I'm excited to share the long-awaited interview with the first heroine of my photo project “Resilient Women: Portraits of Immigration”—Olya Locorbi.

Meeting Olya was a stroke of luck for me. Her story not only inspired me but also gave me a renewed sense of confidence and self-worth. She embodies the belief that we shape our destinies and can always rely on our skills and talents. Regardless of what happens around us, we still have ourselves, and that's incredibly empowering.

I hope this interview inspires you as much as it did me. It serves as a reminder that even a significant life change like emigration doesn't diminish your essence but can make your life even more meaningful and successful.

Importantly, the interview is very candid. We touched on topics that might provoke strong reactions, but that's Olya—honest and unfiltered. She doesn't hide behind conventions but speaks openly about herself and what matters to her.

Without further ado, let's dive into the interview.

Olya Locorbi is a producer and founder of an SMM agency, who played a key role in the early development of the blogger and influencer industry.
After almost taking a job selling cosmetics at Sephora as an immigrant, she now successfully manages influencer projects in North America, collaborating with major international brands.
**Olya, tell us about yourself, your background, and how you ended up in Canada.**
That's a tough question because my honest answer might upset some friends and people who know me.
I was born and raised in Ukraine, where I finished school and university. When it was time to pursue a master's degree and find a job, I explored options in Kyiv. By chance, I checked a website for opportunities in Moscow and saw significantly higher salaries. Why stay here when I can earn more doing the same work elsewhere? So, I moved to Moscow.
And I lived my best, most conscious life there.

Like many, I started from scratch, renting a room in Bibirevo (one of Moscow’s most challenging neighbourhoods), surrounded by alcoholic and parasitic neighbours living on welfare. The building was under renovation, and no one cared to improve it because they expected to be relocated. It was terrible (laughs).

I got a job with Artur Shachnev, a well-known producer in Russia who organized concerts for top stars. My team and I managed concerts at Crocus, one of Russia's largest venues.

I worked hard with a clear goal in mind. Soon, I moved to a luxurious apartment—not owned, just rented—but I was proud of myself. At 21, I lived in one of Moscow's best apartments, paid for by my own efforts.

How to hack the Moscow advertising market at 21.

I sold tickets to our concerts, which connected me with influential people, including popular artists. Around that time, Instagram was just taking off. I followed Anfisa Chekhova (famous actress and TV host) because I was on a weight-loss journey like her. I thought, "What if I ask her to promote our concert?" No one was doing that then, so it was a bold move. I messaged her, and she agreed to advertise the concert on her social media for 5,000 rubles. I transferred the money from my account, and she published a story about the concert. All my tickets sold out that evening. I realized it was genius: such an easy way to effective sales.

I started reaching out to others on social media. Advertising was cheap because the market was undeveloped. I felt like I had discovered a secret. I hired TV personalities from "Dom 2" (popular TV program) to post ads, which boosted our sales. Concert organizers across Moscow came to me for help, not understanding what I was doing or what to call it. These were my first steps.

I worked with various clients, from dentistry to cinemas to marketing agencies. They didn't know what I did but wanted me to do it for them. I needed a name for it, so I called it "Purchasing advertising from celebrities on Instagram."

We set standards, wrote rules for celebrities and advertisers, created briefings and schedules, and trained celebrities. These rules didn't exist in the market before.

About a year later, I had an impressive lineup of advertisers with substantial budgets. They would transfer large sums directly to my account, which I then distributed among the celebrities. I communicated directly with the stars via private messages and personal phone numbers, bypassing their PR directors. The celebrities were pleased with their earnings—initially modest, but I took the initiative to raise their rates, which made them very happy. All my celebrities were fully booked, and this is how an entire industry was born—one that I began to manage.

I eventually left my main job to focus on this business. I started training personal PR managers for celebrities, creating my first graduates before it became mainstream.

As my expertise grew, celebrities asked me to manage their social media pages. We experimented with content to see what resonated with audiences. I once gained 50,000 followers in one night. We created content, sometimes controversial, to engage audiences and sell advertising.

I realized I could do this not only for celebrities but for ordinary people too. We could make stars out of them and sell advertising. We signed them to work with our agency, much like label sign artists.

