Goodbye Shame, Hello Custom-Made Content

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CW: Ableism, internalised ableism.

Walking into a shoe store on my crutches, I looked around for sparkle – preferably blue or green. I scanned the shop several times, while the saleswoman chatted to my mother, who explained what we needed. Not what we wanted, because she couldn’t sell us a normal-leg-to-fit-any-shoe. She offered boots – with zippers, or laces, sometimes both. My mother got pretentiously excited about an ugly-looking boot, or a military-looking one. My leg with its brace, cast or splint couldn’t fit any of the beautiful girls shoe options.

I prayed to God to give me beautiful shoes – the regular kind, that goes up just above the ankle. Perhaps even sandals or flip-flops. That was never going to happen. I grieved that loss every day of every summer of my young life. Especially those super thin and shiny ones. What wouldn’t I give to slide a feminine perfect foot into a Cinderella narrow shoe? 

Throughout the years several doctors, podiatrist, cast-makers and nurses would comment on my need to wear custom-made shoes. I shook in disgust. Why would I want to look even more different from everyone else? Adults around me never got the point that I didn’t fit in already. You might as well hang a sign above my head with words kids used to call me– freak, disabled. That would be better than wearing shoes everyone could see were made especially for my damaged leg. 

When I finally found a shoe to shove my bulky splint into, relief would wash over me. This overly-priced item would help me look a little more like an able-bodied kid – a normal kid. I marched around feeling proud of the boot, a regular fashion item anyone could have picked, avoiding telling my peers it was the only option that could cover my splint. Combined with long jeans and a trendy top, I was almost looking as if nothing was wrong with me. 

I’ve always worried about what shoes I’d wear on my wedding day, discouraged by the options in shops’ windows – all high heeled, narrow, unsteady. Nothing for my small foot, fused ankle and unsteady knee. As the day approached, I’ve decided to go with custom-made shoes. Regular shops had nothing for me, and my podiatrist’s wall displayed a picture of a client on her wedding day – looking gorgeous and happy in her white custom-made shoes and sparkly dress. 

The podiatrist made me fabulous shoes – made of white leather, a little elevated and perfectly made for my feet. I walked so much easier in them. My leg responded well to the padding and bouncy technology to compensate for the diffused ankle. I was a few centimetres taller than usual. I danced and felt beautiful. My wedding day was magical. The shoes remained in use until they fell apart. Walking with the right shoe for my body was freeing, as close to flying as I’ve ever felt on the ground.             

Wearing custom-made shoes meant I could walk steadier, safer and with less pain. It became easier to live the life I wanted to live. Letting go of the need to be like everyone else freed up space to write, create, love and laugh. Shame and embarrassment about not being ‘normal’ have been ingrained in me for years. Connecting with the disability community, reading and reflecting, has changed my relationship with my disability. I no longer aim to be ‘normal’ or hide my difference. These days I celebrate being unique. My disability, and my life, have made me who I am today. 

Right before lockdown I’ve donated a pair of those splint-hiding boots, which has been out of use for years. Saying goodbye to these boots, which never made me feel good, felt like removing a bar on my personal prison cell. It was another step for me accepting who I am – telling the world I am happy to be me. I have no intention again to select shoes based on how ‘normal’ they look, only on how comfortable they make me feel in my own skin.

Until next time,

Liel K. Bridgford