“What Does Peace Mean to You?” by John Noltner
It started with a question.
Not a complicated one. Not one with charts or graphs. Just this:
What does peace mean to you?
In 2009, I was a photographer with a journalism degree, traveling for magazine assignments and corporate gigs. But I found myself increasingly troubled by the headlines—violence, division, injustice—and feeling like something vital was missing. I had a camera. I had ears. I had time. What I didn’t have was peace.
So I began asking people that simple question. I paired their words with black-and-white portraits and listened carefully, not to debate or correct, but to understand. And what I found—not just in their words but in their faces—was both humbling and electric.
People had stories. All kinds of stories. And many of them had never really been asked to share.
That was the beginning of A Peace of My Mind.
The Stories That Shape Us
When people hear the word “peace,” they often think about global diplomacy or war protests. But I quickly learned that peace is far more personal than political.
It’s the woman in Wisconsin who told me, “Peace is watching my kids sleep at night.”
It’s the man in recovery who said, “Peace is learning to forgive myself.”
It’s the refugee who lost everything, and still found a way to say, “Peace is starting over.”
These are not soundbites. They’re lived experiences.
Some of the first people I interviewed included Holocaust survivors, homeless veterans, domestic abuse survivors, and people who had lost loved ones to gun violence. The diversity was staggering. So was the honesty.
One story that stays with me is from a man named Pete. He was incarcerated when we met, and we sat across from each other in a concrete room. I asked my question, and after a long pause, he said, “Peace is waking up in the morning and not being angry.”
That answer has lived in my chest ever since.
Going Where the Stories Live
After releasing the first book in 2011, I figured that would be it—a quiet project, maybe displayed in a few galleries. But the opposite happened. Schools started calling. Churches. Libraries. Community centers. They didn’t want to just see the work—they wanted to be part of it.
So I packed up my car and began traveling. I didn’t always have a clear itinerary, just a deep sense that people needed space to talk—and to be heard.
Eventually, those travels turned into A Peace of My Mind: American Stories. I drove more than 40,000 miles across the U.S., asking my same question in places like Los Angeles, rural Arkansas, the Navajo Nation, and the streets of Baltimore. I interviewed ranchers, immigrants, musicians, faith leaders, and coal miners. They weren’t always polished or articulate, but they were always sincere.
And every time, someone would pull me aside and say, “I didn’t think anyone would care about my story.”
That’s the thing: we all want to be seen. We all want to be heard. And when someone creates the space for that, transformation begins.
In Search of Common Ground
After 2016, the country felt more fractured than ever. Conversations turned into shouting matches. Friendships frayed over politics. Communities grew divided—not just geographically, but emotionally.
So I wrote a new book about my process: Portraits of Peace: Searching for Hope in a Divided America. It wasn't about glossing over hard truths. It was about walking toward them—with curiosity, not contention.
I interviewed people on all sides of the issues. I listened to conservatives and liberals. People of deep faith, and people who had walked away from it. Young activists. Elder peacemakers. Blue-collar workers. Academics. Everyone had a reason for the way they saw the world.
And beneath those views? Fear. Hope. Love. Longing. Shared humanity.
That’s what we forget when we dehumanize each other. Our stories don’t always align, but our emotions and values often do.
Peace in Motion
In 2020, the world paused. But I didn’t.
My wife Karen and I sold our house in Minneapolis, bought a van (we call him “Vinny”), and set out on a journey that became Lessons on the Road to Peace.
Over the course of 900 days, we traveled 93,000 miles, visiting communities large and small. We listened. We photographed. We cried. We laughed. And we remembered why this work matters.
In Arizona, I met a former border agent wrestling with the ethics of immigration policy.
In Mississippi, I spoke with a family whose land was taken through legal loopholes—but who continued fighting for their dignity.
In Montana, I listened to a teenager from a rural LGBTQ+ youth group talk about hope for the first time in months.
These weren’t just interviews. They were moments of connection. Of trust.
And they reminded me: peace isn’t a destination. It’s a practice. A commitment. Something you choose to pursue even when the road is bumpy, the weather is bad, and the conversation is uncomfortable.
The Evolving Story
Today, A Peace of My Mind has reached tens of thousands—through books, exhibits, school visits, keynote talks, podcasts, and workshops. We’ve presented in conferences, hospitals, middle schools, universities, corporate boardrooms, and faith communities.
This work exists because of the people who show up. The teachers who invite us in. The community leaders who see value in hard conversations. The students who are learning, for the first time, that their voices matter.
We’ve launched interactive studio sessions where people can add their own answers to questions that matter. “What does peace mean to you?” “When have you found unexpected courage?” “What gives you hope?” “When have you bridged a divide?” We’ve built portable studios to collect stories in real time. We’ve even added a podcast series—including one about addiction and recovery, born out of my own journey to sobriety at age fifty-five.
The form changes. The heart doesn’t.
The Bigger World
Most of A Peace of My Mind’s work has been in the United States so far, but this year we started experimenting with how we might share international stories. In February I made a scouting trip to Northern Ireland to learn and to build relationships. In May, I returned with three summer interns to record interviews about how people have navigated that country’s history of sectarian violence and how they have moved toward healing.
The learning was profound and the results were powerful. We will start sharing those interviews on our podcast in November; the trip will serve as a model going forward for how we might share stories from Rwanda about how they navigated their genocide, and South Africa about how they moved through apartheid. None of the processes have been perfect, but there are lessons in the stories. There is always a path forward.
What I’ve Learned
After fifteen plus years, hundreds of interviews, and more than 100,000 miles traveled, here’s what I know:
- Everyone has a story.
Even the people we think we disagree with. Especially them. - Listening is radical.
Not listening to reply. Listening to understand. It’s one of the most courageous things we can do. - Peace is a verb.
It’s not a prize. It’s a process. A practice. Something we build together, story by story, one relationship at a time.
An Invitation
I’m not here to tell you what peace should look like for you. I’m just here to ask the question.
So try it sometime. Ask someone—anyone—“What does peace mean to you?” Then sit with their answer. Let it breathe. Let it change you.
That’s where it starts.
Not with a speech. Not with a protest sign. Not with a hashtag.
But with one story. One photo. One honest conversation.
That’s a peace of my mind.
A gifted storyteller, John Noltner has worked on five continents gathering stories of human courage, grace, and resilience. He has produced projects for national magazines, Fortune 500 companies, and non-profit organizations. A Peace of My Mind reflects his belief that art and storytelling can help individuals, organizations and communities articulate their deepest values and encourage action toward building social capital and community connections.