Sneakers vs. Stilettos

Sneakers vs. Stilettos

There’s a reason I called this journey Sneakers and Stilettos. It wasn’t random, wasn’t just fashion. It was survival. It was identity. It was contradiction and truth wrapped in leather and laces.

Sneakers and stilettos are more than shoes—they are masks, symbols, languages I speak without words.

Sneakers — My Survival

Sneakers are the first thing I reach for when I’m tired, when my body aches, when the pain demands comfort above all else. They are practical, grounding, forgiving. They carry me through doctor’s visits, grocery store runs, long days where the world expects me to function whether I want to or not.

Sneakers are my disguise. They say to the world: See? I can keep going. I’m still moving. I’m fine.

But they’re also my armor. Each lace is like a small vow: You’re still here. You’re not giving up today. They’ve carried me across hospital hallways and down streets when I thought I couldn’t take another step. They’ve carried me into rooms where my heart wanted to collapse but my head demanded I stand tall.

Sneakers don’t ask me to be beautiful. They just ask me to endure.

Stilettos — My Defiance

Then there are the stilettos.

Sharp. Unapologetic. Feminine fire. The kind of shoe you don’t wear to hide—you wear to be seen.

Stilettos are my rebellion. They’re the nights I dare myself to feel fierce again, even if it’s only for a few hours. They’re the heels that click against the floor like a war drum, announcing: I am still a woman. I am still powerful. Don’t you dare count me out.

When I slip into stilettos, I feel like I’m reclaiming something my injuries tried to take from me—my sensuality, my confidence, my defiance. They hurt, yes. They always hurt. But sometimes pain feels worth it if it means I get to feel alive again.

Stilettos are my reminder that I am more than my scars.

The Contradiction

Sneakers and stilettos couldn’t be more different, yet both are true versions of me.

One is survival. One is defiance.

One is comfort. One is sharp.

One is the woman who drags herself through another day.

One is the woman who dares to show up radiant even when she’s breaking inside.

And maybe that’s the point—healing isn’t choosing between them. It’s learning to live in the tension of both.

There are days when sneakers feel like betrayal because they remind me of what I’ve lost. And there are nights when stilettos feel like a lie because they cover the truth of how fragile I really am.

But maybe they’re both masks and both truths. Maybe healing isn’t about erasing contradiction but wearing it like a badge.

A Memory in Sneakers

I remember the first time I walked again after one of my surgeries. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t triumphant like the stories you see on social media. It was sneakers tied too tight, hands clutching rails, a limp that felt heavier than my whole body.

My head cheered. You’re moving! You’re walking again!

My heart whispered. This isn’t freedom. This is survival.

But I walked anyway. Because sometimes survival is all you can manage.

And those sneakers—ugly, plain, worn—became holy to me. Because they carried me when I couldn’t carry myself.

A Memory in Stilettos

Then there was the night I slipped into stilettos just to prove to myself I still could.

My friends told me not to—You’ll hurt yourself. Be careful. But I needed to. I needed to feel like more than a patient, more than a woman with scars and limits.

I remember standing in front of the mirror, legs shaking, body aching, but heels strapped on like a declaration of war. I didn’t feel steady, but I felt alive. I didn’t feel safe, but I felt beautiful.

For one night, I wasn’t the girl in recovery. I was the woman who owned the room, even if I limped across it.

The stilettos lied, yes—but they also told a truth my sneakers couldn’t: that I am still here, still fierce, still feminine.

Living in Both

That’s the paradox I live in. Sneakers and stilettos.

Survival and defiance.

Armor and rebellion.

Masks and truths.

Sometimes I hate the contradiction. Sometimes I just want to be one thing or the other—healed or broken, alive or done, strong or weak.

But maybe the real strength isn’t in choosing. Maybe it’s in carrying both. Maybe it’s in admitting that sneakers and stilettos are both part of the same woman.

The woman who drags her body through another day.

The woman who dares to rise and say, I am still here.

Both of them are me.

Running in Sand vs. Walking on Concrete

In Chicago, concrete defined me. Hard, unrelenting, gray. Every step on a sidewalk felt like battle.

