The American magazine ELLE published an article about the ANACOSMA clinic titled “Why are women in military Ukraine still getting plastic surgery?” You can read it in the original here, and read the translation below:
Why Ukrainian Women Continue to Undergo Plastic Surgery During Wartime
Two days before the anniversary of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, air raid sirens echoed over Kyiv. The level of threat was unclear, but social media speculated that missile strikes might be imminent. At the ANACOSMA clinic, surgeon Taras Baranov barely flinched — he was in the middle of performing a blepharoplasty.
For many women in Kyiv, aesthetic treatments have become a form of quiet defiance and feminine resilience. They undergo plastic surgery amid blackouts and sirens, refusing to let war steal their lives — or their sense of self. And yet, that inner strength is constantly being tested.
It wasn’t always like this. At the start of the war, most Ukrainians weren’t thinking about beauty enhancements. Survival came first, as countless towns were reduced to rubble, Europe’s largest conflict since World War II erupted, and more than eight million people were forced to flee their homes.
But a year in, with the horror and destruction still raging, some women have found ways to reclaim a piece of life — however small — and preserve their confidence by holding fast to a deep love for beauty.
As I step inside the ANACOSMA clinic in central Kyiv, I enter the world of plastic surgery. I’m greeted by Yana Mudrakova, a clinic staffer, beaming in a yellow midi dress, a peach cardigan, and beige heels — her standard uniform. Her nails are perfectly painted white, her lips plump, not a single hair out of place. But a strip of white surgical tape covers her nose: she just had a rhinoplasty at the clinic.
A large-scale Russian attack is expected on February 24 — today — the anniversary of the invasion. The likelihood that Kyiv will be at the center of the strike is high. There’s a heaviness in the air, even though the past few days have been relatively quiet — only adding weight to the theory that Russia is saving its firepower for this symbolic date.
As I wait to meet ANACOSMA’s chief surgeon, Pavlo Denishchuk, I ask Yana Mudrakova if she was scared during her operation. She shakes her head.
“Because I work here, I know exactly what’s happening around me,” she says. “I know the doctors and the equipment — I had full confidence, no fear at all. I understand how everything functions during an air raid. So nothing held me back.”
Air raid sirens in Ukraine go off regularly — in the streets, through phone apps — any time there’s a potential threat. Sometimes, it’s a precaution: Russian aircraft spotted flying over Belarus. Other times, it’s urgent: missiles have just been launched from Russian-controlled territory, and Ukrainians have mere minutes to take cover.
Various Telegram channels try to explain what type of threat the sirens are signaling, but the information isn’t always reliable. Alerts can last minutes or hours, and people are advised to remain in shelter until they stop. But after a year of war, Ukrainians have adapted. The sirens no longer inspire panic.
For Mudrakova, the path to surgery began four years ago, when ANACOSMA brought in a new surgeon who used her image to test a program that showed patients what their post-surgical results might look like. In that simulation, she saw her nose — more refined than her real one — and something clicked.
“The war became the moment of decision,” she says. “It showed us we can’t keep putting our lives on hold. If you want to become more beautiful, why not start now?”
Undergoing cosmetic surgery during wartime might seem reckless. Yana laughs: “Maybe we’re a little crazy. But even during war, our doctors are working. Our patients keep coming — I’m one of them.”
“When the war ends, we’ll need to be both physically and emotionally happy. These things help us feel more beautiful, more joyful. We’ll be stronger, so why wait to live your dreams? Even in wartime, it’s possible.”
As Mudrakova returns to her work, I climb the white staircase past the operating theater to Dr. Denishchuk’s office. Reflecting on the past year, he tells me:
“Up until the final peaceful days before the invasion, we were incredibly busy. So many patients had scheduled procedures, made deposits — some were already in the middle of recovery.”
When the war began, everything came to a halt. “There was a real dilemma,” Denishchuk recalls. “What should we do with these people? Some said, ‘It’s fine, we’ll wait until the war ends.’ But others demanded either refunds or that we follow through on the services.”
Three months after the invasion, ANACOSMA reopened — partly because patient demand remained high, and because at least 30% of the staff wanted to return.
“Back then, everything was deeply uncertain,” Denishchuk says. The remaining 70% — those not ready to come back — had mostly fled Kyiv for western Ukraine or abroad.
Only a handful of patients ever asked to move to the basement during air raids. Most of them simply ignored Russia’s attempts to terrify Ukrainians.
My conversation with Denishchuk is cut short by a knock at the office door — his next patient has arrived. It’s 3 p.m., and the Kyiv sun is already beginning to set. In the hallway stands 50-year-old Olha Saienko, beaming. She’s here for her one-month post-op check-up following a facelift, to ensure the incisions are healing properly — and they are.
