A Story Shelved for Years
For over a decade, I carried a story in my mind but never on paper. I first dreamed up the idea for my novel when I was a 23-year-old Army platoon leader, scribbling scenes in the margins of notebooks between training exercises. Yet life had other plans. Military duty, motherhood, a demanding new career—there was always a reason to postpone writing. I told myself “someday” for years. Someday when I’m out of the Army. Someday when the baby sleeps through the night. Someday when life is less chaotic. But someday kept slipping further away, and my unwritten book lingered in my heart, waiting.
It wasn’t lack of inspiration holding me back; it was the weight of responsibilities and, if I’m honest, a bit of fear. Pouring my lived experiences into a novel felt daunting. As a former soldier and newly single mom, I was busy rebuilding my life—transitioning to corporate work, navigating co-parenting after divorce, trying to find myself again outside of a uniform and a marriage. The story of my heroine, Seraphine, still burned inside me, but I continuously shelved it while I focused on the real-life chapters unfolding: establishing a civilian career and raising my daughter. Years passed, and that creative part of me remained on hold, quietly asking when it would be our turn to be heard.
The Pain of Secondary Infertility
Ironically, it took one of the most challenging experiences of my life to finally push me to write: my battle with secondary infertility. After having my first child, I assumed growing my family again would happen when the time was right. But when that time came, nothing went as planned. Month after month, the pregnancy tests stayed stubbornly negative. Doctors’ appointments, blood tests, labs, hopeful highs followed by crushing lows—I rode that exhausting rollercoaster far longer than I ever imagined I would.
Secondary infertility brought a special kind of heartache. I was already a mother, which made me feel like I shouldn’t complain, yet my longing for another child was painfully real. I learned I was far from alone—secondary infertility, defined as the inability to conceive or carry a pregnancy to term after having a child, affects roughly 1 in 8 women trying for a second baby.1 Still, it’s a struggle many keep silent. I often did. I plastered on a brave face, even as I felt increasingly broken inside. Each announcement of a friend’s new baby pierced my heart with equal parts joy and envy. I remember attending a coworker’s baby shower, smiling on the outside while inwardly asking, “Why not me?”
The emotional toll of trying and failing to conceive again was heavier than I anticipated. It wasn’t just disappointment—it was grief. I grieved the baby I dreamed of but couldn’t have, and even the vision of the family I thought we’d be. It was a confusing grief too, compounded by guilt. How could I feel so devastated when I’d already been blessed with an incredible child? I chastised myself for not being content, which only fueled my guilt and isolation. In truth, people experiencing secondary infertility grapple with a unique form of grief, confounded by the expectation that having one child should make fertility struggles easier. The paradox of having a child yet longing for another can create profound isolation and guilt.1 I felt that paradox every day: grateful for my daughter, yet aching for the second child that never came. It’s a lonely place to be, and I largely suffered in silence, not wanting to seem ungrateful or draw pity.
Over time, this silent heartache weighed on every facet of my being. I’m a person who used to thrive on setting goals and achieving them—traits the Army had only reinforced in me. But infertility was a battle where all my discipline and determination yielded no victory. For someone who had lived by the ethos that hard work solves most problems, this loss of control was maddening. I later read someone describe it perfectly: infertility is not just a biological battle but also a confrontation with our deepest sense of control, expectation, and identity.1 That hit home. I was a soldier; I knew how to execute a plan. Yet here I was, unable to plan my way into a pregnancy. Infertility laughed in the face of my orderly universe, leaving me feeling helpless, confused, and with a deep sense of loss. In that dark emotional fog, I realized that my relentless quest for a second child was consuming me—and stealing joys from the life I did have. I missed the carefree mom I used to be, now replaced by a version of me who was always counting days on a calendar, riding waves of hope and despair.
I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. And in that exhaustion, something had to give. One day, after crying in my hotel room during vacation over yet another failed cycle, I reached a breaking point. I needed an outlet for the tidal wave of emotions I’d been bottling up. With nothing left to lose, I did something I hadn’t done in ages: I opened up my laptop, stared at the blank screen, and finally began writing the story I had been carrying for so long.
