It’s rush hour in downtown Toronto one cold winter morning in 2014. With my headphones on and my eyes cast steadily downwards, I step onto the streetcar and scan for an ever-elusive handhold. Someone steps down hard on my right foot; no apology is offered. Another guy sideswipes me in the face with his backpack. My palms begin to sweat; I imagine shoving both of them down the steps onto the icy sidewalk below.
These early morning thoughts of cathartic violence shock me. I realize something has to change.
No major life decision is ever all about one thing—it’s the accumulation of multiple things. So, no, it wasn’t just the angry TTC-commuter fantasies that convinced me to quit my coveted, hard-earned, big-city job as a fashion editor and hightail it to a tiny island community off the west coast full of farmers, artisans and eccentrics. But my newly developed reaction to those claustrophobic commutes did send up a big ol’ red flag that how I was living simply wasn’t working for me anymore. And given how long I’d dreamed of being exactly where I was, that wasn’t a decision that came lightly.
My goal of working in the fashion media industry has been at the heart of every decision I’ve made for the past 12 years. It may seem like an unexpected life vision for a diehard tomboy who grew up climbing cedar trees and feeding farm animals on Salt Spring Island, B.C., but I knew halfway through my first university degree that international development was not for me.
After a year of working in various jobs across Europe (Torture-museum ticket girl! Professional Guinness pourer! Cow-manure shoveler!), I came home and landed a gig proofreading the classified section of my local newspaper, the Gulf Islands Driftwood.
Thanks to the rural setting of my hometown (and outstanding student loans), my road to becoming a fashion editor didn’t begin with the usual unpaid internship at Flare or Elle Canada. Instead, I had to make use of the local resources that were available to me. I asked a retired fashion-photographer neighbour to teach me about lighting and composition; I used my friends as models and banged off roll after roll of film (yes, film; I’m old, OK?) of outfits I’d styled.
One of the many “fashion” photo shoots I directed in my backyard as a teenager.
I pored over magazines, ripping out articles I admired and mastheads stacked with people I admired even more. I had a Globe and Mail interview with Ceri Marsh — who grew up just down the road from me and was then the editor-in-chief of FASHION Magazine — pinned to the corkboard in my bedroom.
At work, I pitched a series of articles and original photos highlighting fashion on the island, which went on to win a provincial award and was instrumental in me getting a scholarship to journalism school in Halifax, N.S. When I met my new classmates and discovered that they were just as determined as I was, I knew I’d not only found my vocation—I’d found my people (and later even went onto marry one of them).
Hey, I went to j-school. I was interested in more than just the clothes. But I am quite fond of words about clothes, too.
I graduated at the top of my class, won another provincial award and spent the next year applying for every editing job I could find in Toronto. If I wanted to be a fashion journalist, Toronto was where I had to go. I eventually caught a break when a friend, who was working as a copy editor at one of the country’s most respected lifestyle magazines, told me there was a mat-leave contract up for grabs in the fashion department and that he’d put in a good word for me.
It was late November 2008 when I got the invitation to come in for an interview. My mum and I were in England spending time with my aunt, who was in the final stages of terminal stomach cancer. In the midst of family trauma, we managed to change my flight to an earlier date and added a two-day stopover in Toronto on the way back to B.C. I had my job interview wearing clothes that were meant for a funeral and a black sequin satchel that I’d frantically bought at Heathrow so I could carry my resume and clippings in something other than a suitcase.
Two weeks later, I was offered the job. Two weeks after that, I moved to Toronto and, just like that, became a fashion editor.
Getting ready for my first fashion-week party with my first pair of heels, borrowed that day from the magazine’s fashion closet.
So, after hustling to get to this place, this position and this life, how is that after nearly seven years, I find myself back on the island where I was born, peering out at a rain-soaked harbour from my newly minted home office, surrounded by apple trees and the high-pitched calls of hunting eagles?
Waiting for the bus/subway/streetcar to take me to my second season at Toronto Fashion Week. This was when I still smiled at the other passengers.
The short answer is that I didn’t want to be that angry-eyed commuter giving anyone who touched me that death stare. But the full story—just like with any major life decision—is much more complicated than that.
Salt Spring Island on my first visit back home after moving to Toronto.
Next week: On learning how to be an actual fashion editor and discovering the joys of stress-related breakouts, full-body hives and infertility.
Emma Yardley is a freelance lifestyle editor and writer who has written for The Toronto Star, The Kit, Metro, 24 Hours, Huffington Post, StyleList Canada, iVillage and a bunch more. She recently moved into her grandmother’s ramshackle seaside cottage on Salt Spring Island with her patient husband and an unusually large collection of brown leather boots. Find her on Twitter, Instagram, Vine, Facebook and Pinterest at @emmajmyardley.
Follow Us On Instagram
