Letter from the Editor

For a year or so I’ve been in a cocoon, waiting for the moment I felt allowed to take up the space I did when I was younger. For the moment I could stretch, and bend, and thrash my limbs to music that was so loud I couldn't see. I've muttered apologies like prayers, asking permission for things that were already mine. I've felt guilty for loving and being loved, and I've shrunk down into myself because I was tired of feeling too big for my body. But it's all been for the better, a lesson in each half written song and tear soaked pillowcase. Deep down I always knew I could come back, using this space like the diary it was when I was seventeen. The only thing holding me back is this deep-rooted fear of rejection, something I’ve held too closely for far too long. 

The first lockdown hit and along with it came this sinking coldness to anything familiar, no more photos or music or writing. I didn't want to try and make things feel how they used to, knowing they would never be the same. So I effectively quit the life I was living, feeling tiny deaths over and over until I couldn't recognize anything behind me. I like to think that I'm better, just as much as I like to think that nothing has changed. I'm not saying I'm back, but I am saying I’m here, which for me feels like just as much as a triumph. I want to write, need to, really. I want to take photos and memorialize the moments as I'm in them instead of letting them slip away in my poor memory. So I hope you’re willing to listen and view and feel alongside me again. I’ve missed you, and I've missed this.