I was on the phone with a longtime friend catching up on life, and at one point I got up to move around and wiggle my bones. I was standing on a floor tile and naturally put my feet together in a way that suddenly struck me as close to the beginning of mountain pose. I looked down and observed my toes as I listened to my friend describe her kickass, boss lady actions at work, and I was struck by, I kid you not, my own feet.
I almost always have painted toenails. Lots of corals, pinks and reds for years. Occasionally blue or purple. I can’t even remember the last time they weren’t painted. I like them painted. Have since I was young. I think I must have taken the polish off the other day and gotten distracted before I got them repainted. That almost never happens either. Which is why it was so weird that I didn’t have painted toenails, and even more weird that I was admiring my naked toes. I don’t typically admire my feet.
I was standing with purpose, with intention, with muscle. I was standing strong. As I leaned over to observe my feet, I could feel the results of working through hours of yoga poses. I have strong feet, feet that can balance and shift and flex and support. I have feet that have worn through three pairs of running shoes since February. I have feet with toes that grip my yoga mat, that steady me as I swing a kettle bell and that pound mile after mile of anxiety and sweat out of me.
I am really proud of these toes. They have carried me through nearly four years of post-traumatic stress, through graduate school, through lifestyle change and job change and habit change and through learning to love my body and what it can do.
I freaking love my naked toes.