The Heel Theory

A flat foot on a soft surface leaves no mark.

No sound.
No memory.

It adapts.
It absorbs.
It passes through the world without interrupting it.

And for a long time, I did too.

There’s nothing wrong with living life in comfort.
I do it most of the time.

Soft fabrics.
Flat soles.
Outfits that ask nothing from me.

But when something matters—
when I need to remember that
I matter—
I reach for the heels.

Sometimes the moment is obvious—
a meeting, a boardroom, a risk.

Sometimes it’s quieter than that.
A Tuesday. A mood.
The simple fact that I want to stay visible to myself today.

I choose the heels because I want to feel the day.
Not just pass through it.

Not because they’re tall.
Or elegant.
Or meant to be noticed.

Certainly not because they’re easy.
But then again,
neither am I.

Heels don’t pretend to be comfortable.
And that’s why I trust them.

They demand something from you—
balance, patience, resolve—
and give you something back.
Presence. Precision. Power.

Because if I can wake up and choose discomfort,
if I can make that choice before the world even asks anything of me,
then I’ve already won something back.

Not control.
Not ease.
But the quiet certainty that I can meet discomfort on my own terms.

A quiet signal to myself:
I can choose the hard thing,
and still hold my shape.

The City wasn’t built for heels.
And the world wasn’t built for women who wear them.

The streets punish every step.
Grates catch.
Cobblestones bruise.
Escalators threaten to swallow them whole.

But the sound of a stiletto doesn’t blend in.
It wasn’t designed to.

It echoes in places that weren’t built for you,
in corridors that expect you to lower your voice,
in rooms that assume you’ll shrink.

But you don’t.

You walk in with intent.
With rhythm.
With heels that mark presence the moment they hit the floor.

Because reclaiming space isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s precise.
Sometimes it’s poised.
Sometimes it’s red lacquer cutting across grey tiles.

And you’re not asking for space.
You’re claiming it—gracefully.

The shoes aren’t the obstacle.
They’re the reminder.

That choosing discomfort teaches you how to keep going—
in rooms, in systems, in life.

And for me, it’s literal.
Red soles. Uneven streets. No shortcuts.

Just the decision to move forward,
deliberately,
in heels that never ask for permission.