I was twenty three when I bought my first real pair of heels. Not the flimsy plastic kind from a department store sale rack but proper leather pumps with a modest two inch heel and a pointed toe that made my feet look like they belonged to someone who knew what she was doing. I paid for them with three weeks of babysitting money and wore them to my cousin’s wedding even though my mother warned me I’d regret it by midnight.
She was half right. My feet ached. But I didn’t regret a single step.
People often assume that wearing heels is about vanity or performance. That it’s an attempt to appear taller more polished or somehow more desirable. But for me it’s never been about how I look to others. It’s about how I feel in my own skin. There’s something about the way heels shift your posture your stride your center of gravity that makes you walk with intention. You can’t shuffle in heels. You can’t slouch. You have to move through the world like you mean it.
Over the years my relationship with heels has evolved. In my late twenties I wore sky high stilettos to job interviews because I thought they made me look authoritative. (They didn’t. They made me look nervous and slightly unsteady.) In my thirties after my son was born I swapped them for ballet flats and sneakers convinced that practicality was the only sensible choice for a working mom. And for a while it was.
But then came a Tuesday morning last spring. I was rushing to drop my daughter at school before heading to a client meeting. I’d thrown on dark jeans a crisp white blouse and without thinking reached for a pair of low block heels I hadn’t worn in over a year. As I walked her to the classroom door she looked up and said “Mommy you sound different.” I asked what she meant. She smiled and said “Your shoes go click clack like you’re in a movie.”
That moment stayed with me. It wasn’t about looking like a movie star. It was about sounding like myself again.
I’m not saying everyone should wear heels. Far from it. Comfort is personal and dignity doesn’t come from footwear. But I am saying this: if you choose to wear heels don’t apologize for it. Don’t mutter “sorry” when you click across a quiet office floor. Don’t tuck your feet under the table during lunch because you’re embarrassed they’re not flats. Your choice is valid whether it’s made for joy confidence nostalgia or simply because you like the way they make your legs look in that one pair of trousers.
Here’s what I’ve learned after two decades of wearing heels in the real world:
First invest in fit not fashion. A beautiful shoe that pinches is just a torture device with sequins. I now get my heels professionally stretched if needed and always break them in at home with thick socks before wearing them out.
Second embrace lower heels. You don’t need four inches to feel powerful. A sturdy 1.5 to 2.5 inch block or kitten heel offers elegance without agony—especially if you’re on your feet all day.
Third match your shoes to your life not your fantasy. I used to buy dramatic heels hoping they’d transform me into someone bolder. Now I buy shoes that support the woman I already am—whether that’s a teacher standing for six hours a day or a friend walking through autumn leaves on a weekend coffee date.
And finally remember that walking in heels is a skill. It takes practice balance and patience. No one is born knowing how to glide in stilettos. We learn by wobbling by tripping by laughing at ourselves. And that’s okay.
Last week I wore my favorite burgundy loafers with a slight heel to the grocery store. An older woman smiled as we passed in the produce aisle and said “I love your shoes. They remind me of my younger self.” I told her “You’re still her. Just with better judgment about arch support.”
She laughed. I laughed. And for a moment we both stood a little taller.
Heels aren’t about perfection. They’re about presence. About showing up exactly as you are—with a little extra click in your step and zero apologies in your stride.
So if you love them wear them. Not for anyone else. For you.
— Sarah
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