You Don't Have the Luxury to Fall Apart

There are times—always when I can least afford it—when I’m away on business, walking into meetings in dress shorts and heels that click with confidence, a blazer thrown over a graphic tee or silk blouse, makeup fresh, hair smoothed just right. The outfit changes depending on my mood, but the shoes always speak first. People watch for them. It’s become a thing—my thing. The shoes I choose announce me before I say a word, and they never fail. They say, she has it together.

But sometimes, on those days, my phone buzzes and the call that should feel grounding becomes a slow unraveling. My husband, trying to connect, says something—asks something—his voice soaked in concern he believes will land as care. But I don’t hear it that way. Not then. I hear the judgment between the words. I hear another expectation. Another demand. Another quiet insinuation that I’m not doing enough.

And beneath my clipped replies, I’m seething. Not just at him. At myself. At the impossible bar I set and the silent shame of falling short. For not being further ahead in my career. For not earning more. For not being more present. For not having the kind of home that gleams under inspection. My house is always tidy on the surface, but I know what corners I’ve ignored. I know what I used to do weekly that now waits until I can breathe. Which means: indefinitely.

And yes, there is resentment. It lives like a low hum in my chest. My husband works from home—he’s present, he contributes, he helps. But that’s just it. He helps. I manage. I plan. I execute. I remember. I hold everything. He steps in when I’m away. I never get to step out.

So in those moments—vulnerable, exhausted, burning with guilt—I can’t hear the love in his voice. I can’t hear his good intentions. All I hear is: You’re not doing enough. Even if that’s not what he says. Even if he never would. Because I’ve already said it to myself a hundred times that day.

Maybe my expectations are too high. Or maybe I’ve been standing under them for so long, I can’t remember what it feels like not to strain. Maybe I’ve been carrying the weight so relentlessly that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel held.

But I don’t have time to feel all of that. I don’t have the luxury. There’s a meeting in five, a presentation waiting, eyes already watching to see what heels I chose today. I can’t cry. I can’t crumble. I’ve made being composed look so effortless that no one would believe me if I told them it was all an act.

And that’s the hardest part:
The world expects the woman in good shoes to be unbreakable.
But no one ever asks if her feet hurt.

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