The Heel Theory

I’ve loved heels since I was a kid.

Not for how they looked on other people,
but for the sound they made.
That sharp, deliberate echo on hallway floors.

It sounded like power to me.
A rhythm that turned heads before a word was spoken.
I was mesmerised.

I’d wear my mum’s heels around the house.
My aunt’s too.
Shuffling across the floor, trying to replicate that confident click.
It didn’t matter that they didn’t fit.

I just needed to feel the sound beneath me.
There was something about it that completely held my attention.

As a teenager, I was rounder than I wanted to be.
Not in the self-deprecating way women sometimes say that,
but in the real, uncomfortable way that makes you avoid mirrors and pick angles.

But heels changed that.
They stretched me out.
Lifted me.
Made me feel like I could sculpt something out of myself.

The higher the heel, the better I felt.

When I started working office jobs, I bought more of them.

Nothing branded - just ordinary, wearable heels I could justify.
I didn’t care about labels.
But there was one exception.

Louboutins.

They weren’t just designer—
they were a fortune.
The kind of shoe you admired from a distance.

Not something you bought.
Not back then.

I had this photo saved on my old Facebook profile—
must’ve been about 15 years ago.

A light purple, suede pair.
I’d lifted the photo from somewhere on the internet and captioned it:
“The perfect shoe.”

I remember imagining how I’d feel if I ever wore them.
Powerful.
Confident.
Certain of myself.

It wasn’t just a post—
it was quiet vision boarding.
Not the influencer kind.
The internal kind.

I used to think buying a pair of Louboutins would mean I’d made it—
not because I could afford them,
but because I finally believed I belonged in them.

That I could step into something I’d only ever admired from a distance.
A future that felt too beautiful to belong to me.

Years went by.
I moved countries.
Changed careers.
Built the kind of life that girl dreamt of.

I lost the teenage weight.
Learned how to dress the body I’d once tried to hide.
Became—slowly, quietly—at ease in my own feminine shape.

But I still didn’t have the Louboutins.

And then I bought a pair.

Not the purple suede ones from that old Facebook post—
but a classic black patent.

It was like unlocking a door I’d been knocking on for over a decade.

There’s something surreal about getting the thing you always wanted—
not because someone gifted it to you,
not because it fell into your lap,
but because you reached a place where you could walk into the store and say:

“I’ll take them.”

It wasn’t just a purchase.
It was proof.

That I no longer needed to imagine the life I wanted—
I was ready to live it.

And then I didn’t stop.

Not because I was chasing status or building a collection—
but because something shifted.

It stopped being about a pair of shoes,
and started becoming a conversation with myself.

Every box felt like a reply.

A quiet confirmation that I wasn’t pretending anymore.
That this identity, this aesthetic, this presence—was mine.

Each box I opened felt like a little time-travel moment.
A loop between who I was then and who I’ve become.

The girl who posted a picture of heels she’d never touched?
She’s still here.

And she’s screaming with excitement every time I open a new box.

So am I.

Louboutins aren’t decoration to me.
They’re a mirror.
They reflect a version of me I had to fight to become.

One pair might have been a milestone.
But now, they’re part of my emotional architecture.

Every pair is a reminder that I didn’t just grow into the woman I wanted to be—
I dressed for her long before she arrived.

And she walks on red.