Weddings. Birthday parties. A meal out. The theatre. However different the occasion, my outfit is nearly always the same: trousers and a top. Not because it’s what I want to wear, but because it’s what my feet allow.
I don’t think anyone talks about this enough, so I’m going to.
Ankle Boots Are My Friend, and My Limit
Ankle boots have genuinely been my friend through everything my feet and joints have put me through. They cover my ankles, they offer real support, and they let me get through a day, or an evening, without the pain that a lesser shoe would bring. I’m grateful for them, truly.
But without a heel, they don’t really go with a dress or a skirt. And that’s where the trousers come in, every single time, for every single occasion, regardless of how special it is or how much I might have loved to wear something else.
It Still Stings, and I’ve Stopped Pretending It Doesn’t
I know how this is supposed to sound. At my age, I shouldn’t be overly concerned about what others think. I know that. I believe it, mostly. And yet, if I’m honest, it still stings a bit. There’s a particular kind of quiet disappointment in getting ready for something you’ve looked forward to, and reaching for the same safe, sensible outfit you always reach for, because the alternative simply isn’t available to you the way it is for everyone else getting ready in the next room.
It’s not really about the dress. It’s about the version of the evening where I didn’t have to think about my feet at all.
I suppose we were all good-looking and glamorous back in the day. But knowing that doesn’t really help. Understanding exactly why something’s harder to accept doesn’t make the accepting itself any easier — it just means you can explain your own feelings to yourself a bit more clearly while you’re still having them.
Wearing My Scars of Honour
I’ve become more self-conscious since my ankle replacements, too. I call them my scars of honour, because that’s genuinely how I’ve chosen to see them — proof of what my body has been through, and what it’s overcome. But choosing to see them that way doesn’t mean I’ve stopped noticing them, or stopped wondering, sometimes, what a stranger’s glance actually means when it lingers a moment too long on my feet.
Both things are true at once. I’m proud of what my feet have carried me through. And I’m still, on some days, a little self-conscious about how they look while doing it. I don’t think that’s a contradiction. I think it’s just honest.
Why I’m Writing This Down
If you’ve ever stood in front of a wardrobe full of things you can’t wear anymore, not because they’ve gone out of fashion, but because your feet have simply changed what’s possible, I want you to know you’re not being vain, and you’re not overreacting. Clothing isn’t just fabric. It’s how we show up in the world, how we mark an occasion, sometimes how we feel like ourselves. Losing some of that choice is a genuine loss, even when the reason behind it is something you’re managing well, and even when you know, rationally, that comfort and mobility matter far more than a heel height.
You’re allowed to feel both grateful for the shoes that let you keep moving, and a little wistful for the ones you can’t wear anymore. I feel both, most days. I suspect I always will.