Walk Like You Mean It

It’s a summer afternoon in August. The kind that smells like sunscreen and seaweed, where the sun warms your face just enough before ducking behind a cloud again. I’m standing on a ferry deck, wind in my face, water stretching out to every edge of the horizon. We’re heading toward music—toward The Lumineers, in fact—but before we even dock, the world is already performing.

Around me, groups of women huddle in curated linen and matching denim, blonde waves tucked just so behind ears. Their laughter rises and falls in practiced rhythms, phones in hand, arms outstretched, snapping selfies against the rails. Every angle perfect. Every smile a bit too rehearsed. They’re beautiful, truly—but it all feels… hollow. Like everyone is auditioning for a version of themselves they hope will be admired.

And that’s when the message comes through.

She’s gone.

We hadn’t spoken in years, but we were once inseparable—colleagues, partners-in-crime, sisters in grit during a season of life that shaped me. And in that moment, surrounded by faces trying so hard to be seen, I remembered someone who never had to try. Because she was real.

She loved her heels. Always. Ridiculously tall ones. Painful, impractical, unapologetic heels. Even when she had to have surgery—twice—because of them, she still wore them. And not for vanity. Not for attention. But because they were her armor.

Those heels said everything before she ever opened her mouth:
"I will rise above. I will be seen. I walk like I mean it."

They were elegance and defiance. They were strength in stilettos. And yet, beneath the polish and sass, she was one of the most grounded, genuine, soul-deep kind humans I’ve ever known.

She saw people.
Really saw them.
She remembered birthdays and brought coffee just when you needed it.
She could sit with you in silence and still say everything you needed to hear.

The heels were never for show. They were her way of being in the world—unafraid, undiminished, and wholly herself.

And now she’s gone.

The ferry moves forward, but everything else slows down. I start to look around again—and this time, differently.

I see so many people desperate to capture the moment… but not to feel it. So much effort to be perfect, to be on-brand, to show you were here. But where is the joy? Where is the connection? Where is the truth?

We’ve built a world where realness has become a form of rebellion.
Where softness is mistrusted.
Where stillness is a threat.
Where the quietest ones in the room are often the ones carrying the most wisdom—but go unnoticed.

And I can’t help but wonder:
Would she have posed here?
Would she have smiled for the gram?
No.

She would’ve danced. She would’ve laughed. She would’ve told a stranger their necklace was gorgeous and meant it. She would’ve clapped too loudly and teared up at the lyrics.

She would’ve walked like she meant it.
Even if her feet hurt.
Even if no one noticed.
Because that’s who she was.

And here I am, holding all this in my chest.
Grief. Gratitude. Longing.
For her. For the moment.
For the reminder that being real—truly real—is the most beautiful, most powerful thing we can offer the world.

So if you’re scrolling through someone else’s perfect pictures today and feeling like you don’t measure up—
If your life doesn’t fit the aesthetic—
If your strength looks more like quiet survival than polished presence—

Know this:

Your walk matters.
Your armor can look like heels, or boots, or bare feet in the dirt.
Your story doesn’t have to be shouted to be true.
And your authenticity? It’s enough.

Today, I’m not posting for the algorithm.
I’m walking for her.
In whatever shoes I have on.
In grief. In truth. In honor.
With love. With meaning.
With everything that still echoes.

Because the ones who change us most never had to try to stand out.
They just stood tall.

And we remember them—
not for the photos they took,
but for the way they showed up when no one was watching.