“She looks ten years younger!” Denishchuk says with a smile.
Before the war, Saienko never considered a surgical facelift. She’d had thread lifts before — a non-invasive way to tighten sagging skin — but nothing more serious. Yet the constant mental and physical strain of living through war wore her down. The threads no longer held; the ptosis returned.
Kyiv was under relentless attack in the early days of the invasion. Russia believed that if the capital fell, the rest of the country would crumble. Bombs rained from the sky, gunfire echoed through once-peaceful neighborhoods — friend or foe, it was impossible to tell, and even trying to find out could mean getting caught in the crossfire.
On the first day of the invasion, Saienko, her husband Ruslan, and their daughters Viktoriia, 31, and Sofiia, 12, fled their home. Like thousands of others, they sought relative safety in Ukraine’s west. But even in a new city, when Saienko looked in the mirror, she no longer recognized the face staring back.
“I truly believe the war aged me,” she says. “It felt like my life — and my daughters’ lives — were being erased. There’s no certainty about tomorrow. Just apathy, fear, and deep emotional pain.”
“There’s a 30-year-old woman inside me,” she adds, “and it hurt to see a reflection that didn’t match who I still felt like I was.”
Holding up her phone, Saienko shows me a photo taken before the surgery — wrinkles at her chin and neck, deep lines around her mouth. Now, her face is smooth, the eye bags gone, her jawline sharp. She really does look a decade younger. This version of Saienko — the one in front of me — seems more at ease. But as she lowers the phone, she says quietly, “The stress of war doesn’t go away. It’s impossible.”
“It does feel a bit strange,” she admits. “There’s a war on, and I’m having plastic surgery. But life keeps moving. We try to live it anyway. Maybe our nervous systems adapt, and eventually it all starts showing on the outside,” she says, referring to the way her face seemed to age overnight.
It’s no secret that the prevailing beauty ideal — tall, thin, flawless skin, a 24-inch waist — is unattainable for most, yet it remains the dominant standard. Falling short of it can erode confidence, even damage self-worth.
Plastic surgery is often seen as taboo — something to be done in secret, never discussed. But most Ukrainian women don’t care what others think of their physical transformations. These procedures aren’t about impressing men or earning peer approval. In the chaos of war, it’s about something more essential: feeling comfortable in your own skin. A desire many women can relate to.
After meeting Saienko, I leave the ANACOSMA clinic — and beauty is everywhere in Kyiv.
In a café, two teenage girls take turns doing each other’s makeup and snapping photos. Every nail salon I pass has at least two customers. Spa centers are offering Valentine’s Day couple’s massage specials. Life, somehow, feels almost normal. And yet, the war is all around.
Anti-tank obstacles still line the streets. Armed soldiers guard government buildings. Makeshift trenches are being dug in preparation for another wave of Russian attacks on the capital. But even here, beauty finds its place — a form of self-expression and resistance as the city braces for February 24.
A week later, I return to ANACOSMA. This time, I’m greeted by a woman with flushed, red skin — likely just treated with a chemical peel.
Minutes later, I’m led into a small recovery room, where 27-year-old Marharyta lies on a double hospital bed, recovering from breast reduction surgery performed two days earlier. I’m handed a white paper gown and a surgical mask — precautionary steps to avoid any risk of infection during our conversation.
Marharyta tells me she had waited five years to reduce her size-five breasts, which had long interfered with her ability to fully live her life. But it was only after the war began — and after she started studying psychology — that she realized just how deeply her body had been limiting her.
“In society, people think that having large breasts is glamorous,” Marharyta tells me. “But they don’t understand what it’s like to wear smaller bras, not worry about spilling out of them, or to be able to exercise — to run, to jump, to move freely.”
“It weighs on you — literally and emotionally. And almost all clothing, whether made in Ukraine or abroad, is designed for women with average or small busts,” she continues. “If you have a larger chest, you’re stuck shopping at plus-size stores, but that clothing isn’t modern or sexy.”
Marharyta’s decision echoes what I’ve heard from many women at ANACOSMA. War has reshaped their relationship with their bodies, their desires, and their sense of urgency. “You realize that some things can’t wait — even during a war,” she says.
At the time of our conversation, there’s just over a week left until February 24. I ask Marharyta if she’s considered the possibility of needing to flee while still in recovery. She nods. “I calculated the timing — the pain should subside before the 24th. Just in case we need to drop everything and run.”
“There’s a strange feeling right now,” she adds, her voice steady. “It’s like we’re all going through the motions, but deep down, we know it’s almost over. The end of the war — and our victory — is coming. We’ll need to dress up for Victory Day.”