From Heels to Heart: And, So It Begins

They say you can’t truly understand someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes. For most of my life, I’ve collected shoes like stories—each pair offering a new perspective, a new chapter, a new lesson.

There was the pair I wore when I believed the love I had—without ever stopping to question it—was all I’d ever need. Those shoes were adored by friends, who complimented how great they looked on me. Maybe because they thought I could only handle what I wanted to hear, not the truth—that the shoes didn’t quite fit, that they didn’t make me shine as brightly as they knew I could. And so, they stayed silent, afraid that if they told me otherwise, we’d have a Big relationship problem on our hands.

I stumbled more than I strutted in those heels, falling headfirst into relationships that fit about as well as a pair of too-small Manolos. But I wore them anyway, convinced I could break them in, that they’d stretch to fit me if I just gave them enough time. Spoiler: they didn’t.

Then there were the pumps—the ones I slipped on every time I tried to run. Not sneakers, mind you. No, that would’ve been too easy, too comfortable. I chose the pain, the discomfort, because in some strange way, I thought that’s how growth was supposed to feel—learning to run in shoes that weren’t meant for speed.

But New York, like life, doesn’t let you get far. It teaches you that no matter how fast you try to move, no matter how painful it is, you’ll keep circling back to the same corner, the same crosswalk, the same version of yourself that you were running from in the first place. Every person around me became a reminder—a reflection of what I was avoiding. They were walking through their own challenges, while I was teetering on 4-inch heels, convinced that if I could just keep my balance, everything would fall into place.

What I didn’t realize then was that choosing the harder path didn’t always mean I was growing—it meant I was afraid to slow down, afraid to take the more comfortable route.

Somewhere along the way, I learned. I learned that sometimes, you don’t need to run faster; you just need to stand still, even in the most uncomfortable of shoes. Until you can walk—and maybe even run—with ease, grace, and a little less pain.

But something happens when you’ve worn enough shoes. Somewhere between the blisters and the worn-out soles, you start to feel a shift. It’s like your feet get a little stronger, your stride a little more confident. And suddenly, you realize—you’re not just walking in your own shoes anymore. You’re stepping into the shoes of others, feeling their weight, their struggles, their stories.

However, true empathy isn’t about taking off your shoes and trying on someone else’s. It’s about carrying all the pairs you’ve worn and using them to understand how someone else might feel in theirs.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: Carrie has grown up. She’s worn the shoes of heartbreak, joy, mistakes, triumphs, and everything in between. And now? Now, she walks differently. There’s no more running away, no more shoes that don’t fit, no more squeezing into something that was never meant to be mine in the first place.

So, welcome to All Carrie, No Big—a space where the shoes I’ve worn have finally led me to where I’m supposed to be. A space where I’m walking forward, wearing my own pair of evolved, well-worn shoes.

And if you’re wondering who this new Carrie is, she’s someone who’s learned that life isn’t about having the perfect pair of heels. It’s about having the courage to walk in them, stumble, and keep going. It’s about walking beside others and understanding that their shoes, like mine, have taken them on a journey. And maybe—just maybe—that’s how we grow.

So, slip on your favorite pair and join me. Each step will tell us its own story. All Carrie, No Big—where we walk, learn, and grow in shoes that fit just right.