In California, sand redefined me. It shifted beneath my feet, reminding me that nothing is permanent—not pain, not struggle, not even the parts of myself I thought I’d lost forever. The sand gave me permission to move differently. To sink, to stumble, to find new balance.

It wasn’t about running anymore. It was about feeling the earth hold me in softer ways.

What the Sun Taught Me

The sun has a way of stripping you bare. It doesn’t let you fake it the way the cold does. Out here, my head couldn’t trick me as easily. My heart couldn’t hide in layers.

The sun forced me to admit that I was still here, still breathing, still alive—even when my heart swore I was done.

And slowly, slowly, I began to believe that maybe being “done” didn’t mean finished. Maybe it meant done with one version of life so another could begin.

California as Both Grace and Pressure

California gave me grace, yes. But it also gave me pressure. Because out here, there are no excuses. The weather doesn’t hold you back. The light doesn’t hide you. Out here, if you’re not living, it shows.

So I had to face myself.

I had to face the question my heart asked every night: Are you alive, or are you just existing?

Some days I still don’t know the answer.

But here’s what I do know: the ocean waves don’t stop crashing just because I’m tired. The sun doesn’t stop rising just because I’m grieving. Life keeps happening—and somehow, so do I

The Reflection

California became a mirror I couldn’t escape. And maybe that’s what I needed. A mirror that didn’t just show me my scars, but showed me my strength. A mirror that reminded me I was still standing—even if I was standing unevenly.

And when I see myself now, reflected in this place, I see both truths:

The woman who is done.

The woman who is still alive.

And both of them are me.

Living Between Voices

For most of my life since the accident, I’ve tried to silence one voice or the other.

I thought I had to choose.

Either I was the fighter my head demanded—pushing through, showing up, proving to the world that I was still here.

Or I was the broken soul my heart admitted—exhausted, grieving, whispering that I was done.

But I’ve learned something in the years between surgeries, setbacks, and quiet mornings with Orion and Oliver at my feet: healing isn’t about choosing. It’s about living between the voices.

The Trick of the Mind

My head will always play tricks on me. It will always tell me to keep moving, to smile, to push harder. And maybe that’s not a weakness. Maybe that’s survival coded into me, a stubbornness that refuses to let the story end too soon.

I can honor that voice now. I can thank my head for the mornings it dragged me out of bed when I wanted to disappear. For the times it forced me into sneakers and said, walk anyway.

The lies weren’t always lies. Sometimes they were lifelines.

The Honesty of the Heart

And my heart—oh, my heart will always ache. It will always carry the grief of a body that doesn’t move the way it used to. It will always remember the woman I thought I’d become and mourn her absence.

But I can honor that voice too. Because without my heart’s honesty, I would live in denial. I would never grieve. I would never admit how heavy this life can be. And there is power in admitting it. Power in saying: I’m tired. I’m hurting. I’m not fine all the time.

The heart doesn’t lie. And sometimes, that kind of honesty is what saves me.

Sneakers and Stilettos Together

That’s why Sneakers and Stilettos isn’t just a title. It’s my truth.

Sneakers are the days my head wins—the days I fight, endure, survive.

Stilettos are the days my heart dares to rise—the days I reclaim my fire, my femininity, my defiance.

I am both.

I need both.

One without the other isn’t the whole story.

Because I am not just survival. And I am not just grief. I am the contradiction that lives between them.

Learning to Stay

There are still nights when my heart whispers: You’re done. And there are still mornings when my head shouts: You’re alive.

But somewhere between the whisper and the shout, I’ve learned how to stay.

Sometimes staying looks like walking Orion and Oliver even when my ankle throbs. Sometimes it looks like slipping into stilettos for no reason other than to remind myself that I still can. Sometimes it looks like admitting that I am tired without letting that admission be the end of me.

Staying isn’t always glamorous. It’s often quiet, ordinary, imperfect. But it’s mine.

Done Is Not the End

Maybe “done” isn’t the full stop I once thought it was. Maybe “done” is the end of one version of life so another can begin.

Done with pretending.

Done with performing.

Done with silencing the heart or dismissing the head.

But not done with living. Not yet.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s the truest definition of resilience: not perfection, not constant optimism, but the choice to keep showing up in the middle of contradiction.

