Goodbye, Old Shoes
I had to throw away my old shoes this past weekend. They were five or six years old and had fallen apart so completely that not even super glue kept them wearable. So I tossed them in the kitchen trash with an utter lack of ceremony, pretending it didn't hurt my heart to do it.
I can afford new shoes, luckily, so that isn't the issue. But as is true for many disabled people, properly fitting shoes are part of what keeps me mobile — and by "properly fitting" I mean broken in and conformed to my foot. I wear barefoot shoes so that what little proprioception I still have gets used. New shoes with hard, stiff soles are hazardous to me and to everyone around me.
And they were. I dropped a huge jug of water. A bowl of dog food. I tripped on a new rug and scared my darling little puppy, clomping around in the monstrosities that are my new shoes. Oh, they're gorgeous and waterproof and warm, and eventually they will fit just like the old ones did, I fervently hope. Alas, I have to get through the days and weeks that will take without badly injuring myself or anyone else.
As I write this, I can already picture the kind-hearted folks who will send me links to their favorite soft shoes, the ones they swear will solve my problem once and for all. I'll check them out — I never turn down a shoe recommendation — but in a larger sense, this dilemma of mine mirrors the work I do every day.
For me, this week, it's the shoes. Some part of me believes that if I found the exact right brand, the ones that come already broken in, I could skip right over the days or weeks or months of having to face the reality of life with a disability. The other parts of me know that's a fantasy. We all have our own shoe dilemma: the parts of our lives we just do not want to deal with, emotionally, every single day.
My clients come to therapy and present me with their personal shoe dilemmas, hoping I'll hand them the equivalent of a link to the perfect brand. Of course I can't, any more than I can fast-forward myself to the day these new shoes feel like part of my body and I can go back to ignoring my mobility struggles. What I can do is sit beside them and hold space for the grief or sorrow or confusion or frustration as they figure out how to make the solutions they choose "fit." That is a privilege of which I will never tire.
Mel Whalen, PhD, LP, is a Deaf licensed clinical psychologist and the founder and clinical director of Forest Ferns Counseling, a group practice serving clients in Michigan, Texas, and New York.
