Letting Go of Stilettos: A Farewell to a Sacred Part of My Feminine Journey
by Dawn

There’s a quiet kind of grief we carry as women—those tender losses that don’t always have a name or earn sympathy cards but that still leave their mark on the soul. I felt one of those griefs recently, sitting on the bedroom floor with a couple of baskets full of shoes and a heart that was cracking open. One by one, I pulled my stilettos from the back of the closet—the ones I hadn’t worn in years but couldn’t bear to part with. And this time, I knew I wasn’t keeping them.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

A couple of years ago, I broke my ankle. It was a clean break, and I told myself it wasn’t forever. I would heal. I would strengthen. I would walk again—not just walk but strut full-on with my theme music blaring in my head. I would rise again, teetering beautifully in four-inch heels, reclaiming the quiet power I always felt when I wore them.

Because that’s what stilettos were for me: a ritual, a return to elegance, a way I embodied grace and sensuality in motion. They were more than shoes. They were part of my armor for over twenty years, signaling readiness for battle when I walked into tense environments.

But then came the second break—my big toe, fractured in a bicycle accident, of all things. At first, I minimized it. It’s just a sprained toe. But as the pain lingered, I knew it was much worse, and the Dr. confirmed a fracture. The truth began to whisper, then shout: You’re not going back. Not to the way things were. Stilettos could no longer be part of my arsenal.

And so, I stood in admiration of my rainbow-colored, organized selection for a good hour before pulling them off the shelf into baskets and finally sitting down with them on the closet floor. The brown crocodile pair that once made my legs look impossibly long. The classic black ones I wore to the ballet… Each one held a memory, a version of me I adored.

I wept—not just for the shoes, but for the seasons they represented. The twirling, the confidence, and the slow click of heels down a hall made me feel like a woman with purpose and poise. In those shoes, I never shuffled. I arrived.

Letting them go felt like a small death. But I honored it.

This is the thing about femininity: it’s not fixed. It evolves. It requires grieving what was so that we can fully welcome what is.

My femininity doesn’t live in four-inch heels anymore. Maybe it now lives in the way I stretch with intention every morning or in the soft leather flats that let me move freely and pain-free. Perhaps it’s in the quiet confidence I carry, even without the extra height. Maybe it’s in the tears I allowed myself to cry, fully present with my body, no longer pushing it to perform or prove anything.

There’s beauty in release. There’s power in letting go.

So if you, too, are grieving a part of your feminine experience—a dress that no longer fits, a hairstyle you had to cut off, a body that’s changed in ways you didn’t choose—I see you. I honor you. You’re not alone.

We are always allowed to re-imagine what our feminine expression looks like. And sometimes, the most sacred part of that journey is the goodbye.

With grace and gentleness,
Dawn
Femininity regained, one soulful surrender at a time