Finding Refuge in Words
What started as a desperate escape soon became a lifeline. At first, writing was simply a way to occupy my mind. I channeled all my frustration and sorrow into my protagonist, Seraphine. I wrote scenes where she faced grueling physical tests at the academy because I felt physically beaten down by medical appointments. I wrote dialogue where she raged or wept—emotions I was too drained or afraid to show in real life. Without realizing it, I was using fiction to tell my own truth. The page became the one place I could unload without fear or façade. It was an incredible relief to let my pain flow into words. In those late-night writing sessions, I found something I hadn’t felt in a long time: control. I couldn’t dictate the outcome of my fertility journey, but I could dictate what happened next in Seraphine’s world. I was in control of the pen, and it felt empowering to regain a sense of agency on the page.
I also discovered that writing brought comfort and clarity. There is a saying that putting thoughts into words can help us process trauma—and it’s true. Psychologists call it “expressive writing,” and it’s been shown to help people cope with the emotional fallout of crises.2 In my experience, turning my turmoil into sentences and chapters did more than just vent my feelings; it helped me make sense of them. The act of writing organized the chaos in my head. It gave shape and meaning to what I was going through, turning nebulous pain into a narrative I could actually look at and understand. By crafting a story out of my heartache, I was, in a way, reclaiming it. Researchers have noted that the process of constructing a narrative around trauma can help someone break free of endless cycles of brooding.2 I felt that transformation happening—slowly, night by night. The pain didn’t disappear, but it became more manageable. Each word I typed took a bit of the weight off my shoulders, lightening a burden I had carried alone for too long.
Writing became my therapy and my refuge. When I wrote, I wasn’t just a woman who felt betrayed by her own body; I was an author creating a world, breathing life into characters, and doing something with all that hurt. In the quiet of my little home office, long after my child was asleep, I found myself healing. Often, I’d finish a scene with tears in my eyes—not just tears of sadness, but of release. It was as if I’d finally allowed my soul to exhale. In those moments, I realized that while writing couldn’t give me the baby I yearned for, it was giving me something I desperately needed: a way to survive and grow from this experience. A fellow veteran writer once said that when you write your story, the painful memories don’t own you anymore; you’re in control of the narrative, and the act of turning trauma into a tangible book can take a lot of weight out of your psychological rucksack.3 For me, that’s exactly what writing did—it lifted some of the pain’s weight and handed me back a piece of myself.
Grief, Identity, and Strength on the Page
As the pages piled up, I began to see how my real-life struggles were weaving their way into my fiction. The themes I was living—grief, identity, strength, and the messy complexity of a woman’s life—became the DNA of my novel. Grief was the most obvious: my heroine carries losses of her own (in family, in love, and in friendship) that mirror the ache I carried in my heart. By allowing my character to mourn, I was permitting myself to mourn as well. Through Seraphine, I wrote some raw scenes of heartbreak and healing, indirectly saying all the things I hadn’t been able to say about my fertility journey. It was cathartic, and it also made the story more emotionally authentic.
Identity was another theme that crept in. When I left the Army and later struggled to conceive, I often asked myself, “Who am I now?” I was no longer Captain Crawford, the fearless leader of soldiers. I was a divorced mom in suburbia, feeling suddenly ordinary and at times inadequate. That identity crisis found its way into my book. Seraphine starts off a bit lost, defining herself by how well she can meet others’ expectations—much as I did. Over time, she has to discover who she is on her own terms, just as I have been doing. Writing her journey helped me reflect on my own evolution from soldier to civilian, from wife to independent woman, and from feeling broken to feeling whole again.
And then there’s strength. Not the straightforward kind of strength I once thought I knew, like marching for miles with a heavy ruck, or acing an Army skills test. No—this was a different, quieter strength. It’s the strength to get out of bed and face a new day after a night of crying. The strength to love and raise my child wholeheartedly, even when part of me was hollow with loss. The strength to accept help, to say “I’m not okay” to those closest to me, and eventually, the strength to let go of a dream deferred. I realized that this is the kind of strength I wanted to champion in my writing. So, I made sure Seraphine isn’t some invincible warrior woman; she’s strong because she perseveres through doubt, because she learns from failure, because she keeps her heart open even when it’s been hurt. In short, she’s strong because she’s real.
