Why I Named My Memoir “Not At War”

I used to think memoirs were supposed to be a collection of life stories, not a roadmap out of self abandonment and fear. But “Not At War” didn’t come from a clever title session or a branding brainstorm. It came from a quiet, ordinary moment in my kitchen while I was sharing my vision with the man I’m with: how I’ve always felt called to write a book about my life. For a long time, I called it “A Rose From Hell,” because that’s how it felt: test after test, loss after loss, disappointment layered on disappointment, and somehow still blooming. The early chapters were just gratitude that I made it out alive.

But somewhere in the middle of bringing this book to life, I found something I thought I already understood: peace.

I remember the first time I heard it, a day off work: I had one precious day to rest. My mind was racing, my body buzzing with that familiar urgency: Rest perfectly. Make it count. Don’t waste it. I could feel the anxiety climbing up my throat.

Instead of trying to “achieve” rest, I paused. I put on a bathing suit, went out to the pool, and let myself float. On my back, eyes to the sky, I stopped striving and let my body be held.

That’s when I heard it, from somewhere deeper than words:

YOU ARE NOT AT WAR ANYMORE!

Tears slid into the water. Because it hit me: yes, there were seasons I had to fight to survive. Yes, I did what I had to do to get through. But this moment was different. The war was over. I had found safety in my own body. I could trust that what was within me was greater than what was outside of me. After years of battling the effects of rejection and abandonment, I could finally feel it: I loved and accepted myself. I knew I was created for a purpose. And I wasn’t alone.

There was another revelation, too: no matter who I’ve lost, if I don’t lose myself, I cannot be abandoned. That truth brought a freedom and peace I had never known. “Not At War” didn’t start as a title: it started as a word God wrote over my life. A promise. A birthright. Despite what we’ve been subjected to, freedom and peace are not luxuries reserved for the lucky; they belong to us.

Along the way, I learned how strong our bodies are and how adaptable our minds can be. The way our brains rewire to what we meditate on gave me hope: hope that I could think differently about my story, reclaim my worth, and rebuild my confidence. Breath by breath, thought by thought, I chose to renew my mind.