Journal · May 2026

6,000 km from home

This is the beginning of a personal series where I explore life, photography, and the quiet philosophies that emerge when you rebuild your world 6,000 km from home.

I moved to Toronto from France in July 2024. Some say I was fleeing my problems, some say I was being brave and adventurous. I never asked myself the question. Maybe that was already the answer.

I couldn't handle Paris anymore. I know, it sounds crazy. Still does. But I was an aspiring actress convinced my big break would happen in an English-speaking country. Canada wasn't my first choice. But for visa conveniences, it ended up being the only choice.

Toronto was foreign to me. No amount of research could've prepared me for the actual culture shock of stepping into a country 6,000 km from home, from my family, from any landmarks I'd ever known.

I'd been photographing for years. It was how I processed things, how I made sense of places. I thought maybe Toronto would give me something new to see.

Stepping out of the plane, I remember the excitement. My English was already pretty good as I was obsessed with American movies and was spending most of my time listening to interviews with actors I dreamed of becoming one day.

I remember the roads being different, the signs, the smells… Even the storefronts looked completely foreign. I stood on the sidewalk, unable to tell what any of them were selling.

I kept my camera in my bag. Nothing looked worth photographing yet.

I had booked an Airbnb in the West End for a month. A basement with the AC running 24/7. I remember sleeping with a scarf around my neck all night and still managed to catch a cold. I remember trying to light my cigarette on a patio and getting my first judgmental look, one I'd experience daily after that. I did the walk of shame to the sidewalk. Here, smoking was lonely, in Paris, it was how you met people.

The city felt empty that summer. Maybe I had no idea where to go. Maybe people don't actually drink every single day of the week.

I found a room in a house with two girls, a job at a restaurant and life got better.

Tip culture, as much as people complain about it, was life changing for me. In Paris, I could barely afford a glass of wine (and trust me, wine is cheap in Paris), was paid 10€ an hour and was working 10-hour shifts 4–5 times a week. Here I finally could afford restaurants, clothes, and weekend activities. I finally was in a good financial situation. Life felt more balanced.

October arrived.

I didn't grow up in a traditional family where holidays were celebrated. I was probably around 8 the last time I went trick-or-treating, wearing a witch's costume I didn't know I'd never wear again. Tradition seemed to matter here. The first time I laid eyes on a pumpkin here was on someone's front porch. And at 25, I was sculpting one for the very first time.

I remember rolling my eyes at making a gingerbread house, thinking it was a waste. I got caught up in it anyway.

The first time Toronto surprised me was when I walked with my camera and noticed how the afternoon light hit the red leaves, sharp shadows on brick houses, the way certain streets looked warmer than others. I was finally seeing something I wanted to photograph.

Paris made inspiration effortless. Every corner looked like a painting, every cafe invited eavesdropping, you could buy cinema tickets for 5€ to watch The Goodfellas in a quiet theatre where popcorn was banned.

Here, inspiration didn't come easy.

But Toronto had something Paris didn't: seasons that changed the light completely, trees that framed quiet residential streets, nature pressed up against brick and concrete. It wasn't grand architecture, but it was intimate in a way I'd never thought to photograph before.

And then winter came…

My first winter. Brutal.

It was still hard to make friends. Overall, life felt utterly, perfectly lonely. It hit me one morning. I was alone. The cold weather didn't cause this, it only helped me see what was really going on.

I had dealt with loneliness before, moving from a small city in the south of France to Paris. I thought I'd made peace with it. I didn't take into account the time difference, the language. Even though I understood everything, it still felt foreign. The calls with my mom became more neutral, not as intimate.

And in January, I was ready to move back. Not actually ready, but was heavily unhappy and thought the solution would be to move somewhere yet again, new.

Instead, I grabbed my camera one grey afternoon and walked the same streets where the autumn leaves had surprised me. The city looked harsher, quieter, but somehow more honest. I didn't feel brave or adventurous that day. I photographed windows with warm light inside, the shadows trees cast on houses, small moments that felt like they belonged to someone else's life. I was learning what Toronto looked like through glass.