Fiammetta Gianni (she/they) is a 23 year old writer and aspiring author, constantly dreaming up new plots and writing them down in a rush. Their writing is heavily influenced by her experience as a disabled femme lesbian. She loves anything period dramas and crafting.

Follow them on Twitter @fiascribbles.

ode to doc martens

fiammetta gianni

I’ve always had issues with shoes.

Due to the clubfoot shape of my feet they were always too small on my ankles or too wide around my toes. They were too stiff for me to try on, and when I finally squeezed them onto my poor, tired feet they would be too arched, too flat, just . . . too much.

And it was not just one sort of shoe either; boots, trainers, flats, and heels all fell short in some way, making stumbling all the easier than it normally would be. All very disheartening really. My mobility issues were one thing. Hitting my teenage years and leaving behind a cemetery of unused shoes instead of the seemingly never ending footwear carousel my peers rotated through was isolating in a hidden way.

No one thought of shoes that deeply. They didn’t have to.

This changed in the early spring of 2015.

I walked the streets of my hometown side-eying the shoe shops on the high street with my usual glare. How dare all these shoes that don’t fit me exist, I thought, drowning in dramatic teen angst.

I don’t remember what caught my eye at first, maybe it was the bright Doc Martens sign.

And then I saw them.

Calling out to me in the way only a real soulmate can.

Grey and black from a distance, at a closer look I saw a pattern of roses and thorns. Looking up at the marketing above it I read, clear as day: “made of canvas.”

That was all I needed to rush inside as fast as my chronically tired feet would carry me, and my mom swiftly followed with relief that I was finally interested in some new shoes. The trying on process went by in a flash, but I remember the feeling of them fitting, confidently able to tell the employee who helped me that I wanted to wear them immediately. A rare moment.

Soon I was back on the main road with the new boots on. I walked a few paces in them and looked in the shop windows. It was then that I heard my mum’s voice.

“Are those SKULLS??”

Indeed they were, and they now looked so much cooler! Maybe in another life I would have been a fully fledged goth.

The other extremely vivid memory from that day was my mum asking me if I wanted two pairs, as they were half off. I said no, I was sure they would last me 10 billion years. And in a way they have, they have been there for what feels like a lifetime: changing schools, family structures falling apart, meeting my best friend, that same best friend becoming my partner a few years later.

They’ve been at the beach with me, protecting me from the fiery sands in August. They have walked on different roads all over Europe.

A silent but reliable friend. My sensible, goth shoes. I was always so proud of them.

I am still very proud of them.

Seven years on, as the shoes began to show their age, the looks from people began to change.

“Are you still wearing those?” “Do you have no other shoes?”

The answer to the latter is no, not in any way that matters anyway.

I first noticed the change around three years ago: the laces began to fray. And that is how the myth of my immortal shoes began to shatter, the moment I remembered my mum's question desperately wishing I had said yes.

Over the following weeks and months, long after I’d replaced the laces, I began researching past Doc Marten collections and eBay, desperately wishing they would turn up. I was ready to spend more money on them than I would ever on any other pair.

No one thinks about shoes that deeply, I told myself. But I did.

My prospects were growing weak, and pressure from family to wear “comfy-looking” shoes when what they really meant was “respectable” was growing more intense by the day. And it wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the gestures of my family trying to convince me to choose new Docs for various birthdays and Christmases. So why was I appearing so indifferent to new shoes?

Same reason as always, really. I was scared. I associated trying new shoes with physical pain and sensory nightmares and embarrassment. They often don’t fit on the first try, and sometimes you get little socks to try shoes on with and when that doesn’t work and return the shoes you tried on you’ve just wasted the employee’s time.

The obvious solution is to buy online then, right? There is still the possibility they might not fit, but overall not as overwhelming as a shop. I tried it last year and found a gorgeous pair in soft leather with iridescent lace loops. And unused they have remained for an entire year.

I did use them for the first time this week, as my old ones are gradually giving up on big trips. And I suppose that is fair. They have been with me through so many stages of my life. It would also be fair for them to take one last trip with me before they go under my bed forever: I am getting my first walking stick this month, and I want them with me when I do.

No one thinks about shoes this deeply, true. But it is hard to forget your first solemate.