It was great—I was professional and earned well. But I lacked personal happiness. I couldn't find the right person and felt lonely, dreaming of a family and happiness.

Stuck on a Desert Island.

When COVID-19 started, I accidentally got stuck in Bulgaria. As I mentioned, my job provided me with great connections. One day, an oligarch I knew asked me to help him sell a hotel. Using my old method, I directly contacted potential buyers and flew to Bulgaria for a meeting. Then, the borders closed.

Ironically, I had been searching for a deserted island through a travel company because I was burnt out and wanted solitude. My wish was granted unexpectedly. I found myself alone by the sea. Everything was closed: cafes, the post office, shops. Only one semi-legal store selling chips, cigarettes, and sausages remained open. I lived in a hotel without a kitchen or a washing machine, washing my few clothes by hand in the sink and drying them under the air conditioner. I didn't even have proper clothes since I had packed for just one meeting.

During this period, I spent a lot of time in self-reflection. Loneliness consumed me. Out of boredom, on March 16, I answered a call from an unknown number, which I never usually do. That call was from my future husband.

We were introduced by a mutual friend who suggested he call me to offer support during isolation. Our first conversation lasted 3.5 hours.

Despite both of us having difficulties getting along with people and finding common ground with the world, we instantly connected.

We spoke every day. I discovered that he was from the same city where I was born. He had already told his relatives about me, and I realized that I had fallen in love and urgently needed to see him.

Determined to meet him, I searched for options despite the pandemic and widespread closures. I wrote to the embassy, "I am Ukrainian, save me." I learned about evacuation flights—a minibus plane that picked up stranded people from various countries and took them to Kyiv. I agreed and kept the ticket, which had neither a seat number nor a destination, only my name. It was the strangest flight of my life, but also the most anticipated. After that flight, I saw my future husband for the first time. I knew he was the one. From the moment we met at the airport, we have never been apart. And we remain together to this day.

My husband began a long-term test he called “Taming the Shrew.” Building a life with a career woman who has her own successful business is very challenging. I am now deeply ashamed of how I behaved back then. I was always independent and had no experience of relying on someone else. I would throw tantrums if he did something for me, like servicing my car. It took me about a year to gradually start trusting him and allowing him to take care of me and make decisions for me. It was important for him, as a man, to look after me, but my daring character resisted that. I was used to achieving what others couldn't. Gradually, he began to change me, gently showing that life could be different.

During the pandemic, when I was stuck in Bulgaria for 90 days, I lived without any of the comforts I was used to. Money couldn't solve anything because everything was closed. I had flown from Moscow on a business trip in warm clothes. Until May, I wore fleece jeans that I had cut into breeches in my hotel room when it became unbearably hot. For the old me, this situation would have been unbearable. When you can afford anything, and suddenly, even with money, you have to live in such conditions—it was unimaginable. If I had told my old self about this, I wouldn't have believed it.

When everything is taken from you and you receive only a fraction in return, you start to appreciate it. Losing all comfort and then getting the opportunity to order hot food instead of boiling eggs in a kettle becomes a source of happiness.

I believe nothing would have worked out between my husband and me if I hadn't experienced being stuck during the pandemic, which led to a reassessment of my values.

When we finally saw each other, we realized we couldn't live without one another, and I had to move to Ukraine. I agreed, thinking, "Okay, let's try." But I didn't like anything about it. Absolutely nothing.

Moving to a big city like Moscow and then having to leave felt like a personal loss, a return to where I started. It was a nightmare. Anyone who has experienced this will understand. And I had to go through it voluntarily.

The integration process was very difficult for me because I kept thinking I would return to Moscow. I watched the channel "Walking Around Moscow" and just cried. I love Moscow deeply. It feels like my place 100 percent. I was incredibly fortunate in Moscow, especially with people. I didn't have such a connection with people in Ukraine.
What many are experiencing now because of the war—being forced to leave their homes—I went through earlier when I fell in love. I read about what people are feeling now and I recognize myself in their experiences.
Everyone talks about how lonely they feel when old connections and the familiar life that made them happy are broken, but I went through this alone. Meanwhile, life went on for everyone else. My friends kept posting photos of my favourite places and cafes in Moscow. You know that feeling when you close your eyes and remember the smells and sounds of your hometown? I silently suffered in Ukraine. I lived there, but my heart was in Moscow.

