I own a pair of hideous shoes.

Their colour is barely recognizable.

Their fabric is frayed.

Their rubber treads are worn terribly flat.

And they cause me to slip when I try climbing up steep hills alone.

Some areas of the sole are tattered so thin that I can feel each jagged stone I step on.

And the backs dig into my heels.

They’ve given me blisters.

Some have even left scars that have toughened up my feet.

I’ve walked them through tumultuous storms.

I’ve even danced in them under the sun.

I’ve tried to throw them away.

I’ve even tried to give them away.

No one wants them.

They’re hard to match with your clothes with their evil red lettering emblazoned on their sides:

Postpartum Depression

Yes, they are hideous shoes.

And if you are walking in these exact shoes in this exact moment, I want you to look down at them.

I want you to say these three words:

“I. OWN. YOU”

I want you to tighten up those mismatched laces.

Then I want you to walk, run, jump, kick, dance…

I want you to get the little old ladies at the grocery store to ram their shopping carts into them…

I want your husband to squeeze into them when he’s got to change the oil in the car…

I want your kids to step on them…

I want your best friend, the one with the really big feet, to borrow them and stretch them…

I want you to do whatever it will take to wear the hell out of them…

And you WILL wear the hell out of them…

Then one day those hideous shoes will be so mangled that they will be unable to hold your feet any longer.

You will one day destroy them.

They will NEVER destroy you.

Kimberly