The Woman Between

So here I am—the woman between. Between sneakers and stilettos. Between survival and surrender. Between the lies of the head and the honesty of the heart.

I am not one or the other. I am both. And in being both, I am whole.

My head keeps playing tricks on me and tells me I’m alive.

My heart knows far too well I’m done.

And maybe the truth is this:

I am alive.

I am done.

I am becoming.

The Hospital Diaries

There are mornings that live in me like ghosts.

The mornings after surgery, when the anesthesia wore off and reality seeped back in. Machines beeped steady, nurses bustled quietly, and I opened my eyes to a body that felt less and less like mine.

My head would rush in first. You’re fine. You survived another one. This is progress.

My heart, slower but sharper, would sigh: Another cut. Another scar. Another version of you buried.

I learned to hold both voices while staring at the ceiling tiles, memorizing their patterns because they felt more stable than anything inside of me.

Conversations With Myself

Sometimes I imagine my head and heart as actual people, sitting across a table from me.

My head leans forward, sneakers on, voice brisk:

We’re not quitting. We’ve got things to do, places to be, bills to pay. Get up.

My heart reclines, stilettos dangling from her heel, gaze steady but soft:

You’re exhausted. You’ve given enough. Why are you still forcing yourself to fight battles that leave you bleeding?

And I sit between them, the referee, knowing they’re both right.

California Nights

It’s not just the days the sun saves me—it’s the nights, too.

There was one night I stood barefoot in the sand, moonlight spilling silver across the waves. I cried, but it wasn’t the kind of crying that drowns—it was the kind that cleanses.

My head whispered, See, you’re alive. Feel the air in your lungs.

My heart whispered, Yes, but look at what it costs you.

And for once, I didn’t argue. I just let the ocean hold both truths for me.

Love, Loss, and the Body

Dating after the accident was its own battlefield. My head would prep me: Smile. Be confident. Don’t mention the limp unless he asks.

My heart would brace: He’ll leave once he sees the scars. They always leave.

Sometimes my head won. Sometimes my heart did. But every time, I felt split—like I wasn’t showing up as my whole self, just fragments stitched together with fear.

It wasn’t rejection that cut deepest—it was the confirmation of what my heart already knew: this body is both a miracle and a graveyard.

Poetry in the Cracks

Some nights, when the pain won’t let me sleep, I write lines that feel more like prayers than poems:

My body is a battlefield,

my scars are maps,

my sneakers carry me,

my stilettos dare me,

and somewhere between the two

I am still here.

These words don’t fix me. But they remind me I still have a voice. And maybe that’s its own kind of survival.

Sundays in Silence

Sundays are the hardest.

The world slows down, families gather, laughter spills out of restaurants, and I sit with silence. My head insists: Use the quiet to reset, to plan your week, to stay ahead. But my heart feels the hollow echo of what’s missing—normalcy, ease, the kind of Sunday that doesn’t ache with reminders of what I’ve lost.

I used to love Sundays. Now they’re the mirror I don’t ask for, the reflection that shows me how different my life is.

But still, there are moments—Orion’s breath steady at my feet, Oliver chasing sunlight across the floor—that remind me maybe silence isn’t only emptiness. Maybe silence is also presence.

Romania in My Bones

Sometimes my strength surprises even me, and then I remember: I was raised in Romania.

That place carved grit into me long before Chicago winters toughened my skin. Growing up, survival was not optional—it was the air we breathed. My head learned discipline there: how to push, how to endure, how to carry more than my share.

But my heart remembers too. The small joys. The resilience born out of scarcity. The way women carried heaviness with grace, never apologizing for their strength but never denying their exhaustion either.

Romania taught my head how to fight. Chicago taught my heart how to ache. California taught me how to carry both.

The Threshold of Done

I used to believe “done” meant over. Finished. The end.

But now I think of “done” differently. Maybe it means done with pretending. Done with carrying silence. Done with performing strength for the comfort of others.

Maybe “done” is the threshold, not the exit.

Because even in the nights when my heart whispers, You can’t anymore, I wake up to Orion’s eyes, Oliver’s wagging tail, the California sun spilling through blinds, and I realize I do.

Done doesn’t always mean dead. Sometimes it means reborn.