Content Warnings: this piece contains reflections on medical trauma, a chronic leg injury, talk of depression, anxiety, suicide ideation, and explores a journey from self loathing to self love. Please protect your heart and read at your own discretion.

For me, boots always meant

bold, brilliant confidence.

Strength as my feet

struck the floor,

my wake making fulgurite

form in the concrete,

crystals conjured from the

power in my stride

when my heel was iron

when my toes were steel

where my laces held

who I was together.

It had been so long

since I could wear them,

because my body became

too much to carry

as the agony of

an accident rendered

the front of my

left leg with a gnarled

injury, where my skin

gave up on growing

anymore.

When this happened,

I withered.

I stayed inside of both

the house & myself,

my boots collecting

so much dust that

after so many months

of them haunting me

from the foot of my bed,

I threw them away,

and with them,

tossed out all hope

that my leg might

ever be whole again

some day.

Three years I spent

in an unendingly dull

state of pain, while I

regretted the mistake

of what not listening to

my body led me to.

I put my job

over my body,

and this felt like the

necessary punishment.

This mark on me

felt like the price

I had to pay because

I had hated myself

into an accuser,

pointing the finger

only at my chest,

endless taunting refrains of,

I am the reason

I am broken.

If only I’d spoken

up for myself when

I had the chance,

I might still know the

joys of walking, standing

and dance…

But then the whole world ended

and I was pushed further inside,

unable to stride within

six feet of anyone,

lest we spread a contagion

destroying millions of lives.

But somehow in the walls of that

tiny, sad, falling apart apartment,

I found a way back to myself.

I met a me that I had always

dreamed might exist,

but who was too outwardly

afraid to choose themself.

That me I kept locked away

held out their hand like

I, though world-weary,

was the child, and she

were the wiser one of us.

I spent a summer searching

the depths of my soul,

until I found the someone

I’d been waiting all my life for.

This renewed hope

finally led me to a doctor,

who led me to med students,

who led me to more doctors…

no one seemed able

to understand just what

was wrong with me

and offered only

feeble solutions and

empty answers.

And when I feared

maybe this was all

for nothing, at last,

I found a kind doctor

who listened,

who could see the longing

hiding behind my eyes to

be back on my feet and

to exist in the world again.

My self love summer

faded gently like the leaves

into a season of healing,

where after all these years

of falling, now hope

was blooming from seeds

this doctor planted

that promised there might

yet be a future

for me

on my feet again.

Her treatment

is working,

and there’s a real chance

that before the new year,

I may finally be able to

walk again without bandages,

move again without bleeding,

with only a scar to remind

of the time I almost

gave up.

So I bought a new pair of boots,

sleek black with silver findings,

laces woven of nylon & hope,

and rather than ghosts,

these new boots

are like guardians

watching over me

until I’m ready.

While I can’t wear them

just yet,

I’m walking with more

confidence each day,

seeing those boots

at the foot of my bed

as a beacon

of when I’ll again

be able to boldly

walk in them

confidently

for my new

era beneath the sun.—

---

About the Author

Elayna Mae Darcy (she/they) is a queer storyteller & star cluster of feels from Philadelphia. They are the author of the poetry collections UNRAVELING LIGHT and DARKNESS UNDONE, as well as the sci-if short story, CONTINUUM. She is a filmmaker & fandom content creator who has spoken on panels at New York and San Diego Comic Cons. They are also the author behind Queery Letters, a reader-supported publication about life as a queer writer. When not writing, Elayna can be found snuggling with her cat, Bean, and relaxing in the light of too many candles.