My shoes aren’t inspirational.

         Sure, my Coach sneakers are snazzy as hell, but they’re not inspirational. A bold cherry red snakes around a leopard print design.

         Everywhere I roll, weaving through malls and shopping centers in my power wheelchair, people will stop me and say, “Oh, my God! I love your shoes!”

         My older sister says I should revel in the compliments.

         And sometimes I do. But sometimes I wonder what would happen if I took the story farther.

         The truth is: They’re the only shoes I can wear. They’re the only shoes accommodating the braces on my feet. The braces on my feet are due to my cerebral palsy.

         My shoes don’t traverse across dirt paths and grocery stores because the wheels of my wheelchair carry me instead. My shoes don’t know the joy of splashing in rain puddles or winding up a trail through a nature park. Instead, my shoes rest on the footplate of my wheelchair.

My shoes shine in the rays of afternoon sunlight; my feet shake inside them when I’m on a date with a woman from the business school. Blonde ringlets frame her oval face and rose-colored blush dots across her cheeks. Her name is Violet. Like her name, she wears a violet-hued suit complemented by black pumps. We talk about our degrees: mine is a Master’s in Neuroscience while hers is a Master’s in Business Administration.

         Steam rises from our coffee cups as we’re nestled in the corner of a cozy café a few blocks from campus. A smile crinkles the corner of her mouth and when she says she has to leave, her black heels clacking against the concrete, I gaze at her wistfully. Wondering if she’ll call me for a second date or if I’m going to end up wallowing in my disappointment.

         She doesn’t comment on my shoes. They aren’t inspirational, after all.

         Sometimes I wish my shoes were magical. Like Dorothy’s ruby red ones or Cinderella’s dainty glass slippers. If my shoes were magical, then they could transport me all over the world.

         But, then, I wonder: at what cost? What would it cost to have magical shoes? Is there a price tag on such a unique item?

         My shoes are an extension of my disabled body; my shoes help me understand how to perceive the world around me and how others perceive me. I’m just a biromantic asexual woman trying to form lasting friendships, connections, and maybe find love in the process.

         However, when people look at my visibly and invisibly disabled body, I want them to look at my leopard print sneakers. Instead of looking at me with pity or condescension, I want them to know that me – and my shoes – aren’t inspirational.

         Violet calls me a few days later. She wants to see me again. I want to see her, too, and we mark a date on the calendar for the following Saturday night.

         When the night inevitably comes around, I make sure to dress nicely. I know what to pair with my Coach sneakers. An off-white blouse with black slacks will work and I pull my shoulder-length black hair into a ponytail.

         Dinner is served overlooking white-capped ocean waves, the rush of the current going in and out. A heat lamp flickers, casting the cool ocean air in another direction. The waves create shadows along the sand as people walk, dance, and run on the boardwalk below us.

         We laugh and exchange stories about our busy week. She’s applying to be a mentor in the business school for incoming business students as this is her final year in her MBA program. She tells me she wants to give back. I tell her about the research I’m conducting in the Neuroscience lab and my ever-growing love for romance novels. Romance novels where I never saw the type of relationship I wanted or people who have bodies like mine. Maybe I should have done a Master’s in English Literature instead.

         After dinner, we stroll along the beach boardwalk.

         The sun sets over the ocean as the sky turns incredibly bright shades of pink and orange. The scent of salt water penetrates me, and I bask in the closeness of the ocean waves as the sun dips below the horizon.

         I turn toward Violet as she leans down and kisses me. My whole-body tingles with nerves and anticipation when she does, serotonin racing through my bloodstream.

         When she pulls away, we’re both smiling.

         “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I love your shoes,” she says.

         “Thank you,” I reply. “I love them, too.”

         Our hands connect, fingers tangling together, as we watch the rest of the sunset. I don’t know what will happen between us next, but I’m anxious to find out.

         My shoes aren’t inspirational, but neither am I. I’m just me. A person searching for connections in our vast universe.

         Connections like the one I have now. The one I just found.