It Was Never Just About the Shoes

How chemotherapy-induced neuropathy changed the way I walk — and taught me about the little losses cancer leaves behind.

After 14 rounds of chemotherapy, surgeries, hormone therapy, and all the other fun little surprises cancer likes to throw into the mix, I thought I could finally put the feeling sick, exhausted, and just plain yucky behind me. I thought once treatment was over, things would eventually go back to normal. You know, actual normal. Not “I have three doctor appointments this week” normal or “Why does my body suddenly have 47 new complaints?” normal.

Then one night, after wearing a beautiful pair of high heels, I came home and my feet were pounding. And I don’t mean the usual high-heel pain where you take your shoes off, rub your feet, question every life decision you’ve ever made, and then put the exact same shoes back on the following weekend. This was different.

The Side Effect I Hoped Would Pack Its Bags

During chemotherapy, I honestly can’t remember exactly which round because those months are a bit of a blur, I started experiencing neuropathy in my hands and feet. My feet were definitely the worst. There were nights when it kept me awake, and sometimes walking was difficult. My feet would burn, tingle, ache, or simply feel completely foreign to me.

When I mentioned it to my doctor, I was told neuropathy could be a side effect of chemotherapy. For some people it improves or goes away completely once treatment ends. For others, it sticks around. Naturally, I heard that and thought, "Great. I’ll be choosing Door Number One, please. No need to explain the other option". Unfortunately, fate apparently had some other shoes for me to fill.

Once treatment ended, the neuropathy did gradually improve. There were even times when I barely felt it, and every time that happened I would think, YES! It’s gone! Bring me my heels! My feet would eventually respond with something along the lines of, Ma’am. Sit down. Because when the neuropathy flared, it flared.

The neuropathy in my hands changed something else I loved too. I had a small business called Crazy Creative Mom, where I made beautifully decorated cookies for parties and events.

These weren’t basic slap-some-frosting-on-it cookies. They were detailed, decorated cookies that required patience, precision, piping bags, steady hands, and apparently the finger strength of an Olympic athlete.

The business was actually starting to take off when I received an order for 150 cookies. One hundred and fifty. Apparently Past Marie was very optimistic about what Future Marie’s hands could accomplish. I pushed through it, every cookie came out beautifully, and I was proud of what I created. My hands, however, were basically filing a formal complaint.

By the time I finished that order, I knew I couldn’t keep doing it. The gripping, squeezing, decorating, and repetitive movement were simply too much, so I gave up the business. That one hurt, and not just physically. It was something I enjoyed, something I was good at, and something that was finally gaining momentum. Still, I’ve learned to deal with the neuropathy in my hands. However, my feet? Now you’ve crossed a line. Because I LOVE Shoes

While some of my friends were buying the newest handbag, I was buying the shoe. The flats that went with practically everything. The pointed-toe shoes that somehow made your legs look six inches longer. The ridiculous statement shoe that matched exactly one outfit but was too fabulous to leave behind. And, of course, the “I’m gonna get you” sexy high heel. You know the shoe.

"I'm gonna get you" shoe

The one that instantly improves your posture. Your shoulders go back, your confidence goes up, and suddenly you’re walking into the room like someone should be playing your theme music.

I had those shoes. I loved those shoes.

After chemotherapy, though, wearing many of them became painful. Sometimes I could wear a pair for a little while and think, Look at me! I’m back! Then a few hours later my feet would make it very clear that I had made a terrible mistake.

Eventually I started reaching for the comfortable shoe, the cushioned shoe, the sneaker, the shoe with “arch support”, a phrase that somehow never excited me before. And listen, sneakers have come a long way. Some of them are adorable. I own plenty. But I’m sorry, nobody has ever slipped on a supportive sneaker and thought, "I’m gonna get you". It’s just not the same energy.

It Was Never Really Just About the Shoes

Compared with everything cancer can take from someone, complaining about high heels can feel ridiculous. Cancer can take your hair, your breasts, your energy, your time, your confidence, your sense of safety, and sometimes even the person you thought you were before you heard the words, “You have cancer.” So who complains about shoes? Me, apparently. But I’ve realized it was never really just about the shoes.

Cancer has a way of taking the little things too, the quiet things no one warns you about. The things you never thought were important until suddenly you couldn’t do them anymore. For me, one of those things was simply putting on a beautiful pair of heels and walking out the door without performing a full risk assessment first. How far are we walking? Will there be stairs? How long will I be standing? Should I bring backup shoes? Is my purse big enough to secretly carry sneakers? Basically, I now need a strategic plan before wearing a three-inch heel.

There is grief in those little losses. I think we should be allowed to acknowledge that. Being grateful that you survived cancer doesn’t mean you have to be grateful for every souvenir it left behind. You can be incredibly thankful to be alive and still be annoyed that your feet feel like they’re staging a rebellion. You can celebrate finishing chemotherapy and still mourn the things treatment changed. Both can be true.

So About That Picture...

Now you know why I’m hugging that beautiful high heel. No, it’s not a dramatic breakup photo.

Although honestly, it kind of is. It’s a little love letter to the shoes I used to wear without thinking twice. These days I’ve learned to listen to my body more. Do I still see a gorgeous pair of heels and think, Maybe these will be different? Of course I do. I survived cancer. I did not suddenly become reasonable.

Sometimes I’ll still wear them. Sometimes my feet cooperate. Sometimes they remind me who is really in charge now. But I’ve also learned that adapting doesn’t mean cancer won. Sometimes strength looks like pushing through, and sometimes strength looks like saying, You know what? I’m wearing the cute sneakers.

So maybe these aren’t exactly the shoes I pictured myself filling after cancer. Maybe they’re flatter. Maybe they’re cushioned. Maybe they have memory foam and enough support to qualify as medical equipment. But whatever shoes I’m wearing, I’m still moving forward.

Cancer may have changed the way I walk, but it didn’t stop me from moving forward. And every once in a while, I may still put on the heels. Because some relationships are just really hard to let go of. 👠