The Right to Barefootedness

I left a job because of something simple: I wanted to sit and work barefoot.

It was not really about shoes.

It was about self ownership.. and the right to make my own choices.  

Somewhere between rules and roles, I noticed something shifting in me. 

The more I adapted to what was expected, the further I moved from how I naturally regulate, think, and feel. 

Barefoot became my small act of honesty, a way of staying connected while I worked.

Not everyone understands that.

But for me, being barefoot is not casual. It is grounding. It is regulation. It is presence. It is a reminder that I am not only a function or a role, but a living system in contact with the world.

When that was not allowed anymore, something became clear.

It was not just about comfort. It was about autonomy.

How much of myself do I need to remove in order to fit into a space?

And at what point does adaptation become disconnection?

We often think professionalism is about presentation. 

But there is another layer we rarely talk about: embodiment. 

The ability to stay in contact with yourself while you operate in structured environments. To use the selfregulated part of ourself that can make adequate decisions because of autonomy. 

I noticed it in my last years in healthcare.. because I was me, lived experience and all, I could serve people to the best of their needs.. outside of protocols. 

Because the real question is not about bare feet.

It is about whether we are allowed to remain fully human while we contribute to society.

Today I was speaking to someone who had forgotten she even had a voice of her own.

And it struck me how familiar that is.

I was there once too — after 33 years of life, I had moved so far away from myself that it took me years to find my way back. About 10 years to begin to reclaim myself again. And another decade to start living from a place that feels like who I actually am.

It happens quietly.

Through small compromises. Small adaptations. Small moments where we let go of something that seems insignificant at the time — like the right to simply be human at work, without constantly shaping ourselves into what is expected.

And slowly, over time, those small things accumulate.

Until one day, you realise you have been living a life that is functional, but not fully owned.

Not one in a crowd.

But one where you have forgotten that you are the one living it.

A human. Self-owned. Self-led.

Just you. 

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