The Power of a Pair of Shoes

M Mehran

Some people remember moments in their lives by music, others by places. Me? I remember them by shoes.

It sounds strange, I know. But shoes have a way of grounding us—literally. They’re the first thing to hit the pavement when we walk into a new job, a first date, a city we’ve never seen before. They hold the weight of where we’ve been, and sometimes, the promise of where we’re going.

My first real “style moment” wasn’t about a glamorous dress or a designer jacket. It was about a pair of red heels.


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I was 19, standing in a department store, clutching the box with sweaty palms. Up until then, my closet was a lineup of sneakers and flats—practical, safe, invisible. But those red heels were different. They were unapologetic. They made no attempt to blend in.

I bought them, then panicked. What was I thinking? Where would I even wear them?

A week later, I wore them to a family dinner. Everyone noticed. My aunt raised an eyebrow, my cousin smirked, but I didn’t care. Because for the first time, I wasn’t dressing to disappear. I was dressing to be seen.

That night, the heels pinched my toes and left blisters. But they also left me with something else: the realization that style isn’t always about comfort. Sometimes, it’s about courage.


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Over the years, my shoes became markers of transformation.

There were the scuffed ankle boots I wore during my broke college years, walking miles across campus with coffee in one hand and overdue books in the other. They made me feel scrappy, like I could hustle my way through anything.

Then came the polished loafers I wore to my first real job interview. They weren’t expensive, but they were mine. I remember looking down at them as I sat in the waiting room, whispering to myself, You belong here.

And I’ll never forget the sneakers I wore when I moved to a new city alone. They were plain white when I bought them, but within a month, they were covered in dust from unfamiliar streets, coffee stains from corner cafés, and even a splash of paint from my first attempt at decorating my apartment. Every smudge was a story.


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People often underestimate shoes. They see them as the afterthought, the thing you pick once the “real outfit” is chosen. But shoes carry identity in subtle ways. The girl in combat boots tells a different story than the man in polished Oxfords. The person in worn-out sneakers is saying something, even if they don’t realize it.

Style, after all, isn’t about how expensive something is—it’s about how it makes you feel when you step into it.

When I put on those red heels today, years later, I don’t just feel taller. I feel braver. I remember the 19-year-old who dared to stand out for the first time. And when I lace up my battered sneakers, I remember the courage it took to start over.

Shoes don’t just take us places. They remind us who we are when we get there.


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I think about this often when I see people in public—an old man walking slowly in polished shoes that have clearly been cared for with love, a teenager whose sneakers are covered in doodles, a woman striding confidently in stilettos. Each pair is a story, a diary written in leather, canvas, or suede.

And isn’t that the beauty of style? It doesn’t always have to be loud. It doesn’t have to be an Instagram-ready outfit or a head-to-toe designer look. Sometimes, it’s in the details. A pair of shoes, a scarf, a ring. Tiny choices that whisper, This is who I am today.


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My shoe collection isn’t glamorous. I don’t have rows of Louboutins or glass cases filled with limited editions. What I have is better: shoes that carry memories. Each pair a little breadcrumb trail of my life.

And I think that’s what style really is. Not chasing trends or filling closets with things we’ll wear once. It’s choosing the pieces that carry us, both physically and emotionally, through the chapters of our story.

So yes, I remember my life in shoes.

Because every step I’ve taken in them has shaped the person I’ve become.