BEYOND

I grew up across two homes — Moscow most of the year, and Cherkessk, a small city in the Caucasus, every summer — in a large family with four siblings and, in summer, an even bigger household of cousins and grandparents.

From an early age, I was responsible for a lot of things: caring for my grandmother, and later, alongside my sister, running the household and looking after both grandparents each summer — cooking, chores, keeping track of who needed what.

I think this is where my interest in people actually started, long before I had a name for it. Watching how a household of many generations negotiates space, responsibility, and care taught me more about human behavior than any textbook — who steps up when something needs doing, how unspoken expectations get passed down, what it looks like when people quietly carry more than their share. It’s part of why questions about organizations, fairness, and support systems feel personal to me, not abstract.

I have two cats, Kroshka and Kartoshka, and I’m responsible for everything from grooming to vet visits. I once took in a stray cat for a night after finding him clearly used to being held — I even took him to the vet before deciding whether to keep him. His owner turned up the next day, and giving him back was harder than I expected. Kartoshka came home not long after.

Brownies with ice cream, blueberry cheesecake, caramel pie, blueberry shortbread — and, on ambitious days, mooncakes, the hardest thing I’ve ever attempted in a kitchen.

Fantasy and horror, mostly. My most recent read was Hell is the Absence of God by Ted Chiang. I have a library card and use it often.

Horror movies, horror escape rooms, and — for variety — one detective-themed escape room. I’m endlessly curious about what fear actually does to people, which might explain why I keep choosing to feel it.