The War.

We couldn't go to Moscow, first because of the pandemic and second because my husband was against Russia. Now I realize there were other reasons too. There was talk of war. No one believed a war could happen or even discussed it seriously, but there was a sense that something terrible was looming.

On the eve of the war, I was still depressed, feeling like I couldn't realize myself here and saw no prospects for my future. In hindsight, I think it might have been a woman's intuition. I didn't feel nostalgic for Ukraine despite growing up there; instead, I felt a strong rejection of everything. It was as if some force was pushing me away. In Moscow, I was incredibly fortunate in every aspect, but in Ukraine, it was the opposite. I constantly encountered negative attitudes, rudeness, and surreal situations.

On February 23, 2022, I went to the hospital for aesthetic surgery. I had a strange feeling, a thought that I might never see my parents again. I was supposed to undergo surgery, but I couldn't sleep because I was very nervous. I was scrolling through Instagram stories when I saw a friend from Kyiv posting about explosions and saying that a war had begun.

I couldn't believe it. I didn't understand what was happening and started searching for information online. I texted my husband: “Do you understand what's going on?” We called each other, and I said, “Pick me up.”

I was in compression stockings and pyjamas when he came to pick me up, bringing the cat, its litter box, and our documents, and he was also in pyjamas. We went to a gas station to fill canisters with gasoline, but there was chaos, and the fuel was running out. We decided to head to Bulgaria, to the hotel where I had been stuck during the pandemic. Going somewhere familiar would be easier, and in Bulgaria, I still had connections and some belongings.

We decided to leave immediately and drive as far as we could. We made it to Chernivtsi, after a journey of about 86 hours. In those early days, attacks were happening all over Ukraine, and seeing it firsthand was surreal. As we passed through Vinnytsia, we witnessed active explosions; everything was burning. I pressed myself into the car in horror, realizing that the only thing that mattered was staying alive, no matter where we ended up. We stopped only when necessary to use the toilet, get some sleep, and then continue driving.

Chernivtsi, the farthest point in Ukraine, was quiet. I remembered that a classmate of mine lived there. We hadn’t spoken in about 10 years, but I messaged her, asking if I could wash our clothes. When we arrived, she fed us—it was the most delicious meal: porridge, sausages, salad. No Michelin restaurant could compare. I still remember that meal. We sat in her kitchen, waiting for our clothes to dry, wearing clean pyjamas.

During the pandemic in Bulgaria, I had experienced total discomfort and helplessness, which had led me to despondency. So when I sat in my classmate's kitchen in a T-shirt, waiting for my few clothes to be washed, it felt almost normal. It wasn’t familiar, as it was still a wild situation, but it no longer caused heavy despondency and grief; those feelings had become background noise.

We talked a lot. I realized why it was so hard for me to say that I was from Moscow. I adore Moscow's culture, business environment, atmosphere, and people. When I tell my Ukrainian classmates that I miss Moscow, they don't understand, they unfollow me, and judge me. I had a difficult conversation with my classmate. She said that all Russians should be killed, and I tried to explain that there are good people in Russia. I didn’t find any support. They still judge me, but I stand by my opinion.

Then something unexpected happened. I reached out to bloggers I had worked with and asked them to post about what was happening in Ukraine, showing them photos and videos of the destruction. At first, there was complete silence in Russia, with no coverage of the events. I asked them to share my video recordings, but they refused. No one supported me. They said, "We sympathize with you, but let’s not get political." It hurt me.

I announced that Olga Boost would stop working with bloggers, and that same day, I cut ties with all of them, driven by emotion.

Looking back, I’m not sure I would do the same now. Those who didn’t see it firsthand aren’t obligated to get involved or react to the events. Moscow continues as before. Now, I understand and forgive those who don’t know where Ukraine is or what war is like. It’s a defence mechanism. You don’t have to get involved in everything. It’s the same with Israel; I didn’t repost anything. Having experienced this horror myself, I understand that others may not want to delve into it.

