Orthotics Girl in a High Heel World
By Ally Okun
April 15, 2026
April 15, 2026
The boots caught my eye from across the store – white with a chunky three-inch heel, they were the shoes of my dreams. Some mysterious force drew my gaze to them, a neon sign flashing above them in my mind reading YOU COULD BE THIS COOL! I beelined toward them, past the racks of Hawaiian shirts and crocheted bralettes flanking me on either side. Hollywood Vintage was more a maze than a typical thrift store. Various vendors offering clothing in different aesthetics – goth to twee to, I don’t know, fairycore or whatever is in right now – packed their wares into little squares of the wide-open floor plan. It was easy to get lost in here, easy to miss little treasures tucked into corners.
But not these boots. No, they were destined for me; I was sure of it.
I reached the glass shelf they rested upon above a rack of denim shirts, ready to throw elbows for them if needed. Thankfully, this corner of the shop was deserted, free of potential competitors. I picked up one boot and then the other, feeling their light weight in my hands. Looked inside for a tag; found it. White chunky disco boots, it read. Size 8. $18.
I couldn’t remember the last time I found a pair of shoes that cost less than what I made in an hour (which wasn’t much). And did I not wear a size eight? These boots really were meant for me. I turned each one over in my hands, examining them for flaws. One of the boot’s squared off toes had a black scuff across the white pleather. That must be why they were such an affordable price. Maybe I could conceal the scuff with white nail polish or something.
“Find anything?” My friend, Kate, who I had been wandering through the afternoon with, appeared on the other side of the denim rack.
I held up the boots so she could see them. “Aren’t they so cute?”
“Ooh, nice,” she said. “Do they fit?”
“I haven’t tried them on yet, but they’re my size!” I bent down to untie my Dr. Scholls brand sneakers. There was nowhere to sit in the store, so I balanced on one foot as I crammed my socked feet into the boots. The right foot slid in with ease, and the zipper just managed to close over my calf. The right foot, though, was the easy one.
I winced slightly as I worked my left foot into the scuffed boot. Pain lit up the joint connecting my big toe to the rest of my foot, but it was in, and I managed to get the zipper up. I straightened up and took a few tentative steps, a newborn fawn learning to walk.
“Are they comfy?” Kate asked, looking over from the rack of flannels she was flipping through.
“Not too bad,” I lied. “And they’re only eighteen bucks!”
Stabs of pain continued to shoot through my left foot as I walked in a circle around the back corner of the store. I bent down again to remove them, struggling to retie my sneakers without having to take a seat on the matted gray carpet. Straightening up, I carried the white boots in hand as Kate and I continued browsing.
The boots perfectly fit the groovy aesthetic I aspired to have. In my mind, I was very cool, very hip, and very stylish. Everything I wore was either vintage from the ‘70s, or inspired by the era of disco. Every time I left the house, people stopped to admire my cohesive look. Appearing perfectly put together on the outside conveyed an image of someone whose life was perfectly put together.
In reality, I worked from home, which was where I generally preferred to spend my time anyway. Accordingly, my wardrobe consisted mostly of oversized T-shirts and pants with elastic waistbands. And my life was far from perfectly put together. There were many aspects of it – my relationship with my boyfriend, Cy, my friendship with Kate that was going on a decade – that were undeniably good. However, there were also aspects of it – my failure to use my expensive master’s degree, the friend group that had ghosted me – that brought me shame, made me feel inadequate compared to my peers who seemed shiny, poised, and accomplished on the outside. If I could dress well, maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad about my career stagnation. Maybe that friend group would realize I was cooler than they’d thought, or at least feel bad for rejecting me.
As Kate and I continued exploring the shop, my enthusiasm for the boots began to wane, and doubt started to creep in. They were chic and reasonably priced, but were they really me? Where would I even wear them? On the rare occasions I did leave the house, there was usually some walking involved. I had major driving anxiety (the existential kind that caused visions of my life ending in a fiery crash to flash before my eyes), and preferred to walk or take public transit whenever possible. I imagined myself wearing the boots at the orientation for the writing program I was to begin in the fall. I’d give off a very stylish first impression as I met everyone. Not only is she a very talented writer with a promising future, they’d think, but she’s also a disco queen! Of course, I’d wear my sneakers to walk to the orientation location and change into the boots before ducking inside. Would people be able to smell my sneakers through my tote bag?
“Look what I found,” Kate said, appearing once more beside me. She held up a mug with CONNECTICUT emblazoned on it in a rainbow of colors. Our shared New England origins – her from Connecticut, me from Massachusetts – was one of the first points we bonded over nearly ten years ago.
“Oh my god, it’s perfect,” I said. “I don’t think I’m gonna get these, though.” I held up the boots.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I just don’t think I’d actually wear them,” I admitted. “Like, I want to be the kind of person who wears these, but realistically it’s just not gonna happen.”
