Barefoot and Becoming

For so long, I wore armor.
Heavy, rusted, and worn from battles I didn’t even know I was fighting anymore. I carried it like a second skin—shields made of sarcasm, smiles that weren’t real, lies I told myself just to make it through the day. It protected me… but it also weighed me down.

Healing felt terrifying at first.
Not because I didn’t want it—but because healing meant shedding the armor. Letting go of the false safety. Walking barefoot. Feeling everything.

And when you’ve worn armor for years, the ground feels sharp. Every step uncovers something you’d buried. Regret. Shame. Grief. And yes, joy too—but that one comes later, after the bruises. After the blisters. After you stop apologizing for every tear, every moment of weakness, every time you look in the mirror and don’t recognize the person staring back.

I used to believe strength was about never breaking. Now I believe it’s about still choosing to walk forward—even when you’re barefoot, sore, and unsure of what’s ahead.

Some days I still reach for the armor out of habit.
But I’m learning to trust the ground beneath me.

This journey isn’t about becoming someone new.
It’s about finally meeting the person I buried underneath all that steel.

And she’s worth knowing.