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Karma isn't a bitch

I was a hotel owner. A businessperson. I managed a comfortable life, owned a decent-sized hotel and a small complex of houses just outside the city. My world was tidy, predictable, built on balance sheets and bookings. But everything changed in a matter of days. Not just for me—but for hundreds of others who arrived with nothing but fear in their eyes and the clothes on their backs. When the war started in Ukraine, I didn't plan to get involved. I watched the news like everyone else, shocked and angry. I saw the images—families separated, cities bombed, people running with no clear destination. And then the buses started arriving. The first week was chaos. Hundreds of people came through—most of them women, many with children, a few with parents in tow. I still remember the exhaustion on their faces, the silence of the children, the way they clutched plastic bags like lifelines. They didn't want much. Just somewhere safe to breathe. Somewhere warm. I opened the doors to my hotel and the houses. Everything was free. No one asked me to do it. No one promised anything in return. I just knew I had to. It was as if some unseen force had taken hold of me, whispered"Go. Help."I didn't ask questions. I just moved. It wasn't easy. In fact, it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. We ran out of food, space, patience, sleep. I had to expand rooms, make temporary bedding, organize volunteers, and mediate endless conflicts. Because truth be told, when you put hundreds of strangers in the same space—traumatized, frightened, with no idea what tomorrow brings—it's not peaceful. It's pressure. Constant pressure. And those women? They drove me crazy a million times over. Some demanded too much, others clashed with each other, some cried constantly, and a few didn't even say thank you. I got yelled at, lied to, leaned on. But despite all that, I couldn't stop. I kept helping. Even when I swore I'd had enough, something inside me kept pushing me forward. Looking back now, three and a half years later, I realize I was part of something far bigger than myself. Something karmic. That's the only word that fits. I didn't help because I was a good person. I helped because I was meant to. Something—or someone—moved me. I still don't know what it was. A force. A pull. Maybe God. Maybe fate. But whatever it was, it made sure I didn't walk away. Now, with the clarity of time, I can say this: we all showed our true faces during those years. Every single one of us. The refugees, the volunteers, even me. Some people became bitter, selfish, cruel. Others became softer, kinder, stronger. We didn't all come out better, but we all came out revealed. I saw women who had lost everything step up to help others. I saw volunteers cry from exhaustion and then keep working. I saw teenagers become men overnight. I saw sides of myself I didn't know existed—both noble and shameful. There were days I cursed the war, the people, and the entire mission. But there were also days where the smallest "thank you" broke me open. Today, I still host some of them. Not as many, but enough. Some have stayed in Romania. Some went back. Some moved on to Germany, France, even Canada. I still help, even when it's hard. Even when I feel I have nothing more to give. Why? I wish I had a rational answer. But I don't. The truth is, that force—whatever it was—is still inside me. I'm still determined. Not because I expect reward. Not because I'm a saint. But because, when everything fell apart for them, I had something to offer. A room. A bed. A moment of peace. And if I could do it again, even knowing how hard it would be... I would. Because in that mission—difficult, chaotic, maddening—I found something I didn't even know I was searching for. I found myself. And I learned that sometimes, the greatest act of love is simply to open your door.