In the past few months, I’ve found myself living at the intersection of memory and identity. On one hand, I’ve been immersed in the quiet, steady work of preserving my mother’s story—a memoir of war, labor, and perseverance in the Soviet Union. On the other, I’ve been engaging with something much more present and raw: the evolving dynamics of my own queer identity within a family deeply shaped by evangelical belief.
These two threads—legacy and selfhood—may seem worlds apart. Yet lately, I’ve realized how deeply intertwined they are.
Remembering My Mother, Sharing Her Voice
Always With Hope—my mother Lyudmila’s memoir—is more than a tribute. It’s a reclaimed history. As I translated her handwritten pages, curated photos, and crafted the tone of her website, I wasn’t just honoring the past. I was bearing witness to a woman who survived unimaginable hardship with grace, dignity, and fierce resolve.
Publishing her story has been emotional, humbling, and sometimes overwhelming. Every decision—from which idioms to keep to how much Soviet context to explain—felt like a delicate balancing act between preserving her voice and making her legacy accessible to new generations.
This work reminded me that legacy isn’t frozen in time—it’s alive in how we carry it forward.
Writing Through Silence
Around the same time, I found myself navigating a very different kind of work: reaching out to evangelical relatives who, while loving in their own ways, often struggle to see the full scope of who I am. I sent a message to my Aunt Vera and Uncle Aleksey—honest, respectful, and open-hearted. Their silence in response said more than any words could.
Rather than close the door, I began writing through that silence. I launched a blog series examining the paradoxes of love, family, and control within evangelical environments. I explored how language meant to “save” can become a subtle form of spiritual policing. I wrestled with how to keep showing up in truth, even when no acknowledgment comes back.
Bridging the Divide
What connects these two efforts—my mother’s memoir and my own writing on queer identity—is the desire to hold space for complexity.
I come from a lineage of strength and survival, but I’m also shaping a new story—one rooted in equity, self-expression, and healing. I’ve realized that honoring my mother’s Soviet legacy doesn’t require silence about my own life. In fact, the more I’ve leaned into both, the more I’ve come to understand: reconciliation is not about making everything fit. It’s about allowing everything to be—fully, honestly, and without shame.
A Postscript to Both Stories
So here I am, between worlds. A son remembering his mother. A queer man redefining family. A communicator trying to build bridges between past and present, silence and voice, tradition and transformation.
If you’ve ever felt caught between honoring where you come from and embracing who you are becoming—you’re not alone. There is room for both.
Thank you for being here.
And thank you, Mama, for the hope you always carried—and passed on.
Mikhail Oparin 