I have always hated high heels. They’re unbearable, hard to walk in and leave painful blisters all over my feet. Yet there I was, modeling five-inch stilettos in the fitting room at Zara, deciding between buying a pair in nude or black. I went with black, thanked the cashier and slipped into them on my way out of the store.
Wearing high heels was a side effect of my relationship with my now-ex-boyfriend Charlie. He was the kind of guy I loved to show off — classically attractive, smart and funny. He also happened to be a foot taller than me, something I was particularly insecure about, so wearing an uncomfortable pair of heels was worth narrowing our height gap.
A coping mechanism for perceived self-inadequacies is displacement. In layman’s terms, this means compensating for your emotional insecurities by directing your energy into something you can control. In Alexia terms, that means wearing high heels.
After all, Charlie lived in a suite with nine other giants, and I was headed over there for a party. My footwear needed to prove that not only was I taller than average, but I was also powerful, feminine and classy. I desperately needed to be the kind of girl he wanted to show off.
High heels would do just that. A University of Portsmouth study found that women were perceived as more attractive while walking in heels. So, if I were to ever achieve the accolade of “trophy wife,” what better way to do so than in my brand new black stilettos?
Here, the juxtaposition between power and femininity was at play. My insecurities in my relationship constantly battled the balance between the social capital I felt I was lacking and also becoming a poster child for the delicate, accommodating, feminine girlfriend. Which is to say, embracing high heels as a substitute for the confidence I lacked speaks to conflicting expectations of the modern woman.
There is an undeniable association between femininity and heels. Fashion historian Valerie Steele explores this idea in her book “Shoes: A Lexicon of Style.” As she told The New York Times, high heels are the height of “erotic femininity.”
After all, a pair of shoes that forces your body to shift the center of its weight would make it difficult to escape danger, so the unique shoe is quite literally the physical manifestation of female vulnerability. Thus, a common trope in the male sexual fantasy.
Yet conversations around heels as a symbol of power still exist. Professional women are portrayed hobbling to their offices in stilettos and powersuits. From Kate Middleton to Michelle Obama — would any of their outfits be complete in flats?
When the most powerful women in the world are photographed in heels, it sends mixed messages. Are heels a symbol of vulnerability or strength?
It was an oxymoron I confronted every time I took off my shoes. How could something that was literally crippling me be a way to correct the power imbalance in my relationship? Although I very badly wanted to be taken seriously in my Zara stilettos, as long as there was still part of me wearing them to capture traditional femininity, I would never be at peace with myself. The two would never satisfyingly coexist.
Over the duration of my relationship with Charlie, I was constantly asked, “How do you walk in those?”
That question always excited me. It was an opportunity to show off my womanhood.
“Practice. At this point, these are my walking shoes.”
Being able to brag that I had control over my footwear gave me a temporary confidence boost. What I didn’t realize was that — more than anything — my shoes were controlling me. It didn’t matter what I was wearing, my insecurities weren’t going anywhere despite my superficial attempt to rectify them.
When my ex and I finally split, he left me with a broken heart and an elaborate shoe rack of high heels. Once I accepted shoes as a red herring for my lack of confidence, my transition back to flats and sneakers gradually began.
Acknowledging the nuance between vulnerability and power has been critical in regaining control over my footwear. I want to be in a place where heels are an accessory instead of an identity. I’ll get there one day, one step at a time.
