I, my mother’s daughter, was taught to kiss…” — I used to imagine it vividly. Who taught her? On what — tomatoes? [laughs]
And that guy — he could go out walking all alone if he wanted.
It’s joyful, flirtatious, youthful — unlike the old folks at my table singing it. The tempo’s lively, full of energy.
Back then, it annoyed me because I didn’t get it. I’d sit there suffering while everyone sang happily.
But now I even like it. I’ve even sung it sober once — and it felt great.
Then there’s the one about soldiers, about Cossack spirit. I wouldn’t call it a march — a bit slower than that, maybe 120 bpm — but still, it’s about the army, about victory.
Not overly deep or reflective — just a song that gives you drive. Powerful.
Though strangely, I’ve heard it most often in Russian movies. They use it all the time. Which is ironic — because it’s deeply Ukrainian.
It’s about the mystery of the female soul — unpredictable, complicated.
What once seemed chaotic or “immoral” — like a woman who cheats or complains — now reads as deeply human, full of nuance.
There’s a lot of humor in it — an acceptance that love and relationships are never ideal, but that’s okay.
No heavy tragedy — just playful imperfection.
Although, I do remember one that shocked me as a kid — with lyrics like “Die, my dear, die.”
And everyone sang it laughing! I couldn’t understand it. It seemed so dark — Why are they all dying?
But that’s our culture — mixing humor with horror, pain with joy. Even beheadings and heartbreaks were turned into something to sing about.
So yes, this playlist really hit me — it brought me straight back to childhood. Thank you.
Nik Lysytskiy
Thank you — these are fascinating insights, and very emotional ones.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Well, how else can you talk about Ukrainian songs?
If you take them seriously, you realize how deep they are. And yes, there are scholars who’ve written detailed analyses of their meanings.
Nik Lysytskiy
But our goal here isn’t a scientific discussion — it’s to keep you, our viewers and listeners, interested and inspired.
So, if you enjoyed this episode, don’t forget — your support matters.
Write in the comments what resonated with you, which songs you know, and what emotions they evoke.
Andriy, I have one more task for you. It’s art-therapeutic — something I think you’ll appreciate.
Here’s a sheet with four empty circles — and a marker.
Draw whatever you want inside. Then we’ll “analyze” your creativity. [laughs]
Andrii Kozinchuk
Oh, I’ve got plenty of creative abilities! [laughs]
Actually, I love art therapy — not so much as a practice I use professionally, but as something that genuinely helps with emotional regulation and sleep disorders.
I’m not an art therapist, though — so for me, it’s just doodles and symbols that reflect what I’m feeling.
Basically, these are different emotions shown at different times in life.
The worst thing is when — and I mean worst for the person, not for us — when all these emotions pile up inside: joy, sadness, grief, isolation.
When you shut down, withdraw, stop expressing anything — that’s when you lose the most.
That’s why learning to express emotions is crucial.
The great thing about art therapy is that there’s no wrong way to do it.
You can interpret it however you like. And if you struggle to express something verbally — go to an art therapist and do it non-verbally.
Nik Lysytskiy
Is art therapy used during the war?
Andrii Kozinchuk
Yes, but mostly for veterans — and especially for children. It’s incredibly helpful.
People often underestimate art therapists — “They just draw, dance, sculpt.” But it’s no joke.
I had a case — a man with severe sleep problems. He’d been mixing alcohol with sleeping pills, barely resting, no deep sleep at all.
An art therapist came, had him paint, sculpt, dance — and after twelve days, he was sleeping deeply. Twelve days!
I joked that she must be so boring she put him to sleep. [laughs] But she said, “You just don’t get it.” And she was right.
Art therapists are amazing people — positive, calm, healing.
And if someone had a bad experience with a psychologist, I always say — it’s like a bad relationship. You just didn’t find the right match.
That’s why people try different approaches — CBT, body-oriented, systemic — and art therapy is officially among the methods recommended by the Ministry of Health.
Because it works. It’s not just talking — it’s creation, it’s process.
So yes — find yourself, and find a therapist.
Nik Lysytskiy
Andriy, thank you so much for today’s conversation.
Andrii Kozinchuk
Thank you for inviting me.
Nik Lysytskiy
Friends, today our guest was Andrii Kozinchuk — military psychologist and officer of the 67th Brigade of the Armed Forces of Ukraine.
Share in the comments what insights you gained from this talk.
Do you think emotionality is one of the core values of the Ukrainian people?
Do emotions and feelings truly prevail over rationality in our national character?
A reminder: you can watch episodes of “Archetype of the Nation” on YouTube, listen to them on your favorite podcast platforms, and read them on the website magicworld.com.ua.
There, you’ll also find popular science essays prepared by folklorist Maryna Demediuk, along with recordings of folk works performed by well-known Ukrainian actors.
Thank you for watching — and see you next time.
