Five Years In The Mirror

The Unexpected Path from Anonymity to Self-Expression

In high school, I did my best to skip photo day. I didn't want any record of me or my appearance. I hated having my photo taken. I looked like a freckled rodent in a Catholic school uniform, knee socks et all. There are therefore very few photos of me from age 10 which carried through 25. Almost none.

By the time my teen years had ended, I was disappointed to find out that the freckles I thought were a childhood fad were going to stay, remaining on my face as ugly blotches. I would never have perfect skin. I would never be Claire Forlani. I spent my twenties flat-ironing all the curls out of my hair, trying desperately to have bangs, and making my hair as brown as possible—red was entirely too embarrassing. Moreover, I wasn't red enough to be one way or the other. My hair would turn bright red in the summer and a warm auburn in the winter. My coloring felt juvenile.

It wasn't until my mid thirties that I became comfortable in front of the camera. In the winter of 2019, I reskinned my entire life and thought, "What if I just posted a photo of myself every day for a year and talked about the things I loved?" It was a dark and emotionally messy year, and I felt like it needed to be documented. Consistency was everything. There wasn't much quality. Much of what I posted (and honestly, currently post) was "cringe." What drove me wasn't a quest for attention or narcissism; it was simply a way to occupy myself amid the inner turmoil of a life growing increasingly nuanced.

But then a remarkable thing happened: people started following me, I met a slew of new people and I thought it was all quite amusing. Funny, even. The photos were static, just me staring straight into the camera from the west-facing window of my small midtown apartment. I remember showing an ex-boyfriend who was an ad exec, and he said, "This is all organic? You didn't buy ANY of these followers? It's amazing." But the thing is, I didn't really know what I was doing other than showing up. That's the only way I've ever known to get anything done—I always have to see things through because, I guess, you never know when lightning might strike.

That same year, I found myself in LA because it was all-consuming in my thoughts, a place that seemed to fit naturally within my regional aspirations. Moving here wasn't about "making it" or seeking fame; I never harbored such ambitions. It simply felt eclectic and refreshingly different from Toronto. My time in LA has been a series of surreal episodes, the kind people dream of experiencing in this city. I've had a remarkably privileged and independent view of LA, devoid of any external boosts like a "sugar daddy" — just plain luck. But it hasn't been all smooth sailing; there have been setbacks. Moments of loneliness, struggles to connect, chaotic romantic disappointments, the sudden loss of a dear friend, and even being shot in the face at close range by pellet guns have punctuated this journey.

At this point, being in front of a camera is a reflex and, on some days, I admit, mild torture. It's not always fun being seen, especially when I feel so irrelevant on my own island. I feel lucky all the same, and one day, I hope to feel like I know what I'm doing and that whatever that is, it will have nothing to do with my looks.