Lyudmila’s narrative unfolds as one of quiet endurance and moral strength, an everyday act of rebuilding life after loss. In 2018, as she stood on the threshold of a promotion and the expansion of her family business, her world suddenly collapsed. A retinal detachment stole nearly all her sight, one eye gone completely, the other left with barely twenty percent of its function. “After the surgery,” she remembered, “my world collapsed.” What followed was not only physical blindness but an inner darkness that took time to lift. She packed away her dresses, gave away her cosmetics, and wept. “I had put a cross on myself,” she said. “I thought I was finished.”
Yet sorrow, for Lyudmila, became a teacher rather than a grave. Supported by her husband, her children, and her mother-in-law, she began to learn again, how to see differently, how to work differently, how to live with purpose despite limitations. She discovered that after two hours at the computer her eyes would fail her, that she could no longer lift small children, that jobs requiring screens or physical labor were no longer possible. So she made a choice that became her turning point: “I had to adapt and find a way to work for myself.” Starting small, she began to buy and resell household products, while her husband handled deliveries, “without delivery, people wouldn’t buy anything,” she explained. Her knack for negotiation and sales soon revived the confidence she had once buried. From a small shop, she grew to a larger one, adding delivery and expanding her network of loyal customers. Her apartment rentals became another income stream, which she managed with sharp intuition and steady professionalism. “I liked negotiating, working with clients, making deals,” she said. “Over time, it became a system.”
But while the business restored her financial independence, it was volunteerism that healed her heart. “I somehow immersed myself in everything at once,” she said. What began as occasional help turned into a full-fledged calling. Within three years, she became head of a volunteer organization, coordinating over thirty-five members and even launching a youth branch with forty children. Service, for her, was a form of gratitude, a way of turning hardship into empathy. “Whenever I hit a low point,” she said, “life throws something new at me, something that pushes me forward.” That forward motion, however, was not without betrayal. “The second blow came when I was about to shut down my volunteer work,” she recalled. A new volunteer she had trusted began sowing division within the team, collecting internal documents and rallying others against her. “It was heartbreaking,” she said softly. “These were people I had worked with for years.” The conflict, born of ego and ambition, nearly destroyed her organization. But when she considered quitting, new volunteers — young, idealistic, sincere — arrived as if to remind her that good still answers good. “After that,” she said, “I no longer fear people like that. They keep coming back, but I’ve learned to handle them.”
Her resilience took on a philosophical edge. She began studying numerology, not as superstition but as a tool for discernment. “I calculate a person’s numbers and instantly know what to expect,” she said with a wry smile. It was her way of reclaiming control in a world that had once taken it from her. Life, she discovered, has patterns, and so do people. She now meets manipulation with insight, not anger. “We don’t give such people access to important information anymore,” she said. “We learned.” And yet, beneath all this toughness, Lyudmila remains deeply human. “Sometimes I want to step away,” she confessed. “I think, why do I keep running after something? Why can’t I just stay home, cook, and take care of the kids?” For a brief moment, she tried to live that life of stillness. “But I lasted only two weeks,” she laughed. “I started getting bored. I realized this isn’t for me.” Her vitality, her refusal to give in to numbness, is perhaps her greatest strength. Even exhaustion becomes renewal when a new project calls. “I always tell myself I’ll just help from the sidelines,” she said, “and yet somehow I end up in the center again.”
This restless leadership, unchosen yet inevitable, defines her spirit. “I never wanted to be a leader,” she said. “But life keeps throwing me into situations where I have to take charge.” She carries responsibility naturally, not out of ambition but necessity. It is her way of keeping her soul alive and her mind clear, exactly what Abai described as the essence of a meaningful life.
Society, however, has not yet caught up with her quiet dignity. “People don’t see vision loss as a real disability,” she explained. “If you’re not in a wheelchair, they think you’re fine.” When she seeks state support, she is often told she doesn’t qualify. “They say, ‘You’re not completely blind,’ as if that means my life isn’t affected.” Even strangers who see her dressed well assume she faces no struggle.
“People expect disability to look a certain way…If you don’t fit that image, they dismiss you.”
In time, Lyudmila stopped explaining herself. “I used to try proving my struggles,” she said, “but now I don’t waste energy. I just focus on what I can do.” This quiet acceptance is not resignation but moral discipline, the kind of clarity Abai called for when he said that true life keeps the soul awake and the mind alive. Her ventures in real estate, volunteer leadership, and retail may seem unrelated, but together they weave a portrait of moral renewal through labor and service. She does not live for wealth or status; she works to stay alive in the truest sense, to remain useful, clear-minded, and connected to others. “I love being active,” she said. “I love having purpose.” And yet she never feels finished. “There’s always more to build, more to change. That’s just how I am.” When asked what she would tell her younger self, Lyudmila paused before answering:
“Don’t waste time waiting. Just go for it.” It is advice forged not from impatience but from the understanding that life’s only tragedy is passivity, that to live merely in body, without will or conscience, is not to live at all. Her narrative is one of restoration: of sight lost but insight gained, of sorrow turned to compassion, of fatigue transformed into movement. In her, Abai’s moral teaching finds living form, proof that when mind, heart, and will act together, even darkness can become a source of light.