Later, those bloggers reached out, wanting to resume collaboration, but by then I had moved to Canada and refused.

There was no housing available in Chernivtsi, so it was clear we had to keep moving. As we drove, I searched for available accommodations on my phone and booked them in case we needed to stop for the night. Everything was incredibly expensive. We shared these housing options in chats and on social media so others could use them if needed. Ukrainians came together during this difficult time.

We reached a resort town in Transcarpathia. It was quiet there, and we booked a hotel. We started buying household items, but the problem was that there was only one store in the whole town. Every day, the store had fewer and fewer products, and there were no deliveries because the war made it impossible to reach the town. It became clear that this could lead to a humanitarian crisis.

My classmate from Bucha told me she had just given birth, but due to stress, her milk had dried up. Bucha was completely isolated, with explosions all around in the cold winter. A neighbor turned on his bus so she could warm up a little with her newborn. She asked volunteers for baby formula, but no one could reach her. It was terrible.

We realized we had to go to Bulgaria, the place where our love story began. This time, the reason was the war.

I wasn't in the hottest and most dangerous places like Bucha, and I wasn't in terrible conditions for long. Thank God. But what I saw was enough for me. I still have nightmares. The experience left a deep mark on my subconscious. At that time, all I could think about was getting away as far as possible. I didn't consider nearby countries because I couldn't feel safe there. The thought that the war could spread further was no longer absurd. I was constantly in a state of urgency, needing to move faster and further to escape the war.
I told all my friends and acquaintances who knew I was Ukrainian and were worried about me that **if Elon Musk were recruiting volunteers for Mars, my family would be first on the list**. I could no longer go to the place I wanted to return to with all my heart, and Mars met all the conditions I had envisioned for myself at that time. I just wanted to run away as far as possible from all this.
It became clear that I couldn't return to the place I longed for with all my heart. Neither my husband nor I would understand such a decision. After everything that happened, returning was simply not an option.
Flying to Mars would symbolize both a protest and a chance to start anew, far away from everything. These were my thoughts.

Canada.

We settled in Bulgaria, living for free in the same hotel, which resolved many practical issues, but we felt no joy or euphoria. We were confused yet highly focused. We stocked up on food whenever we found any in the store and observed the curfew. This behavior was almost instinctual. I noticed it when I started buying canned goods, something I had never done before. Our behavior patterns changed.

Gradually, we began to relax a bit emotionally. Being in a familiar place like Bulgaria helped because I didn't have to navigate an unfamiliar environment urgently. However, Bulgaria left its mark: I have never stayed in hotels since and now hate white bed linen.

We started thinking about our next steps. My husband continued working remotely, but making long-term plans was difficult. We learned that many countries had programs to help Ukrainians relocate. A friend told us about the opportunity to go to Canada, which guaranteed to provide documents for three years. This offered us some clarity.

We knew nothing about Canada; we had never even considered it for tourism and had read nothing about it. We opened our computers and began filling out the paperwork. We were quickly invited to Istanbul to get our visas, and soon we were flying to Canada. On the plane, we watched an episode of Ptushkin’s travel show about Vancouver. Canada was not a conscious choice for us.

Upon arrival in Canada, I felt a sense of despondency and asked my husband if we really had to live here for three years. What had seemed like a good offer for emigrants during the war now felt daunting. Adapting was hard, and the thought of living there drove me crazy.

My heart is still in Moscow. "Moscow does not believe in tears," but I think it would believe my tears. When I cry, I cry for Moscow. I adore this city; I was deeply connected to it. I remember how I used to walk around the city thinking, "God, how good I feel, how lucky I am to live here."

I travelled a lot and even lived in other countries, but I never felt the same way anywhere else. While other places were nice, in Moscow, I felt an electric thrill.

Would I like to go back there? Yes. If you remove the context of the ruined lives, the attack on my parents, the imprisonment of my business friends, and all the chaos, then of course, I would like to go back. But it's impossible; you can't remove the context.

