H&M sweater
Pixie Market skirt (similar)
Ancient Greek sandals
Cuyana tote
Maris Pearl Co. earrings (c/o) (similar)
Location: Winnipeg Clinic – Winnipeg, Manitoba
We moved back to Winnipeg just a few months before I turned thirty-two. My thirty-second birthday was the first I’d celebrated in my hometown since my nineteenth. It was only four years ago, but in many ways, it feels like a lifetime has passed since that birthday, which we celebrated with virtually no furniture and, if I remember right, a very late night. A lot can happen in four years. I’ve changed jobs twice since then, published a second book, travelled to countless countries and lived through a global pandemic.
And yet, turning thirty-six last Friday didn’t feel all that much more notable than turning thirty-two did four years ago. Thirty-six isn’t exactly an exciting age. It’s not a milestone anyone celebrates with particular enthusiasm, just another year that will come and go at an alarming speed. But it’s still important, at least for me. We’re in the midst of beginning to pack for Paris. One morning, about a week ago now, I took out all of my designer boxes – Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Burberry, the list goes on – and stacked them on the floor of my office, where they would wait to be packed into my carry-on.
A few days later, I looked down at that pile and did a double take. All of those boxes. There was a version of me, once upon a time, who didn’t dare to dream she would ever own something in even one of them. And there they were, just sitting casually on my office floor, all mine.
All mine and now, I barely think about it. I’ve reached an age where I can take for granted that I’ve made dreams that once seemed impossible come true over and over again. In that respect, thirty-six is actually a pretty remarkable age. I live a life so good that, once upon a time, not so long ago, I didn’t believe it could be possible.
And so, to the girl I was, I have to say, it may have taken three and a half decades, but we made it.
