High heels and my lowest point

I’m cleaning out my closet for a clothing swap when my eyes land on a pile of high heels. One pair stops me cold, grey thigh-high boots, laced up the side. Sexy, yet stained with memories I’ve tried to forget. Such beautiful boots, Can I really let them go?

I take a moment to consider what these boots actually represent. I wore them on the scariest night of my life. I woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed—alone, sick, and full of shame. Next to me was a bag full of my personal items. Inside were the boots, covered in puke, a pile of hair extensions, and a bodycon dress that clung to a version of me I barely recognize now. 

It was October of 2016, and I was celebrating my 24th birthday. I was working on finishing my last credits for university and living with my parents again. I had moved back home to prepare for the next phase of life while watching my grandfather fade away in hospice. I decided being home for a while would be best for me and my family.

It was a hard time. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, and I didn’t feel confident about taking a step back and living at home—but a part of me knew it was what I needed. I’m so glad I was there for my grandfather’s last breaths.

Because I was home in Cottage Grove, I was with my friends from high school and slipped back into old patterns of partying and making less-than-great decisions. I love my friends and the people I grew up with, but there is a layer of sadness in that suburban town just outside of the Twin Cities—a sadness often masked with heavy drinking, pill-popping, and party-hopping.

We chose a hotel in downtown Minneapolis and began the search for the perfect outfit for clubbing. This was our go-to way of celebrating any big event. None of us lived in the city, but we craved the energy and vibe. So, we would rent a hotel, pregame there, and then head out to one of the various clubs.

That night in particular, we had a large suite and invited a bunch of friends to join us. Before the night began, we picked up some dinner and brought it back to the room. I remember not eating much—I was trying to lose weight and wanted to look good for the night.

My friend offered me an Adderall. I didn’t have much experience with it but figured why not? I had nothing to lose and wanted to have good energy for the night, so I took it. I began drinking. Some guys I had known from school showed up and offered me shots of Jägermeister—I gladly chugged them.

I enjoyed the social aspect so much. I really love being around a lot of people and dancing. I remember the energy pulsing through my blood. This lasted for some hours, then we began to prepare to head to the club.

By this point, I don’t remember much. Things began to get fuzzy. Thinking about it now makes my stomach turn.

The next thing I knew, I woke up to blinding fluorescent lights—the sting of an IV and a cold metal cuff around my wrist. Alone disoriented and drenched in shame. 

I was in the hallway of the hospital, the nurse explained that they handcuffed me for fear that I would run and that I was in the hallway because they ran out of rooms. They were all filled with people who had overdosed on heroin and other various drugs that Saturday night. 

My heart sank. I felt so much shame and fear at that moment. I wanted to puke, but I had already done that all over the hotel room, as I would later find out from my friends. They had brought me back to the room after I started to pass out at the club. I got sick everywhere and became unresponsive, so they called an ambulance.

I have no recollection of any of these events.

My friend’s boyfriend came to pick me up because the hospital wouldn’t release me without someone. I was terrified to call my parents—I didn’t want them to see me that way. I went back to the hotel to find my friends, who weren’t exactly pleased to see me.

I remember feeling horrible and not understanding why they were so stiff. Reflecting now, I understand that what I put them through must have shaken them to the core. I’m sure they were terrified to see me in that state and probably thought I might die.

Now when I reflect, I feel sick. I can imagine seeing myself lying on the floor, incoherent, a complete mess. I can imagine the fear they must have felt and how traumatizing that experience must have been for them.

I am really thankful they called the ambulance and took care of me that night. Without their love and care, I would be dead.

As I sit here now, I try to understand why I made the choices I did. I was lost, without purpose, and my body was full of emotions I didn’t know how to process—the death of my grandfather, the end of school, the pressure of finding a job and creating my dream life. I didn’t know where to start.

I think it was easier to numb the pain and avoid the fear I was feeling.

So much of that fear is gone—I have released it. But what I realize now is that much of the shame still resides in my body. The feelings I felt that night but chose to ignore.

The boots, in a way, represent the shame I still hold on to. I haven’t let that part of me go.

What I realize now is that I’m ready to face that part of me—to feel those feelings and see myself for who I am and who I was.

I can love and accept that version of me—the girl who was so lost and broken, choosing to numb instead of feel. I can love and accept that I was messy and disgusting, and still worthy of love. In fact, in that moment, that’s when I needed it most.

I imagine picking her up off the floor and hugging her, telling her, “Everything is going to be alright. This moment will change your life.”

I will burn those boots and let go of the other things that remind me of that version of myself—the one who was lost and looking for love and attention in all the wrong places.

The girl who spent hours “getting ready.” The layers of cover-up I used to hide my true self have now been removed.

I am thankful for these boots, as they represent a part of the journey I had to walk to become the person I am today.

That night changed me. I promised myself I deserved better. I realized I wasn’t happy, and I desired more.

That night was a push for me to go in search of myself—and within a few months, I had a plan to move to Prague.

I said goodbye to that version of myself and embarked on the biggest adventure of my life: the journey of coming home to myself.

I am forever grateful to my friends for saving me—and also for creating some distance after the event. I needed to look within and figure out what was really going on.

I needed to feel the hurt and sadness that was hiding inside of me.

This was the beginning of me learning to face my emotions—and the start of the path I continue to walk.

These days, I choose to walk it in barefoot shoes rather than thigh-high stilettos.

The same woman—just with a lot more self-love.

Anna, version 3.2, is the version of me I am most proud of. And the beauty is, it just keeps getting better as I continue to peel off the layers of what no longer serves me and who I no longer choose to be.