Do I want to go back to Kyiv? No. I’ve never loved Kyiv; that feeling never developed and I don’t think it ever will. It's not my city.

In Canada, I gradually began to come to terms with what had happened, and I started scolding myself for not spending enough time with my parents. I tormented myself daily with the saying, "We do not cherish what we have until it's gone." I missed various little things: a croissant, delicious coffee, people, familiar places. The realization that I might not see my loved ones again, or if I did, it would be a long time from now, was very depressing.

I was also plagued by the thought of lost time. Instead of lying on the couch, I could have done many useful things. For example, I could have learned to drive a manual car, which my husband had been persuading me to do for a long time. I didn't do it, and as a result, when we were on the road almost without stopping to escape the war, I couldn't relieve him at the wheel, even though he was very tired.

Then there was the "emergency suitcase" that I didn't have. After being stuck in Bulgaria during the pandemic without necessities, I started packing huge suitcases for all my trips, even taking batteries. My husband, who had promised to make me fall in love with Ukraine by showing me around the country, convinced me right before the war to stop feeding my fear and to let go of that trauma. So I agreed and relaxed. When the war started, I regretted it deeply because we only had our documents with us—no water, and no belongings.

Overcoming Toxic Chats on the Road to Self-Discovery

At some point, the question arose of what to do next. I trapped myself emotionally by reading Russian-language chats filled with negativity. "Well-wishers" claimed that all new arrivals would have to start from scratch, from the very bottom, suggesting our lives were over. No supportive voices were saying "You will succeed," only an anti-support group proclaiming that everything would be terrible. This made the mood very oppressive.

I need to clarify my position. I am not a refugee who was saved, nor are we emigrants who chose Canada for a better standard of living. We already lived at a high level and came here to continue living at that same level. We are ready to work. My husband is already working for a local company to legalize, even though his own business could allow us more freedom. To ensure the standard of living we are accustomed to, we have also invested in the Canadian economy.

Reading local Russian-speaking chats filled with negativity, I need to outline our position because different people will read this interview.

It deeply hurts me that people in these local chats, who have not experienced what I, my family, and friends have gone through, feel entitled to write on social networks: “Why are Ukrainians complaining? Let them go home. Judging by their stories, everything is great for them; look, they are given 3,000.” They portray Ukrainians as freeloaders, which is far from the truth.

We have paid so many taxes here that I am certain Canada is fortunate to have us. However, Canada is not the most profitable place for me as an entrepreneur. I am, so to speak, making a deal by exchanging high taxes for the opportunity to live and work in this country. I didn't come here to take advantage of others' money; I came to create my own.

I would be willing to give even more to avoid all this trouble. If those who write this think that all this suffering is worth $3,000 in compensation and a work permit, I pity them.

You have to be completely inadequate to enjoy benefits and go to a food bank. Though I know some people who drive the latest Mercedes-Benz and are happy to get free burgers with a passport, I would be upset by such a life. But situations differ. You can lose your job not only because of war, but the main thing is not to give up and not to become despondent.

I still see these people in chats, continuing to spread negativity. It's believed that only bad people who have failed in life write such things, but no, these are normal people living normal lives, driving good cars. I don't know why they do this.

Dopamine junkies riding in the newest Mercedes-Benz, savoring a free burger.

At some point, after reading so much negativity about having to start from scratch, I believed it. I became infected with this toxicity and stopped seeing any purpose. I didn't want to do simple things like dressing up. What's the point? Dressing up isn't valued here. My usual way of life turned into apathy because of the toxicity. I was disappointed in everything in advance.

I tried to see a sign from the Universe: Olya, if you didn't like something in your life, it's time to change it. I thought for a long time about who I was, what I could do, and what new and cool things I could create here that I couldn't. But I went down the wrong path after reading all these negative messages. I was thrown from side to side, considering real estate and then working as an English teacher. I even thought about getting a job at Sephora because I love cosmetics. I thought I could climb the career ladder from consultant to manager. Now I understand it was absurd for me to consider completely new areas.

In the end, instead of looking for a new job, I found out I was pregnant. We had wanted and planned this for a long time, but it hadn't worked out. After many disappointments, I took a test without much expectation and saw a positive result. Pregnancy and severe morning sickness freed me from thoughts about work and my future. The question disappeared.

