Mango trench
Almada Label top (similar)
Zara jeans (similar)
Jonak babies (similar)
Loewe tote
Celine sunglasses
Mejuri necklace (similar)
Linjer ring (c/o) (similar)
Modu Atelier earrings (c/o) (similar)
Location: The Great-West Life Building – Winnipeg, Manitoba
I am the woman of my dreams.
What a bizarre series of words to type all in a row, particularly knowing that I mean them. That it feels odd to say them doesn’t diminish their truth.
On Saturday, I spent some time flipping through old photo albums. I jokingly call myself an archivist, but I come from a long line of people who struggle to part with physical things for sentimental reasons, and I am one of them. I don’t hold onto everything, but it’s rare that I willingly part with old letters or photos. Every blurry snapshot I took on the budget camera my parents bought me for Christmas when I was fourteen is neatly catalogued in a series of albums, light leaks, double exposures and all. What surprises me, looking back at them, are all the photos I didn’t take, all the moments I remember so vividly but didn’t think to capture for posterity. It was a different time. On my baby-sitting money budget, developing pictures was expensive. I had to be judicious about the shots I chose to take.
In those albums, there’s a particular photo that always stands out to me. I’m fifteen, dressed up in an outfit comprised of all my favourite wardrobe staples at the time – a denim maxi skirt, navy bodysuit, iridescent magenta jean jacket and platform loafers. My make-up is on point, particularly since I can barely wield an eyelash curler at this age. I am the images of the 2000s teenager in pale lilac eyeshadow, shimmery lip gloss and just a hint of blush, no doubt borrowed from my mom. I’ve even, somehow, managed to tame my natural curls for the occasion, which is a gala dinner ahead of an “international” gymnastics competition I’m set to participate in over the weekend. (I’m obliged to put quotations around the word international because the Hungarian team, the only visitors from outside the country, missed their connecting flight. They didn’t make it to the event.)
I look cute in that picture. And stylish. But I also look uncomfortable. My smile is, at best, tentative. My body turns away from the camera, although the shot was taken from dead on. When Mom pushed down on the shutter, I was as young and as beautiful as I ever would be (because that’s exactly what we all are, in every moment, if you think about it.) It’s clear that’s not how I felt, though.
There are so many reasons for that, none of which are the point of what I’m trying to say. The point is, that girl wanted to be someone else. She wanted to pass through this awkward phase of her life quickly and grow up, already. She wanted to be an adult woman, decisive and sure of herself and in full control of her wardrobe. Her dreams, which she kept to herself knowing they would seem unambitious to some, included walking into rooms full of strangers with confidence, being able to afford a flat iron that actually worked and seeing a picture of herself, just once, where she actually liked how she looked.
They were unambitious dreams, but they mattered deeply to her. She lived in a small city, and her range of life experiences was narrow. She didn’t yet feel comfortable asking for much for herself. Just a little bit of happiness, a little bit of self-confidence and a few fancy handbags, if she was really lucky, would be enough.
After putting that picture away yesterday, I found myself sitting in front of the mirror in my office, snapping iPhone photos of my Saturday outfit, as I do most weeks. It was a hot, humid day. My natural curls, somewhat loosened with time, were out in full force, expanding as the temperature rose. Frizz game strong, I’d already joked earlier in the day, because it was, and what is there to do but laugh? Life is short, my hair is wild and I accept both of these things as facts over which I have limited control. My outfit was representative of what I feel most comfortable in now – a simple black and white look featuring a linen shirt and my favourite Bottega-inspired mules.
I tilted my head and pressed down on the red button for multiple shots. The woman looking back at me out of them doesn’t flinch or back away from the camera. She faces it, poses for it, doesn’t hesitate to allow it to see her. It was in looking at her, thinking of the fifteen-year-old version of myself that I’d looked back on earlier in the day, that I realised I am everything I once hoped to be and so much more that I never imagined I could be. If, at seventeen, I was ambiguous, extraordinary, lovely, nervous and wild, these days I am expressive, confident, adventurous, reflective and curious. I am here and now, this and that, and I own it all.
Every day isn’t perfect, because that would be dull. I never expected that every day someday would be. I just hoped that someday I’d be able to face the imperfect days with more ease, less uncertainty. Having a really beautiful purse slung over my shoulder would, I thought, be a nice bonus. And here I am.
If you can, look back on some of your old photos. I have a feeling that you might just realise that you’ve grown into the woman of your dreams, too.
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