Brooks, Asics, New Balance...Oh My!

I scrolled through Instagram automatically, like I did at every other 10-minute interval in the day. I raced passed fitness models and those doing yoga. It's crazy that after a few searches on stretches, my feed had become one big yoga class.

And, what these fitness models would never know, is that this once-thin 28-year-old had become one big Yogi.

I suddenly stopped and tapped on a colorful athletic shoe advertising a cloud-like feel.

It reminded me that I needed to do some research on my walking shoes. I went from doing yoga every day for 3 years in a row to doing it almost never. My muscles shrank into their original fragile form, and they waved goodbye to each other as they had been over-encumbered by fat tissue. At 250 pounds and 3 years of not taking the time to reverse my desk-job posture...well, you get the picture. We needed to stretch some hamstrings before we could ever attempt a supine twist or warrior II again.

After basking in Insta-inspo, I would proudly set a goal of 10,000 steps of walking per day. That is, until my lower back would inevitably cramp up and wave the white flag after walking a few blocks.

A gain of 100 pounds really made itself known on my mere 5'3" frame. It showed up like a friend with a problem when you're on your way out the door to the beach. They insist you solve their problem, here, right now, and they insist they come with you. And they won't leave until they feel better.

Yeah, my back never felt better. It only felt better when I sat. Which, ironically, was slowly killing me.

I consulted Google.

"Flat arches can cause back pain," plenty of sources boasted on the instant search engine.

I did my research to find that flat or fallen arches can be a result of weight gain, and that if you see your entire wet footprint after coming out of the shower, you have a flat arch. Flat arches meant posture problems. Posture problems meant back problems. Back problems meant that I had gotten to the root of my problem: I needed shoes for flat feet.

After another Google search, my Instagram feed had become filled with advertisements of running shoes. Like it needed more fitness models.

Asics, Brooks, Saucony, and New Balance all graced the lists of "Top 10 Shoes for Flat Feet" articles without fail. I rapidly searched for a pair in my area. I settled on Dick's Sporting Goods, and I put on my best act to pretend that I, a triple-XL-coat-wearing woman, belonged in a store like this.

I found solace in the fact that no one cared to help me at first. "Just a fat lady in a shoe store," I imagined the employees thought to themselves. "Not a real athlete. Probably not going to make a purchase."

I tried on Asics in a size and a half bigger than I normally wear, to, ya know, account for any weight gain that had occurred.

My face turned beat red and my eyes blurred with tears as my plus-sized foot made it halfway in the shoe. I took a deep breath and exhaled as, to my surprise, I found a wide-width in the same colorway and style.

I calmly and confidently inserted my big foot into the shoe. Success! My foot had a cozy home to call its own, and my curvy figure could be sculpted through walking from this moment forward.

That is, until I realized that the shoe fit tighter than my voluptuous thighs in patent leather leggings.

I consulted Google in the store for help. An employee finally approached me, and offered a wide-width Brooks Adrenaline running shoe.

I pretended I liked the depressing gray-and-purple color combination.

"Yeah, it fits," I uttered convincingly. I bothered him with finding me a more attractive shoe.

But no matter what I tried, it seemed that nothing fit my fat foot. I attempted to peruse the men's aisle. Perhaps I would find something wider there.

He approached me with a box. "These are men's. They will be a little wider," he said.

They were. I bought them, excited for my Instagram-worthy adventures ahead, only to find out on my walk that they were...

Still.

Too.

Small.

A pang of guilt swept through my whole body as I imagined returning the $130 shoes. I'd felt that if I spend that much money, they would have at least worked for me.

I returned the shoes and became obsessed with the style of Hoka One One running shoes that popped up as a result for "shoes for wide, flat feet."

I made an immediate run (to the car, of course) to get to my local shoe store ASAP. In little Oshkosh, Wisconsin, a smaller-than-small shoe boutique called Run Away Shoes carried my beautiful, tropical-colored Hoka One Ones.

The woman inside greeted me immediately and insisted that I walk for her without my shoes.

She then insisted that I measure my arches with a pressure sensor, even though I knew they were flatter than a sitting car's tires.

"Are you a wide width?" she asked. I liked her. She already knew, and she knew everything just by looking at me.

People paced back and forth, trying on their new running shoes in the crowded mini store. It was a Saturday, and everyone probably had off of work. The saleswoman came back with two shoes in tote.

"These are the Brooks Adrenaline," she announced proudly.

I winced.

"Okay," I went along with it. It was a lost cause. I was a lost cause. Losing weight was a lost cause.

"How do those feel?" she asked, expecting me to like them.

"They're a bit tight on my feet, still," I admitted.

"Okay," she said, as seriously as a governmental agent saying "copy that" over a handheld radio.

This lady meant business.

She unveiled a pair of bright, baby blue New Balance sneakers. Ones my grandma or my mom would wear. I gulped louder than I intended to, but no one heard in the busy store.

"These are the shoes I need to wear for my health," I repeated to myself as a mantra. "We are here for my health, not fashion. I have limited my fashion options. I have done this to myself."

"Just try the shoes," I tried convince myself.

The saleswoman loaded in inserts designed to alleviate lower back pain before handing off the shoes to me.

"How do those feel?" she asked again.

I took a short walk in the tiny store. I didn't feel like I was sinking into the foam of my shoes. I actually felt like I was walking on a floor.

A really comfortable floor.

"These are amazing compared to my Nikes," I was immediately able to determine aloud.

I left the store with cute-but-not-the-cutest athletic shoes. I paid a total of $160, including $50 inserts, and it all started with a few swipes on Instagram.

Later that afternoon, I decided to start a TikTok to track my weight loss adventures. I made a video after walking my 10,000 steps without any low back pain.

I'll say that again.

I had.

No.

Low.

Back.

Pain.

"New wide width NB saving my low back," I wrote on my 15-second video. I added the "Take a Walk" song by Passion Pit to fit the mood.

After days of dreaming of the perfect shoe, deciding which colorway to get, adding to cart, and contemplating driving more than 100 miles to try on the "perfect" pair—I'd found just what I needed, in a small, locally-owned business from someone who could see my individual gait and help me determine what I needed within a matter of seconds.

That, to me, is my perfect fit.