The phrase "filling in one's shoes" has always intrigued me. It can mean many things depending on how you see yourself. It could mean stepping into someone else's place, taking on their responsibilities, carrying forward their legacy. But on a more personal level, it can also mean filling into your own shoes—rising to meet your own expectations, living up to your ideal self, fitting into the labels you identify with. It's about the ongoing process of becoming who you are supposed to be, or perhaps who you already are, and learning to live comfortably within that identity.
For much of my early life, I thought I knew exactly what that identity was. I was considered a gifted child. That label was placed on me early, and I wore it proudly, sometimes even carelessly. I was the one who knew the answers, who read ahead, exploring new hyperfixations—Telugu, chemistry, geography. My environment reinforced that identity at every turn: teachers praised my quick thinking, classmates turned to me for help, and I learned to find validation in being seen as capable, intelligent, and promising. At that time, filling in my shoes meant living up to that idea of myself, maintaining the identity others had constructed for me. I didn't particularly notice I was living in this box, but it nonetheless shaped how others saw and perceived me.
Time changes the shape of our feet, and in a way, our shoes too. That identity has evolved. I still consider myself gifted, but that definition has expanded far beyond the neat box it once lived in. It's no longer about grades, performance, or recognition. It's not an external identity that depends on whether others validate it. It has become something internal. Something quieter but also more profound. Now, when I say I am gifted, I mean that I have a way of thinking, perceiving, and engaging with the world that feels uniquely my own. I don't fit the expectations of any outside person anymore. The real question is no longer whether I live up to the label others gave me, but whether I can fill my own shoes—shoes shaped by my own values, growth, and self-understanding.
When I think about the metaphor of shoes, I think about walking. Shoes protect us from the pebbles and rocks on the ground. They give us a barrier from the things that might cut or bruise us, and they make the journey smoother. In that sense, our identities do the same. They give us grounding, protection from the harshness of uncertainty. They help us navigate the terrain of life with a bit more ease, providing structure and purpose.
Yet shoes can also be constraining. They prevent us from feeling the softness of the grass, the warmth of the sand, the coolness of the soil beneath our feet. Sometimes, the very thing that protects us also separates us from the full experience of living. We chafe inside them, trying to adjust, shifting to find a more comfortable fit. And maybe that's what growth really is—the slow reshaping of our shoes to fit the person we are becoming.
When we are at our best, the shoe should not feel too comfortable. It should feel slightly cutting, just enough to remind us that we are still moving, still changing, still alive. It should provide us with new surfaces, new sensations, new pleasures with which to enjoy life. Filling in one's shoes, then, isn't about perfection or comfort. It's about inhabiting ourselves fully, even when the fit is uncertain. It's about walking forward, aware of both the protection and the friction, and finding meaning in each step we take toward becoming who we already are.