Women’s lives are beautifully complex, and I wanted my story to honor that complexity. We juggle so many roles and carry so many scars that the world may never see. In my life, on any given day, I’m a mother, a professional, a co-parent, a veteran, a writer, a sister, a daughter, a friend. I’ve been the only woman in a room full of military men, and I’ve been the only mom at a corporate meeting trying not to show I was up all night with a sick toddler. We contain multitudes, as the saying goes. So, in my novel, I let my heroine be complex too—strong but vulnerable, confident yet occasionally insecure, ambitious yet guided by love. Through her, I explore how grief and hope can coexist, how you can lose yourself and then find yourself anew. These are the truths I’ve lived, and weaving them into fantasy doesn’t make them any less true. If anything, it makes the fantasy richer and more relatable.
A New Chapter Begins
Finishing my first draft felt like reaching the end of a long, arduous journey. In some ways, it was like emerging from a war—this war between the life I envisioned and the reality I was given. By writing “The End” on that manuscript, I was also, in a way, closing a painful chapter of my own life. My journey through infertility has not magically resolved; I am still coming to terms with the fact that my child may remain an only child. But I’ve made peace with it. In pouring my heart onto those pages, I found a sense of acceptance. I came to understand that my worth as a woman or a mother is not defined by the number of children I have, and that there are many ways to create and nurture life. This book became one such creation—my second “baby,” born of heartache but nurtured with love.
Now, as I launch This War Between Us into the world, I feel a mix of nerves and hope. I’m sharing pieces of myself in these characters and chapters, and that’s both exciting and terrifying. But if writing this book has taught me anything, it’s the power of speaking our truths—no matter how imperfect or painful. If you’ve been quietly carrying a story of your own, or a pain of your own, I encourage you to find a way to let it out. For me, it was writing a novel; for you, it might be journaling, painting, music, or simply confiding in a friend. Our experiences, even the difficult ones, shape who we are meant to be. I used to think of my years-long delay in writing as a failure or procrastination. Now I see it differently: I wasn’t ready to tell this story until I lived it fully. Every detour—military service, marriage, divorce, motherhood, infertility—gave me the insight and empathy I needed to write something real.
In sharing my journey, I hope to reach anyone who has walked a similar path. Maybe you’re an aspiring writer wondering if it’s too late to start (it’s not). Maybe you’re a fellow mom or veteran grappling with where you fit in the world now. Maybe you’ve felt the sting of infertility or any loss that flipped your life upside down. To you I say: you are not alone. I wrote this book for the younger me who needed to read it, but I also wrote it for you. I’m reminded of a piece of advice from a fellow veteran-author: write for yourself, because your story might end up being a survival guide for someone else.3 That sentiment has stuck with me. If my novel or this blog post can be a small comfort or “survival guide” for another woman navigating grief, trauma, or big life changes, then every minute of the thirteen years it took me to finish it was worthwhile.
So here I am, at the start of a new chapter I never saw coming: Serena Crawford, the author. It comes after many chapters that tested me in ways I never expected. But I wouldn’t erase those tests. They taught me about the kind of person—and writer—I am. I’ve learned that strength isn’t about never breaking; it’s about rebuilding yourself when you do. I’ve learned that dreams might bend or change shape, but they don’t expire. And I’ve learned that sometimes, when one dream (like having another child) doesn’t come true, life might hand you a different dream to hold in your hands—like a finished book with your name on the cover.
Thank you for reading my story. To all who find pieces of themselves in these words or in This War Between Us, I hope you feel seen and understood. I’m going to keep writing the books of my heart, and I’m excited (and a little scared) to invite you along on this journey. Here’s to imperfect, strong women—on the page and in real life. Here’s to the stories we live, the stories we tell, and the healing that happens in between.
Sources:
1 – halletecco.com, “How I Overcame Secondary Infertility” https://www.halletecco.com/blog/secondary-infertility#:~:text=I%20am%20not%20the%20only,likely%20to%20talk%20about%20it
2 – health.harvard.edu, “Writing about emotions may ease stress and trauma” https://www.health.harvard.edu/healthbeat/writing-about-emotions-may-ease-stress-and-trauma#:~:text=Stress%2C%20trauma%2C%20and%20unexpected%20life,traumatic%20stress%20disorder
3– news.va.gov., “VA woman Veteran author: Army Veteran M.B. Dallocchio” https://news.va.gov/101617/va-woman-veteran-author-army-veteran-m-b-dallocchio/#:~:text=Once%20you%20invest%20the%20time,has%20been%20an%20invaluable%20resource