The Art of War

 

The Art of War

Skilled at conflict

Armor laid down

Surrounded by ancestors

she kneels to the ground

Stripped naked and bare

she casts down despair

Intimately remembering what survival erased:

the safety

the softness

the sweetness of an embrace

No more calls to battle, no wars to defend

she is their answered prayer

“Thank God—she is The End”

In the hush after battle, a new truth is heard:

generational curses broken in deed and word

She learned to survive

while keeping hope alive

Fighting to see tomorrow

she outlived her sorrow

Realizing her armor was placed

before she could even run this race

She waits in a quiet she cannot outrun

her softest era has just begun

Trumpets sound—not as warning, not as test—

but as a promise from God:

she is finally safe to rest

Releasing the weight held deep within,

she lets the warmth of sunshine touch her skin

Still a gangsta down to her core—

proof that growing through life

is truly The Art of War

The Art of War — When Survival Learns to Rest

There is a moment after every war that history rarely documents.

Not the victory.  
Not the loss.  

But the quiet.

The Art of War lives in that space.

This piece is accompanied by a poem from my collection She Who Remains, and together they tell the story of a woman who is no longer fighting—but is still learning how to exist without the fight.

> Skilled at conflict  
> Armor laid down  

She was trained for survival before she ever had language for it. Before choice. Before identity. The armor was not something she picked up—it was something she was given.

The pink background represents the womb—femininity, origin, and supposed safety. But here, it holds a deeper truth: she was girded for war before birth. Survival was inherited.

> Realizing her armor was placed  
> before she could even run this race  

Around her, plants grow steadily, symbols of nurturing and life continuing forward. But they are rooted in a blue striped pot—a structure that represents linear, masculine systems. Growth exists, but within constraint. Even healing has been contained.

The potted plant reminds us: she is not in the wild. She is not in chaos. She is in something curated—something that looks like safety.

But is it?

At her feet lies the mask.

> Stripped naked and bare  
> she casts down despair  

The mask represents survival identities—the roles she learned to play to endure. Its placement on the ground is intentional. She is no longer performing strength. She is allowing herself to be seen without it.

Beneath her is the warrior’s spear—a symbol of conquest, strength, and battle. But she is not holding it. She is standing on it.

This is mastery.

She is no longer in the war. The war now supports her.

> No more calls to battle, no wars to defend  

The “Mom + Dad” tattoo is a modern echo of tribal marking—an honoring of lineage, but also an acknowledgment of inherited impact. It sits over her heart because the origin of both love and wound lives there.

Across her body, tribal markings tell deeper relational stories. The triangles represent triangulation—being positioned within dynamics that distort balance and identity. These are not decorative marks. They are evidence.

On her right arm, six dots mark six offspring— six moments where life moved through her, each leaving a permanent imprint in time.

She is not just a survivor of conflict.  
She is a keeper of life.

Her white tignon serves as a spiritual covering—a symbol of protection, reverence, and connection to the divine. It softens the narrative of war and reminds us that her survival is not just physical—it is spiritual.

Her gold hoops represent richness—not just in material terms, but in lived experience. Wisdom. Endurance. Presence.

And then there is her posture.

Exposed. Grounded. Unapologetic.

> Intimately remembering what survival erased:  
> the safety  
> the softness  
> the sweetness of an embrace  

This is the moment many never reach—the space where survival is no longer the primary identity.

But it is also unfamiliar.

> She waits in a quiet she cannot outrun  
> her softest era has just begun  

There is tension in this softness. Because when the war ends, there is no more noise to hide inside.

Only truth.

Only feeling.

Only self.

> Trumpets sound—not as warning, not as test—  
> but as a promise from God:  
> she is finally safe to rest  

The Art of War is not about fighting.

It is about what it costs to stop.

It is about generational cycles breaking—not just in survival, but in allowing rest, softness, and safety to exist without guilt.

> Still a gangsta down to her core—  
> proof that growing through life  
> is truly The Art of War  

She is not less powerful for laying the armor down.

She is more.

Because she chose to live beyond it.

And that—  
more than any battle fought—  
is the true art of war.