I’ll be honest: these last two weeks have been a real roller-coaster ride of frustration, success, self-loathing (I’ll own up), fear, laughter and shame. As I try to understand my place in this industry, I can’t help but compare myself to others who have a thigh gap (which, for whatever reason seems to be connected with self-worth), a commanding voice and beauty that they’re unafraid to flaunt. In my race towards perfection (whatever that means) this question sort of slapped me across the face.

I stopped and looked around my apartment. Right now my home has become more of a pit stop than 
“a home” in the truest sense of the word. A home, in my opinion, should be a place where you experience a deep sense of love and belonging. Where you can curl up in your favourite chair, perhaps with your pet, and relax. When I enter my home, all that I ever experience is a deep sense of anxiety. My eyes go to the overflowing garbage bin, the coats and shoes kicked off haphazardly in our entryway and living room, the dirty mirrors and cluttered desks, the stained coffee table and DVD’s that have not quite made the oh so arduous trip back to their cases.

This question made me think of the things which define us, whether it’s fair or not: our home and our appearance. Somehow I have neglected to love and appreciate both of these things. Although I am heavy into fitness, it wasn’t until I watched this interview with plus-sized model Robyn Lawley that I realized that I have never truly looked in the mirror and said “I love my body.” Likewise, when I look around my home I can only acknowledge my own laziness.

With so much emphasis on failure, insecurity and imperfection, it’s no wonder that I’ve had some what of an identity crisis. Who am I? What three objects define me? The answer came quickly to mind… although only two out of the three objects actually make an appearance in my home.

1. My Stuffed Bear Marthe (named after the grandmother that I never met)

I like to refer to Marthe as my “welcome to life” present. She was my very first stuffed animal and she has been my constant companion since I was an infant. As a child she trailed behind me, wherever I went, in my little red wagon; as a teenager she sat patiently waiting on my bed for those times when I needed something soft and fluffy to hug and soak up my tears; as a university student she balanced on my bookshelf (occasionally joining me in bed) and served to remind me of the many people who loved and missed me back home.

Although Marthe followed me across the country, from New Brunswick to BC, her presence in my home has been reduced to a flattened memory that sits on top of a cluttered dresser drawer of receipts and hair elastics.

2. My Anne of Green Gables Collection

Although the iconic character of Anne Shirley had a huge impact on me as a child (it is one of the only books that I have read more than once… last count I’ve read the first book five times), the books remain at my mother’s home in Nova Scotia.

Growing up, I greatly admired Anne’s imagination, spunk, and unapologetic view of the world. She was larger than life. She simply didn’t fit in, and I loved her for that. As a fictional character, she has always been my greatest role model. She embodied all of those qualities that I desperately wanted to possess myself: boldness, passion, and a fiery temper when it came to defending her identity, beliefs, and loved ones. Alas! (I had to throw that in) Somewhere along the line I traded in Anne, her haunted wood and lake of shining waters for a more serious view of the world. The imaginative play that came so easily to me as a child… traded in for my books about happiness and spontaneity – as if that were something you could forget how to do.

3. The Painted Landscape Created by my Aunt

Hanging on the wall by my kitchen is a painting of a bridge done by my beautiful Aunt Ginette. More than any memory, her’s will always shine the brightest for me. I remember sitting with my uncle in their living room, the night after her funeral. Although I had known her my entire life, I never truly appreciated how much she loved to create. I still remember my uncle’s thoughtful smile as he told me how she would flip through art books with such dedication, curiosity and commitment. My aunt loved a challenge. One skill, one accomplishment, would be added on top of another as she taught herself to paint, carve the most beautiful sculptures out of wood, knit and crochet scarves and sweaters, and string together the most beautiful pieces of jewellery.

This painting reminds me of how much there is to life. This painting reminds me of the depth that exists in every person I meet, and that every person has an amazing story to tell. Above all, her painting reminds me to love, and to ask questions and to involve myself in the world. I loved her so much, and the loss of her presence in my life has defined me more than anything else.

…

My throat has tightened and my cheeks have become moist as I ponder hers and every other memory that I believe encapsulates me. Perhaps it’s time to stop hiding my playlist and those things which make me different (maybe even strange), and start interacting with the world in a way that is uniquely me. Perhaps it is time to finally decorate and make a mark in this world.

Perhaps it is time to simplify. Perhaps it is time to make an impact. Perhaps it is time to be Christine… with an e.