I was moved to read You Are Mine after listening to an interview with Sister Anastasia in which she spoke eloquently about her journey to Orthodox monasticism. She is clearly intelligent, emotionally sensitive, and deeply devout. I am glad she has found peace in the Church, and I do not believe her conversion was wrong in any way. Her story may well resonate with many readers — especially those already within the Christian fold or those recovering from intense spiritual fragmentation.
That said, I approached the book as someone in the process of converting myself, coming from a Western esoteric background and raised by Anglican parents. I read it in hopes of encountering a narrative that would engage the deep inner work required when moving from one metaphysical paradigm to another. Unfortunately, the book often left me unsettled — not because of disagreement with Orthodox theology, but because of the tone and structure of the narrative itself.
Sister Anastasia attributes nearly every change of heart, emotional release, or internal shift to the direct action of the Holy Spirit. While this may reflect her genuine experience, it bypasses the kind of spiritual discernment taught by the saints and Church Fathers — who warn, again and again, that visions, feelings, and emotional highs are no reliable proof of grace and may even be prelest (spiritual delusion).
Throughout the book, her earlier discomfort with Orthodox teachings on gender roles and homosexuality is reframed not through deep theological engagement, but through a kind of interior surrender she equates with sanctity. At one point, she admits that her life would be “simpler” if she just accepted these teachings, and so she does — not because of intellectual conviction, but because resistance felt spiritually inconvenient. These moments risk reducing profound moral tensions into spiritual compliance.
This is compounded by a subtle but persistent tone of martyrdom: she casts her relinquishment of previous values (feminism, questioning, critique) not as ethical tension to be held, but as victory in spiritual warfare. The conversion arc becomes not one of theological wrestling, but of emotional stabilization. And because of this, the book will likely resonate more with already-convinced Christians than with seekers from other traditions.
It’s also worth noting that while the book frames itself as a conversion from “the occult,” her family background is Evangelical, her brother is religious, and her sister is an Orthodox nun. The worldview she converts into is already, in some sense, native to her — and the Protestant moral imagination (particularly around sin, obedience, and scripture) lingers heavily throughout the text, even as she formally leaves that tradition.
All in all, the book feels as though it was written too early, and too quickly — before the initial fire of conversion had been tempered by the slow, disorienting work of real transformation. Her sincerity is palpable. Her story is real. But You Are Mine is unlikely to convince critical thinkers or spiritually plural readers of Orthodoxy’s beauty. It may comfort those already aligned with the Church, but for those still searching, it risks reinforcing the idea that faith demands not engagement, but silence.