By thirty-six, I felt like a damaged product—scratched, dented, stamped “unfixable.” I had chronic depression, anxiety, and a history of panic attacks so severe they landed me in the ER. I’d fought my way back from suicidal thoughts through deep self-analysis, rebuilding my life piece by piece. Tireless plowing, so I can finally understand and heal. Everything seemed in place—except for the voice.
Not my own voice, but hers. My mother’s. Critical, relentless, and impossible to turn off. It wasn’t just in my head—it was my head, wrapped so tightly around my own thoughts that I couldn’t tell where she ended and I began. Like a worm inside an apple, she consumed me from within, leaving the inside hollow.
For years I thought this was permanent damage, a defect I’d carry forever. But somehow instinctively, after all those years of drama training I realized: this voice wasn’t inborn—it was acquired. And anything acquired could be moved outside of me. Once outside, it stopped being irritating and started becoming ridiculous. Once it was ridiculous, it became funny. And funny, as it turned out, was entertaining. That’s how Valentina Brainova was born.
“Valentina didn’t come from a therapist’s office or a self-help book. She was born in a flash of frustration—a parody of the voice I couldn’t silence. If I couldn’t erase it, maybe I could exaggerate it until it became someone else entirely. Someone so over-the-top she made me laugh.”
And so, Valentina appeared: a stereotypical Soviet woman—formidable, unfiltered, and utterly convinced she was right. She has the kind of thick accent that makes a grocery list sound like a military directive. She will diagnose you with a vitamin deficiency based on your posture and prescribe her own homemade herbal remedy “just in case.”
Back in her homeland, she’ll say proudly, she was a doctor. Of course, that homeland was the Soviet Union of the seventies, and her treatments blend antiquated medicine with a dash of dubious folk remedies. Yet none of that dulls her presence. She is magnetic, larger than life, and carries an unshakable confidence—even when she’s entirely mistaken.
Valentina is not my mother. She shares some traits—unyielding opinions, unsolicited advice—but she’s so absurdly confident she becomes a caricature. And in creating her, I did something miraculous: I separated the voice from myself.
When Valentina talks, I know it’s her, not me. She can criticize my life choices, wardrobe, or posture, and instead of shrinking under the weight of her words, I smirk and say, “Thank you, Valentina, but I’m doing it my way.” That voice which once hollowed me out is now a character on stage—still loud, still opinionated, but no longer in control.
At first, Valentina was just for me. But once friends met her, they couldn’t get enough. Soon she was making appearances at private celebrations, birthdays, and community events across Los Angeles. Valentina would sweep into a room in her babushka-meets-Hollywood-diva style, utterly certain the event revolved around her. People laughed at her kombucha lectures, Soviet household hacks, and strong opinions on why American coffee tastes “like dirty water.” The very traits that once hurt me now connected me to others.
Eventually, Valentina got her own stage online at ValentinaBrainova.com, where anyone can see her in action or book for events. What began as a private coping strategy became a creative outlet, a career path, and a reminder that even the heaviest parts of our past can be transformed into joy.
Therapists call it “externalization”: taking an internal, immovable presence and imagining it outside of yourself, where you can observe and even control it. Valentina is my living proof that healing can come wrapped in humor. Some people meditate for peace; I created a loud Soviet woman who thinks beet soup can solve your problems. She reminds me daily that my voice matters—and that I get to decide which voices I keep. Valentina didn’t erase my mother’s influence overnight. But she gave me something more valuable: a clean slate. She allowed me to hear my own thoughts without that ever-present filter of criticism.
I learned that healing isn’t about deleting the past—it’s about rewriting it. Valentina Brainova is my rewrite, my satire, my armor, my creative spark. Through her, I found the one voice I never had before: my own. If you meet Valentina—whether at a party in LA or somewhere across the country—be prepared. She will give you advice you didn’t ask for, tell you to eat more potatoes, and do it with such confidence you might actually believe her. And when you walk away smiling, you’ll understand exactly why I keep her.
Website: ValentinaBrainova.com
