I wore those shoes at my wedding when I was 21 years old. Before I had graduated college. When I was so young and still ironing out all my insecurities.
Leading up to the wedding, I worried. About the details, about spending my whole life with this person I'd said yes to on a romantic fall evening, about losing all my privacy, yes. But also, that I just wasn't measuring up. I'd invited few friends from college because I truly had few with whom I had a close relationship. I counted how many friends Tim had on his list versus how many I had. And when I had fewer, I felt like I wasn't measuring up.
I wanted to prove that I was good enough. That I was a good friend. A good everything. I didn't know how to recognize my make-up, accept it, embrace it, love it. But I knew how to judge. I knew how to hide. I knew how to scrape and struggle up insurmountable walls just to prove myself when I could have walked around them.
My wedding was beautiful. Undoubtedly, if I could go back, I would make some changes. But it was beautiful. They were there- those people that, even when I didn't love, believe in, or appreciate myself, they did. And so was he- the man who knows more about my heart than anyone else and still thinks I'm beautiful. Worthy, even.
And so were those shoes. Waiting patiently on a chair. Because I'd kicked them off and danced the night away. I'd shoved all my insecurities into a corner and let myself fill up with joy and life...through kisses and smiles and dancing.
Since then, I've been cleaning out that corner. Getting rid of it instead of hiding it away. But occasionally, I find some. Gunk, filth, dirt. And then? I enlist some of them- those people that I have been brave enough to show that dirt to and who have come closer instead of backing away. It seems like a better plan than hiding.
And then? We dance.