These shoes no longer fit

 On my walk this evening, I came across a group of children heading home from school. They were loud, laughing at something clearly amusing, and they had what I can call that "end-of-day" energy that belongs only to children. Except one. 

One boy lagged behind, though clearly part of the group and fun. He walked strangely. A little stiff, uneven even, trying to keep up with the rest. Every few steps he slowed down, then hurried again, not wanting to be left behind. It did not take long to notice why. His shoes were too small. 

They were undersized, visibly tight and the socks he wore kinda made it worse. These were shoes he had clearly outgrown but was still expected to walk in. 

I do not know his story, but I can guess. Maybe his parents couldn't afford new shoes. Maybe these were hand-me-downs. Maybe they were the best option available. What I know is that he did not choose them and yet he just had to wear them. He had to walk to and from school in pain, discomfort, trying to keep pace with what was not slowing down for him. 

And this stayed with me. 

Why? Because life is often like that. We outgrow things. Sometimes we outgrow them long before we are able to let them go. 

We outgrow relationships, jobs, friendships, versions of ourselves, places that once felt like home, activities that once gave us joy. Certainly this is not because they became bad, but because we changed. We learnt, we softened or hardened in different places, we grew. The experiences and people didn't change. We did. 

But instead of changing shoes, we start limping. We tell ourselves, "it is still new," "it should work," "others seem fine in it," "I have already invested so much." So we squeeze ourselves in and adjust our walk. We normalise the discomfort. We even convince ourselves that the pain is part of the journey.

The question is: do we recognise the tightness? 

Do we recognise that something that once fit now restricts us? Do we notice when our steps feel heavier and slower? Do we realise when keeping up requires more effort than it should? Or do we keep walking funny hoping no one will notice?

And if we should notice, are we brave enough to let the shoes go even when they are new, expensive or believed they would take us somewhere?

Sometimes the hardest shoes to remove are the ones we chose willingly. 

The boy had no choice. He walked in those shoes because he had to. And many of us know this all too well where we stay in things that hurt us because leaving is not yet an option. Because food must be put on the table. Because there is no alternative right now. Because I have tried many times before. Because I like the idea of this.

But life is not meant to be lived forever in shoes we have outgrown or that do not fit. I don't think so. At some point, continuing to limp becomes a conscious decision to choose familiar pain and discomfort over the opposite. 

Growth is sometimes realising that this no longer fits me or did not fit in the first place, and honouring it without shame. 

From where my feet are, I have learnt that walking should not always hurt. And if it does, maybe it is not your strength that is lacking, but maybe it is just time for a different pair of shoes.