Becky had always prided herself on being the epitome of perfection—at least on the outside. At 37, she was the woman others looked up to at work, always immaculately dressed in her designer suits, her hair flawless, and makeup on point. She was the kind of woman who could walk into a meeting wearing sky-high heels and command the room with a single glance.
But there was one small problem. Becky hated heels. Despised them. In fact, the moment she got home, the first thing she did was kick them off with the same enthusiasm someone might use to rid themselves of a particularly clingy ex. Yet, every morning, she squeezed her feet into those stilettos because she believed that’s what a successful woman did.
One particularly hectic Thursday, Becky had a packed day of back-to-back meetings. She was running late, her coffee spilled on her blouse, and her favorite pair of heels—those red ones that screamed “I’ve got it together”—were mysteriously missing. With no time to find them, she grabbed the only other option she had: a pair of old, scuffed flats she kept at the back of her closet for “emergencies” (which usually meant trips to the grocery store where no one would see her).
As Becky slipped into the flats, she felt a wave of relief wash over her feet. They actually felt…good. Comfortable, even. But the relief quickly turned to panic as she realized she’d have to face her colleagues—and her boss, the notorious heel-wearing Margaret—without her power shoes.
Her first meeting was with the new team of interns. As Becky walked into the room, she expected to see looks of confusion or, worse, judgment. Instead, the group of young women looked at her with wide eyes and a touch of admiration.
One of them, a bright-eyed intern named Tammy, whispered, “I didn’t know we could wear flats here.”
Becky paused. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Tammy said, blushing a bit, “I’ve been wearing heels every day because I thought that’s what we had to do. But, honestly, my feet are killing me. I didn’t realize someone like you could just…wear flats.”
Becky laughed, more from the absurdity of the situation than anything else. “Trust me, these are not my usual choice. But today, I just couldn’t bear another day of torturing my feet.”
Tammy looked down at her own heels with a pained expression. “I wish I could do that. But I don’t think I’m confident enough yet.”
“Confidence isn’t in the shoes,” Becky said, surprising even herself with the truth of her words. “It’s in how you carry yourself. If you’re in pain, you’re not going to project confidence. You’ll just be miserable.”
The next meeting was with her team of senior managers. Again, Becky braced herself for the worst. But as she delivered her presentation, she noticed something strange. Her team was more engaged, more relaxed. When the meeting ended, one of the senior managers, Janet, pulled her aside.
“Becky, I have to say, you seem…different today. In a good way. You’re more…real.”
Becky blinked. “Real?”
“Yes, real. You’re always so polished, so perfect. But today, you seem more approachable. Like you’re one of us. I mean, we all wear heels, but none of us really love it, do we?”
For the first time, Becky realized she had been putting herself in a box. She had been so focused on maintaining an image of what she thought a successful woman should be that she had forgotten to be herself. She had been trying so hard to be perfect that she hadn’t allowed herself to be human.
By the time Becky reached her last meeting of the day—with her boss, Margaret—she was feeling something she hadn’t felt in a long time: freedom. She walked into Margaret’s office, expecting a comment on her flats, but instead, Margaret smiled.
“I see you’ve finally given those poor feet of yours a break,” Margaret said, gesturing to the flats.
Becky nodded, ready to explain, but Margaret held up a hand.
“Becky, I’ve been wearing flats under my desk for years. These heels only come out when I have to make an impression. Trust me, after a certain age, you learn that comfort matters more than appearances. And you’ve made quite an impression today—without the heels.”
Becky couldn’t help but laugh. All this time, she had been torturing herself for no reason. And in that moment, she realized that being authentic wasn’t about what she wore or how she looked; it was about being honest with herself and others.
The next day, Becky walked into the office in her flats, head held high, and ready to be exactly who she was. And as she passed by the interns, all of them now in flats, she smiled, knowing that she had given them something far more valuable than a fashion statement: the permission to be themselves.
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