These shoes weren’t meant for walking … apparently.

Some things you keep wearing long after they’ve stopped fitting the world’s idea of what’s “appropriate.” For me, it’s a pair of flip-flops.

I fell again today. Same pair of flip-flops, same week, same downward momentum.

I’ve always been a jeans-and-t-shirt-and-flip-flops kind of gal. I’ve built my life around comfort. Back when I was working as a recruiter in temporary staffing, I had to wear suits to the office every day, and I hated it. One day I saw a girl walk in wearing overalls and thought, What does she do? When I found out she was an on-site manager, I immediately put in to switch roles. The only reason? So I could wear jeans and comfortable shoes to work.

I’ve never been a business clothes person.

For two decades in martial arts, I had the privilege of working barefoot on carpet, in my incredibly comfortable gi pants (karate uniform pants). I’ve always taken deliberate steps toward that kind of comfortable, casual existence, but lately, it’s betraying me. My knees aren’t what they used to be. And as I get older, I still want to stay in that level of comfort, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe I can’t keep holding on to it the way I used to.

So yeah, I’ve fallen twice in the last few days and this time I really hurt myself. And the thing about physical pain is that it bleeds into your emotional state, no matter how much you try to keep them separate. It’s especially hard when you’ve finally built momentum, real momentum, after months of pushing through. Two falls in the same week can make you feel like the ground is literally and figuratively giving out.

And when people hear about it, their first reaction is to tell you what you should be doing differently, what shoes to wear, how to be safer, how to be more careful “at your age.” Maybe they mean well, but sometimes those comments hit harder than the fall.

Because for me, flip-flops aren’t just shoes. They’re a piece of who I am, as crazy as it might sound, part of my identity. They represent the casual, comfortable way I’ve built my life, the deliberate choices I’ve made to move toward ease instead of away from it. I’ve had to let go of a lot over the years, we all do, but letting go of that part of me feels different.

After so many years barefoot, flip-flops are the closest thing to home for my feet. And realistically, I wasn’t dizzy, I didn’t lose my balance, these were just two clumsy falls. But because I was wearing the same shoes both times, the reigning opinion seems to be that I need to toss them for good.

The harder someone pushes me to give something up, the more I dig in. It’s the same stubbornness that’s carried me across an ocean alone, that’s kept me going through the challenges of living here, that’s made me pivot my life toward the things I value most.

So maybe I’ll throw them away. But if I’m being honest? I won’t. I’m not going to toss them, or burn them in a cleansing ceremony, and yes, I will wear them again. But I might smudge them with sage smoke.

Because sometimes it’s not just about what’s practical. It’s about holding on to the things that still feel like you, even when the world thinks it’s time you let them go.

No matter what, though, I keep showing up for myself. The pain in my nose, the ache in my forehead, the throb in my back, they’re all still here, shaping me, reminding me I’m still in the fight.

It’s a familiar feeling, the same one I had after a sparring round where I’d use my face as a block. The sting in my nose, the ringing in my ears, the swelling around my eyes, and still, I’d bow, reset my stance, and step back in.

That’s who I am.

The stubborn owner of flip-flops who may be bruised and scraped, but sits down to write her posts anyway, because the fight doesn’t end just because you got knocked down.