There’s a pond in the woods not far from here, quiet and still. If you look at it, really look, you’ll see the trees reflected in its glassy surface—tall, perfect, symmetrical. But that reflection isn’t the forest. It’s just an image. The forest is alive, rooted, messy, blooming and breaking in places you can’t always see.
That’s what this moment feels like.
This isn’t just a magazine relaunch. It’s a return to my own forest floor.
Years ago, when I relaunched South Atlanta Magazine, I was chasing something—money, reputation, a sense of worth I thought I had to earn. I told myself I was building a brand. I thought visibility meant value. I thought being seen meant being enough.
But what I’ve learned since then is this: visibility is not the same as purpose. Validation is not the same as love. Applause isn’t the same as alignment.
This second relaunch—the return of We Are Clayton Magazine—is different. It isn’t for optics. It isn’t about performance. It’s not even about branding. This is a resurrection.
We Are Clayton was never just a business plan. It was a knowing. A sacred one. On the outside, it may have looked like a clever idea, a way to support my family or show up in my community. But deep down, it came from my soul before I even had the language to name it.
When I first created the magazine, I didn’t realize how much of my heart I had placed in those pages. And when things didn’t go “according to plan”—when the money didn’t flow, when the world didn’t clap—I felt crushed. I felt ashamed, like I had failed. Not just as a businesswoman, but as a dreamer.
At the same time, my whole world was shifting. I was quietly walking away from Christianity—not from faith, not from the sacred, but from a structure that had once defined me. I didn’t know who I was without it. I didn’t know if I was allowed to exist outside of it.
Everything fell at once. The dream, the belief system, the image of who I thought I was supposed to be. And so I paused. I pulled away. I let it all go.
And in that stillness, I grieved. I doubted. I drank. I cried. I stopped pretending.
But you know what stayed? Love. Truth. And roots.
I found myself again—not all at once, but piece by piece, in the everyday moments of life. In silence. In laughter. In long walks. In community. In the ache of becoming.
And when I thought about this magazine—this love letter to Clayton County—I realized it had never left me. It had just been waiting for me to return with my whole self, not just the version I thought would be accepted.
So here I am. Not with a perfect strategy. Not with all the answers. But with truth in my hands and purpose in my chest.
We Are Clayton is not just a magazine.
It is a witness. A healer. A quiet rebellion.
It is for anyone who has ever had to rebuild themselves after losing what they thought was everything.
It is for anyone who had to unlearn to come home to themselves.
It is for anyone who knows that what’s reflected on the surface will never be the full story.
This isn’t a restart.
This is a resurrection.
To those who have been waiting, watching, or wondering—thank you.
To those just discovering this space—welcome.
And to those walking through your own deconstruction, your own forest of loss and becoming—I see you. I honor you. I’m with you.
We are rooted.
We are resilient.
We are becoming.
I am Gerrian.
I am We Are Clayton Magazine.
Therefore…I Am is We are Clayton.
