For years, I operated under the assumption that to dress well, I had to be uncomfortable. I love nipped-waist skirts, but I can’t stand how they dig in when I sit down—same for sleek dresses that require a treacherous maneuver to get on and off and tight, black jeans that leave deep tracks when I peel them off. And the shoes: ballet flats that pinch, knee-high suede boots that make me limp… Listen, I know comfortable shoes for women ostensibly exist, but those weren’t the ones I wanted to wear. In the words of Abba, pain was the name of the game to feel like who I wanted to be. Yet it’s so perverse that that’s what was required to participate in style. A few weeks ago, though, it stopped being my decision.
Life comes with addendums, and mine is a condition called hyperhidrosis. Basically, it means that when my feet aren’t housed in socks, they sweat nonstop—so slides, mules, and really any aesthetically-pleasing shoes are off the table. In the 9th grade, I committed to boots. At the time, I felt those were my fanciest closed-toe option, way more polished than sneakers. So I leaned into them, hard. That changed this year, when the medical establishment intervened once again: After eight months of chronic pain that felt like someone was always elbowing me in the lower back, my doctor limited my footwear options even further. I was to wear only sneakers with custom orthotics. Chic.
I’ve followed street style; I’ve seen the Bella Hadid meme; I know sneakers have been a “fashion” thing for a bit. Plus, they’re not only a huge part of culture, but also a booming business. They just never felt natural to me, or the femme-pretty clothing I leaned towards. Alas, I had doctor’s orders. It was basically like Jack and Rose, but me letting a pair of excruciating black velvet boots from Zara fall into the abyss.
What made matters worse was that my spinal doctor wasn’t recommending just any sneakers—I was to wear ones with built-up arch support and thick rubber siding to keep my feet and ankle stable. Clunkers. I went to a running shoe store in New York and left with a couple pairs that hurt to look at, but fit the bill. As I stood in front of my closet the next day and looked miserably at the sneakers, though, I realized: There had to be some sort of happy medium between giving up my personal style and wearing shoes that legitimately fit my needs.
I found that middle ground somewhat unexpectedly. I wore big-ass New Balance sneakers with a slinky merlot dress from & Other Stories. At first, it didn’t make sense to me—but as I sat there during my commute, looking down at my outfit, I came to the gradual realization that it wasn’t all bad. I could run away at any moment (even though I wouldn’t because: body crumbling), whether it was after a woman with fantastic hair or to collect voter signatures. It felt very Working Girl meets West Wing season one. More importantly, my feet weren’t screaming in discomfort. Though my shoes and outfit felt at odds in the beginning, together they spelled out a message: I was refusing to put myself in pain to look presentable. I would embrace comfort, keep dressing entirely the same, and hold onto who I wanted to be.
I’ve come to love passing someone wearing a chic dress or a pair of well-cut pants with big, chunky sneakers—and it doesn’t feel like they’re going to swap them with heels as soon as they get to their destination. They’re having it all, goddammit, and I am, too.
