It might seem a little odd to say that I’m emotionally attached to a pair of sandals—but it’s true. While most people cycle through shoes season after season, tossing out the old to make space for the new, I’ve held onto one particular pair of sandals for years. Not because they’re fashionable. Not because they’re expensive. But because they carry pieces of my life that I don’t ever want to let go of.
These sandals have been with me through so much. When I first bought them, I had no idea they would become such a constant in my journey. I picked them up on a whim at a small shop while visiting a coastal town with friends. They weren’t anything flashy—just simple, sturdy, and surprisingly comfortable. But even then, something about them felt… right. Maybe it was the way they molded so naturally to my feet, or how easily they matched everything I wore. From that point on, they became my go-to for everything.
They’ve been with me during carefree summer days, when time seemed to stretch endlessly and the biggest decision was where to grab ice cream. I wore them on spontaneous walks through the city, with the sounds of laughter, music, and life buzzing all around me. They were there during long conversations on park benches, sunsets watched from rooftops, and quiet evenings spent alone with a book and the breeze.
But it wasn’t just the fun, easy days they stood beside me. These sandals also walked with me through moments of change and uncertainty—solo travels that pushed me out of my comfort zone, where I navigated unfamiliar streets, languages, and cultures. In those quiet, reflective moments—walking down winding alleys in cities I barely knew, or sitting by a river at dusk with my thoughts—they were there. Always there. Like a small reminder of home, of stability.
There are scuff marks now—tiny scratches on the leather, a worn sole that’s shaped to the rhythm of my steps. The buckle squeaks slightly when I walk, and the color has faded just a little from the sun. But I love those imperfections. They’re physical memories. Each mark reminds me of a time, a place, a moment when I was truly present.
There’s the little scratch from when I caught my foot on a rock during a mountain hike in the south. The spot where the leather softened after being soaked in a sudden downpour I got caught in during a solo trip abroad. The stitching that’s starting to fray from miles of exploration, city after city. Most people would see an old pair of sandals past their prime—but I see a collection of stories.
And I think that’s the heart of this connection: these sandals have witnessed a version of me that has changed over time. They’ve walked with me through joy and loneliness, through discovery and nostalgia. Through personal growth. There’s something quietly powerful about having an object—something so simple—that’s been with you for it all.
Of course, I have newer sandals now. I wear them sometimes when I need something dressier, or more supportive, or simply different. But whenever I slip into these sandals, there’s a familiarity that nothing else compares to. It’s not just the comfort—it’s the history. The feeling of stepping back into a piece of your own life and remembering who you were in all those little moments you didn’t realize were big ones at the time.
Sometimes I wonder how much longer they’ll last. The sole is thinner than it used to be, and I know they can’t carry me forever. But until that day comes, I’ll keep wearing them. Keep creating new memories, new places, new steps forward.
Because these sandals aren’t just shoes. They’re a reflection of the miles I’ve walked, the memories I’ve made, and the person I’ve become along the way.