The Shoes I Couldn’t Throw Away

They sat in the corner of my closet, tucked behind a row of boots and dress shoes I never wore. Old sneakers, frayed at the edges, laces gray instead of white, and soles so thin they could barely hold together. Every time I tried to throw them out, I froze. My hand would linger on the torn fabric, my chest tightening as if I was about to give away more than just a pair of shoes.

I bought them during my first year of college. Back then, I didn’t care much about brands or styles. I just needed something comfortable to walk across campus and affordable enough to fit into my part-time job budget. But those sneakers ended up being with me for far more than just walks between classes. They carried me through all the moments that shaped who I became.

I wore them the night I failed my first big exam and wandered the city, trying to figure out how to tell my parents. I wore them during long nights at the library, when coffee and determination were the only things keeping me awake. They were on my feet when I met friends who would later feel like family, and they were there the day I stumbled nervously into my first job interview.

Every stain and scuff told a story. The splash of paint on the side came from the summer I worked as a helper for a friend’s art project. The small burn mark on the toe? From the bonfire we built at the lake one night, laughing until dawn as sparks drifted into the sky. Even the hole at the bottom carried meaning—it came from endless walks I took when I didn’t know where else to go, using movement to silence the noise in my head.

But the biggest reason I couldn’t let go of those shoes was because of him.

My father.

He never bought himself anything new, not really. He believed in fixing, patching, reusing until things simply gave out. I remember once suggesting he get a new pair of boots, and he laughed, saying, “Why would I? These still work. They’ve still got stories left in them.”

He was the one who gave me money to buy those sneakers when mine had worn through. I remember standing with him at the store, embarrassed to ask, but he noticed the holes in mine before I even said a word. He didn’t hesitate. He just smiled, handed me the cash, and told me to pick the ones that felt right. It wasn’t about style or price—it was about care. About him making sure I could keep walking forward.

After he passed away, I found myself unable to part with them. They felt like the one thread still tying me back to him. Throwing them out felt like erasing a piece of the life we shared, as if I’d be leaving him behind.

I tried once. I put them in a bag with old clothes for donation. But when I dropped the bag at the curb, I couldn’t move. My chest ached, and before the truck came, I dug through the pile to pull them back out. The thought of them in someone else’s hands felt unbearable. They weren’t just shoes anymore—they were memory, comfort, connection.

So I kept them. For years. Even when I moved apartments, even when closets grew smaller, even when friends teased me about my inability to let go. They didn’t understand. How could they?

One day, though, I realized something. My father wouldn’t have wanted me to hold onto objects so tightly that I couldn’t breathe. He would’ve reminded me that memories don’t live in things—they live in us. And that maybe, just maybe, those shoes had done their job.

So I compromised. I didn’t throw them away. Instead, I tucked them into a box, carefully wrapped, and placed them in the corner of my closet. Not gone, not forgotten, but resting. A reminder that I don’t need to carry everything all the time.

Sometimes we hold onto objects because we’re afraid of forgetting the people we’ve lost or the person we once were. But I’ve learned that letting go doesn’t mean erasing. It means making space for new stories, while honoring the ones that carried us here.

And still, on quiet nights, when the weight of the world feels too heavy, I’ll take them out. I’ll run my fingers over the frayed edges, close my eyes, and remember the sound of my father’s laugh.

That’s when I understand: they were never just shoes. They were a part of my journey, a part of him, and a part of me.