I enjoyed the pregnancy, dyed my hair pink, and was surrounded by my husband's endless care and love. It was a wonderful period. Then our Button was born, and my husband became a wonderful father.

Emigration is literally a scar.

My friends from Moscow, of course, supported me and were happy that I left. But honestly, they didn’t truly understand what I was going through. Emigration is literally a scar, and you never get rid of it. It's different. Those who sympathize with me and the war but are sitting in trendy Moscow restaurants like Dzhondzholi will never understand what it’s like to calculate the days you can legally stay in a country or count your points to get a residence permit and genuinely worry about it.

Well, my friends supported me, but there was nothing behind this support except words. It's like telling a friend who hasn’t given birth about childbirth and a baby. There is no depth there. My friends from Ukraine did not support me because they were waiting for me to finally turn my back on Moscow and speak out, but I did not. I even ended some friendships because of this.

At first, I suffered greatly because we didn’t have any kind of social circle here. However, emigration helped me see my husband as both my main advisor and my friend. It turned out that my husband could fulfill all the roles I previously needed. I didn’t think this was possible before, and this was a cool experience that helped me a lot in immigration.

Finding Your True Self.

Instagram unexpectedly brought me back to thoughts about work and what to do next. Scrolling through a feed full of mom content, I came across a friend who lived in America and was a blogger. I contacted her and told her about what I was doing. It turned out she was looking for someone like me. Our interests and goals aligned perfectly, and we started working together. I was thrilled! Now we have 15 million views, collaborations with various brands, and amazing results that remind me who I am and what my expertise is, inspiring me to return to my business. I am a successful, fulfilled woman again. I don’t wash toilets; I do what I love and do best in a new market.

In general, this industry was born here, in North America. The social network itself was created here, and all the trends originated here before coming to us. But we have this knack for tweaking and coming up with something new. Local bloggers have been filming themselves against the same backgrounds for 15 years; maybe the camera has improved, and they’ve aged. But our bloggers spy, copy, and then innovate and develop. Therefore, I respect the pioneers of the industry, but I try to build on their foundation and tweak it.

In Ukraine, I had my own course on SMM and working with bloggers. I taught how to buy advertising from bloggers, bring them into trends, attract brands for advertising, and communicate with them. Knowing all these standards and algorithms, I began to apply them here.

We met a few months ago, when I had a completely different attitude and did not plan to continue my business. But now I can proudly say that I have already formed my own SMM agency here, and many well-known brands are working with me. For example, we have collaborated with Unilever to advertise various products, as well as with Nike, Solid Starts, Freedom Moms, JSHealth Vitamins, and more.

I am sure that my background, the quality of my work, and my customer service allowed me to secure large companies with serious budgets as clients. They are not afraid to work with an unfamiliar agency, a newcomer to the local market. We are already introducing high standards in working with brands who honestly say they have never worked with bloggers at such a high and professional level before. This approach is raising the industry in Canada and North America to a new level. We also set standards for relationships between brands and bloggers based on mutual respect, and bloggers are eager to work exclusively with us, recognizing our professional approach.

As a result of several months of work, the results of our advertising campaigns are stunning.

Today, I feel incredibly inspired. Comparing my current self to the version of me who first arrived in Canada, worried that I would have to clean streets or toilets, is like night and day. Looking back, I realize that all those fears could have been safely let go.

I can definitely say that the skill of remote work greatly helps immigrants.

You can transfer and adapt your experience and skills to the local market. You can be flexible and continue some of your professional history. Emigration does not necessarily mean resetting everything and starting from scratch. I hear stories about this very often. Unfortunately, I know that many people do face this. Maybe it is temporary. But this new routine or hard physical work can drain you so much that you have no energy left to think and realize that you can take another path.

I am glad that I succeeded. I went through fears and uncertainty—there was a lot of that! And the constant desire to give up everything and leave. It’s just classic; I can’t even describe it any other way.

I am glad that phase has passed. I am sure I will still face many moments of doubt and difficulty, but I truly believe that I will overcome them.