I’ve always loved shoe boxes – the fancy ones. If you’ve ever succumbed to a pair of Kate Spade shoes, you may have also fallen for the perky fuschia and warm orange box. Or, how about a pair of Sam Edelman shoes? That lime green box was your welcome pop of color on a cold day. And then, of course, if a pair of Prada shoes stole your heart, it was the elegant moody purple box with the black lettering that swept you off your feet. 

Okay, maybe I’m projecting my own reactions, indulging in a long-ago memory of pleasures acquired, enjoyed and ultimately lost. My days of strutting around in toe crunching, arch-aching agony are (mostly) behind me now. But oh, girlfriend, THOSE were the days. It wasn’t the shoes of course. It was how I felt about myself when I stepped into them – speaking in front of groups for hours on end; strutting into a hospital nursery at 5:00 a.m. to see my newborn niece not two hours old; and dancing the night away in a fantasy land of Gloria Gaynor- and Bee Gees-era music before hitting the diner just before dawn. 

Oh, how I loved the shoes – torturous works of art, every one of them. My team at the office affectionately wagered that I owned more pairs than Imelda Marcos. I took that as a compliment. 

The shoes are long gone – gifted or consigned. And now, when I look at the three still beautiful shoe boxes that housed them, it isn’t the shoes that stir unrest in my spirit, it’s the me they represented. Maybe you can relate. Maybe you’re taunted by that corner of your closet where the size six dresses hang as a memorial, reminding you of a more svelte you. Or, as an avid runner who has had to settle for walking, you know what I’m talking about. The past, even the really good stuff, can mess with us. It’s about who and how we were. It’s about loss, which can make us wistful, sad and even stuck.

It’s a Head Game

Here’s what I’ve learned about dealing with my earlier “mes” – it’s a head game. 

I have a choice. I can mourn the past me and rage at Father Time, or I can make peace with the inevitability of the changes that accompany aging. That’s on me. I remind myself:

That girl over there, the one conjured by heartfelt memory? 

Know that she is sacredly held in the past

That young woman, too.

All of the mes forever 

A part of my unique story.

I can continue to grieve what I’ve lost, or I can reframe and gratefully appreciate what I experienced. This is big.

I can “give up and give in,” or I can work with who I am right now.

I can stay stuck in thinking that my younger self was inherently “better,” or I can choose to believe that I am fine, as I am, at every stage in my life’s journey.

I can also explore new ways to express and fully be myself in this stage. After all, I have the hard-won wisdom to do so, don’t I?

I can surround myself with other women who are accepting and embracing their journeys. I love these girlfriends!

I can remind myself that sometimes “ageism” is an inside job that I need to vigilantly monitor.

And, there is one more thing I can do – I can generously appreciate and joyfully compliment little girls, teenagers, young women, middle aged women, older women and mighty crones for their unique inner and outer beauty. It’s one concrete way I can counter internalized ageism!

Those boxes – the Spade, the Edelman, the Prada – are still in my life, each repurposed as a beautiful vessel for the things that express who I am right now. And tomorrow? Well, that answer lives in the by and by.