“Fair,” said Kate. “I think I’m getting this, though.” She held up the Connecticut mug again.
“I think it was meant for you.”
As Kate paid for the mug at the front of the store, I performed the walk of shame to the back corner of the store, returning the boots to their rightful home so some groovy citizen of Portland who drove everywhere and didn’t have foot pain could stumble upon them with the same sense of serendipity I felt. I rejoined Kate and walked with her out of the store, bootless.
~~~
Not even a week later, I sat waiting in the podiatrist’s office. Dr. Hammond blew through the door with my X-rays in hand.
“Oh, boy, I was studying up on you yesterday, and I could not wait to discuss these X-rays with you!” he exclaimed. “I’m going to tell you all about this chronic condition you and I both have.”
Oh, joy. I settled in to listen to Dr. Hammond explain hallux rigidus (Latin for rigid big toe, which my three semesters of college Latin did not prepare me for), a condition affecting the joint connecting the big toe to the foot that, apparently, we both shared. If I had to be diagnosed with something chronic, at least it was by someone oozing with enthusiasm for his area of expertise.
The pain in my left foot started at least a few months prior – or was it a year? Perhaps I’d blocked it out in hopes that it would eventually disappear if only I ignored it. Instead, it got worse, even after I ditched the wedge-heeled Skechers that had instigated the pain. Enter the Dr. Scholls brand sneakers, which I was certain would be far more comfortable for my daily lunch-break walks. And they were. But what had once been an occasional afternoon of pain became a constant ache in my foot. On my walks, the pain would radiate throughout my foot until I was limping home. At night lying in bed, when the pain was harder to ignore, it would take my breath away and I’d have to actively focus on my breathing – in through the nose, out through the mouth – like a woman in labor.
Finally, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Like the responsible adult I was surely expected to be at twenty-eight years old, I booked both an X-ray and a podiatrist appointment. The X-ray confirmed that my foot wasn’t broken – hallelujah – but it did reveal a bone spur in the exact center of the pain, where my big toe met my foot. Cue me googling what the hell a bone spur was. Turns out, the bones in my feet were literally changing shape, growing a little spike like a fucking dinosaur or something.
In the office, Dr. Hammond explained to me how hallux rigidus was common, hereditary, and would only get worse with age.
“I’m sorry to tell you,” he said, “but it’s true. This is never going to go away. We’ll get you some orthotics today, but if you find they don’t help, you might need surgery in five, ten, twenty years’ time.” Fabulous.
The white boots flashed into my mind. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, I was right to leave them on the shelf. The boots symbolized who I wanted to be, but they didn’t match my reality. In truth, I was someone who needed to prioritize walking in comfort instead of looking stylish. Preventing surgery had to take precedence over the nebulous perception of others.
“I like your toenails, by the way!” Dr. Hammond cried as he examined my bare feet, my lime green pedicure flashing in the fluorescent office lights. “And your pants!” Said pants had a wavy pattern in shades of brown and cream – not genuine vintage, but groovy nonetheless. “You have a cool style, you’re a fun person.”
“Thanks.” I couldn’t help but smile. Maybe I could still show some parts of myself I wanted to display through my style, even though it wasn’t the idealized one of my dreams.
“This is Oregon, so your first hit of heroin is free,” Dr. Hammond said. “The orthotics I’ll give you today are free and should last you fifteen, twenty years, but you can see if your insurance covers custom orthotics and decide if you want to get those, too.” He reached over to open a cabinet, grabbing a pair of orthotics. Thick and rigid, they looked like the bottom half of a pair of insoles.
I thanked Dr. Hammond, sliding the orthotics into my Dr. Scholls shoes. At the reception desk, I received a printed handout on hallux rigidus. The receptionist informed me that my insurance covered 80% of the cost of custom orthotics. I decided to spring for them; surely it’d be worth every penny if it would prevent the need for surgery.
This condition was never going away; it was something I’d have to learn to manage. My calves would never again be graced with the slimming optical illusion of high heels, creating a sophisticated, stylish facade. As I strode out of the podiatrist’s office with my new orthotics in place, ready to walk on into the afternoon pain-free, I found I could live with that.
|
Ally Okun is a writer of nonfiction and fiction, and an Assistant Editor at Wallstrait. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Same Faces Collective, Wishbone Words, TrashLight Press, and elsewhere. When not writing or reading, she is probably knitting, sampling perfumes, or watching horror movies. Ally lives in Portland, Oregon with her partner and their spoiled tuxedo cat, where she is at work on her first novel.
Instagram: @ally.okun
|
|
Author’s Note:
This piece centers on a subject I keep returning to in my writing: the struggle for self-acceptance. Discovering my neurodivergence as an adult made me realize how hard I’ve tried to conform to an idealized version of who I thought I “should” be throughout my life. Learning who I really am underneath the mask of that persona is an ongoing process that manifests in all kinds of ways, down to what shoes I wear.