Beginnings have always felt like endings to me. I have always felt the need to acknowledge what has passed when introducing myself anew. I cannot allow the past to rest where it belongs. I have seen starting afresh as failure, as an admission that what you had hoped for never came to fruition.
But I am wrong. There has always been a fear of beginning and so I ruminate upon what has been let go or lost, what has been replaced. Here, I will try not to be so afraid.
My name is Kristiana Reed. I am twenty seven years old. I am bisexual. I am a poet. A writer. A teacher. And in recent years, I have had the honour of working as an editor and a proofreader in a freelance capacity.
This website and blog, built with Wix templates and hours of scrutiny, is a beginning which does not replace what I have already achieved. It is a beginning which rests on the foundations of a past and of writing and editing adventures which were not failures, but the reason I can begin once more.
I plunged myself into the online world of writing, publishing, and self-publishing, when I was unhappy, when I was craving something more than the life I already had. Between then and now, I have fallen out and into love with many things. I have fallen and fallen into despair too. Into depression, into trauma and into alcoholism. In doing so, I crashed unceremoniously into myself. And, finally, I am thankful for this.
I am thankful for how much endings need to sting in order for you to know it is time to clean old wounds. I am thankful for the call to advocate for myself and for what I do.
And while advocating for myself, I have learned how much I enjoy advocating for others. There is unadulterated joy in editing and sharing the work of others. There is fulfilment in creating things and helping see the visions of others through. There is peace in no longer listening to the harsh voice which always said there wasn’t a future in this.
Here, I will try not to be so afraid. I will write, read, and work with you. And I will remember that beginnings and endings are bookends; there is so much in between to be relished — to be cherished.