Lingonberries, the cold Ladoga, and a “prayer turn”: where to find support when business strategies stop working

In moments like these, a strong woman needs more than just a change of scenery. She needs a ringing, profound silence.

I close my eyes and remember that smell. The thick aroma of sun-warmed pine needles, the icy breath of Lake Ladoga, and the tart taste, with a slight bitterness, of Karelian lingonberries on my lips.

In Karelia and on Valaam, time flows differently. When you board the “Meteor” and the water cuts you off from the mainland, something amazing happens. Messengers fall silent. The need to make decisions disappears. In the evening, when the last noisy day-trippers leave Valaam, the island sinks into absolute calm.

It is precisely here, walking along the rocky shores, that what I call a “prayer turn” happens. This is not about religion in the strict sense. It is about turning your attention from the outside world—toward yourself. It is the moment when you stop demanding new achievements from yourself and, for the first time in a long while, simply listen: to the water beating against the stones, to the wind rustling, to your own heart beating.

My name is Lyudmila Lykova. As a former financial analyst and an architect of thinking, I know the cost of burnout. I know how expensive a suit of iron armor is for a woman.

That is why from time to time I gather a very small, intimate group of women, and we leave for the North—to Karelia, to cold Ladoga and the islands where thoughts gradually stop racing each other.

We take an overnight train to leave Moscow’s bustle on the platform behind us. And then a few days await us among pines, granite shores, and water that in the morning seems silvery, by day—cold blue, and by evening becomes almost leaden.

In the morning, you can drink tea for a long time by a panoramic window and watch the fog slowly disperse over the lake. By day—take a boat to the Ladoga skerries: glide past rocky islands, listen to the splash of water, and breathe in the scent of wet moss, pine needles, and sun-warmed wood.

You can stroll unhurriedly through the forest, pick blueberries and lingonberries, photograph red houses among the pines, and then return with cheeks cooled by the water and a pleasant tiredness in your body.

After a walk, Karelian cuisine is especially good: warm kalitki pies with potatoes or fish, creamy fish soup, fresh bread, forest berries, cloudberry jam, and tea with thyme, juniper, and other northern herbs. 

This is food without showy complexity—simple, local, generous, and very real. The kind after which you don’t want to scroll your phone, but to sit at the table a little longer, laugh, share stories, and look out the window.

And then—a Russian banya: hot steam, birch or oak veniks, the aroma of fresh wood, and cool air from Ladoga. After it, you can wrap yourself in a blanket, take a cup of herbal tea, and step out onto the terrace. Dusk thickens over the forest, the last light is reflected in the water, and conversations become freer and more honest.

And we also spend a night on Valaam to catch that very silence people come back for again and again. When the last day-trippers leave the island, you can walk along the path among the pines, hear your steps on the gravel, and feel space opening up inside for your own thoughts.

In the evening, we carefully unpack inner strategies: why it is so scary to let go of control, why even a successful woman continues to live in constant readiness, and how to learn to manage business and life from a state of calm rather than strain.

Just four days away from the bustle.

Four days with cold Ladoga water, a warm banya, tart lingonberries, a boat by a rocky shore, a wooden house, a delicious dinner, unhurried conversations, and laughter that arises on its own—without a reason and without the need to live up to your status.

And then the return train carries us home.

And often a small miracle happens:

“Lyudmila, in Moscow I stepped off the train as a completely different person. With a clear head and my settings restored.”

I think this is exactly why sometimes you need to leave. Not to run away forever from business, family, or responsibility. But to meet yourself again—the one who exists beneath all the roles, tasks, and decisions.

Because support does not always appear after a new plan.

Sometimes it returns after hot tea, a walk by a cold lake, a tart berry on your tongue, a good dinner, and a few hours when nothing is required of you.

Except one thing: to be alive.